I try to distract myself, but I mostly stare at the flickering flames, listening to overlapping conversations. Macie tells me about a tennistournament at the country club she’s entered. Wade pulls out a vintage guitar, plucking notes to a country song that he knows about half the words to. The rest he makes up. The resulting melody is underwhelming. Everyone talking and the crash of surf drown most of it out, thankfully.
“I’m craving ice cream,” Ricky announces once the fire has smoldered down to embers. “Anyone else?”
“Me!” Macie says. “How late is What’s the Scoop open?”
“Eleven in the summers, I think,” Gus replies.
“It’s ten thirty,” Abby says, standing. “Let’s go.”
Everyone collects shoes and phones, Wade douses the ashes from the fire, and then we migrate over to the cars.
Gus and I are the first ones to arrive at the ice cream shop. It’s crowded with families and teenagers. Mostly tourists, but a few faces I recognize. Gus stops to chat with one of his younger brothers. I say hi to Nate, then scan the list of flavors.
Over the communal ruckus, I’m not sure how I hear it. But I do, glancing at the clustered picnic tables with renewed interest. I already know what the sound means, but I want to see it for myself.
Her. Laugh.
I recognize her fucking laugh.
Wren is sitting on the edge of the table, not the attached bench, head tipped back as she reacts to whatever a wildly gesticulating brunette told her.
I stare for a few seconds too many, and she glances this way. Randomly at first, and then her gaze lingers.
Our eyes collide. Remain connected.
I wondered, when she wasn’t at the bonfire, where she was. I have an answer, and I still feel unsatisfied. I didn’t want to know where she was. I wanted to see her. Be near her. Talk to her. We haven’t spoken since Iconfronted her at her car, and …fuck. I miss her.
Wren looks away first, slipping off the table and turning to face her friends, back to me. Whatever she says has everyone moving. Their picnic table is empty by the time Gus and I join the end of the line. They’re gone before anyone else arrives, peeling out in three luxury cars.
I’m not sure why Wren ignoring me feels worse than anything else she might have done, but it does.
22
“Why are we stopping here?” Gus asks as Wade takes a left toward the country club.
“I told Ricky we’d pick him up,” Wade replies.
“We wouldn’t have to make an extra stop if he’d stayed at the marina,” I comment.
Dusty wouldn’t have needed to hire new guys either.
“C’mon, Cap,” Wade says. “He makes better tips caddying.”
I grunt.
“What the hell is going on?” Wade adds as he circles the lot. “Every spot is full.”
“There’s a tennis tournament,” I tell him, noticing the large sign advertising it ahead.
“Great,” Wade comments sarcastically. “Can someone call Ricky? Ask him to meet us out here?”
“Can you pull up front?” Gus asks, pointing ahead. “Ineed to piss.”
I listen to a series of rings as Wade brakes by the main building.
“No answer,” I announce, popping my door open. “I’ll find him.”
“Cool. I’ll circle,” Wade says, then drives off.
