I glance up, thinking I heard a creak in the hallway, and my gaze snags on a poster attached to the back of the bedroom door. It’s of a player captured mid-pitch.
I flip through a few more envelopes. The return addresses include nearly every school my classmates are expecting their parents to buy their way into.
As carefully as I can, I replace the envelopes where I found them and head into the bathroom with my toiletry bag.
While I run through my ten-step skin-care routine, I speculate. Why isn’t Sawyer going to college? He never offered any explanation in his letters. Money must be the reason? I’m not well versed in scholarships or how financial aid works, but I know both exist. College is considered expensive to plenty of people, but they find ways to make it work. If Sawyer is smart enough to ace a standardized test to the extent that schools with single-digit acceptance rates are recruiting him, he could figure it out. So, why?
Not my problem. And not something I can ask him about without admitting I was snooping.
I finish in the bathroom and return to the bedroom. Still empty, no sign of Sawyer. I drape my prom dress over the back of his desk chair, casting one last curious look at the drawer where I discovered the college letters, then flip out the lights and climb into bed. The mattress is comfortable. The sheets aren’t too stiff or too soft, infused with the familiar fragrance of detergent. There’s a masculine undertone that I can taste in the back of my throat. A relentless reminder of where I am, coupled with the unfamiliar soundtrack of silence that never exists in bustling Manhattan.
I’m wide awake when the door opens, hinges squeaking softly.
I recognize his outline. His steady breathing. And it’s so much more intimate than remembering someone’s eye color or an outfit they wore.
“I lasted longer than five minutes,” he says, flipping the comforter back and then flopping down beside me.
“If you say so,” I tell him pertly.
Sawyer sighs, but I think I hear a trace of laughter.
It’s weird—good weird—having him in bed with me. Rather than be stifled by the close proximity, I feel secure. His body heat is bleeding into my side of the bed, the warmth relaxing my muscles and making me feel sleepy. I can hear his even exhales rather than the haunting quiet when I was alone.
A small part of me—okay, a large part—is tempted to roll over. To kiss him and run a hand down his abs and into his boxers and see how he reacts. To beg him for a final time, one that’s not rushed. That includes a bed, not a hard wall or a cramped truck or a dusty shelf. To fulfill one part of my prom fantasy.
But I’m not brave enough to set myself up for rejection again. Or ascavalier as I’m trying to act. I’ll fall a little more if I literally let him in, and I should be clawing my way back to casual. He doesn’t know my family is spending the summer here, and while our paths are unlikely to cross, they could. If we see each other, I don’t want it to be weird.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” He’s tense beside me, awareness thrumming beneath the tucked sheets. It doesn’t feel like my side has fallen out yet, so I must have done something semi-right.
“What branch of the military is your mom in?”
Sawyer relaxes. That’s not a question he was concerned about answering. “Coast Guard.”
“Is that why you ‘like boats’?”
“It probably factored.”
I roll onto my stomach, tucking both hands under my pillow. “Good night, Sawyer.”
“Night, Wren.”
It’s the fastest I’ve ever fallen asleep.
18
When I wake up, I’m alone in bed. I sit up, stretch, and look around for a clock. Nothing. Once I’m out of bed, I hunt down my phone. It’s 9:09 a.m.
I do a quick scan of my notifications, confirming they’re complaints about my disappearance and nothing urgent. Then tiptoe into the bathroom to run through my eight-step morning routine.
I doubt it was his intention, but I’m glad Sawyer gave me a chance to brush my hair and teeth before facing him. Yes, I’m that vain.
Back in the bedroom, I change into the outfit I packed for what was supposed to be brunch at my favorite spot in Greenwich Village. Then I follow the sound of sizzling oil into the kitchen.
Sawyer’s standing at the stove, shirtless. He’s barefoot, too, wearing nothing except a pair of gray sweatpants, slung so low that I’m concerned—hopeful—they won’t stay up, and a backward baseball hat.
I hate him. I really, really do. It should be illegal to look that good.
