“Meet you back here?” Gus asks.
I nod. Gus heads for the entrance to the country club. I try to call Ricky again. It goes straight to voicemail this time, so I release a frustrated exhale and follow Gus inside.
Damn, this place is fancy. I’ve driven by Atlantic Crest hundreds of times since it’s right by the marina, but never actually been inside the building. Normally, you have to be a member or accompanied by one to be on the property. They must have relaxed the rules a little because of the tournament since no one stops me or asks for identification.
I wander through the wood-paneled lobby, past a dining area, and out onto a stone patio. People are milling around out here, sipping drinks and snacking off silver trays being whisked around by servers. Past it, the brilliant green of the golf course stretches to the edge of the water. Before it are the tennis courts, the stands surrounding them full of spectators.
I turn back toward the building, pulling my phone out to try Ricky once more. It’ll be impossible to find him in this crowd.
“Are you lost?”
I hesitate before glancing toward the voice. Not least to get the sudden spike in my heart rate under control. Also, whipping my head in her direction would look overeager.
Wren’s dressed for tennis—short white dress, high ponytail, and a pink racquet bag slung over one shoulder. She looks good—she always looks good—but it’s the sly smirk that captures my attention most completely. Ignoring her was supposed to tamp down this ridiculous draw. Instead, her smile makes me feel like a starving sailor glimpsing land.
“You look lost,” she adds when I continue to stare at her silently, like an idiot.
“I’ve never been here before.”
She nods, adjusting the bag on her shoulder. “Doesn’t really seem like your scene.”
I don’t know if that’s a dig or a compliment. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to act like us talking is normal or not.
I nod toward the courts. “You played in the tournament?”
“Yeah, the singles competition just wrapped up. They’re starting doubles now.”
“It wasn’t, like, way too easy for you?”
Wren described herself as being “pretty good” at tennis in one of her letters to me. Meaning she could probably win Wimbledon.
She studies me. I guess I broke our unspoken rule: don’t discuss our past. We’re distant coworkers, at best, these days.
“Your compliments still need work,” she finally says.
I fight a smile. “Well, I’ve never actually?—”
“Cap! You came!”
Macie appears out of nowhere, flinging her arms around me enthusiastically. I hug her back automatically, glancing at Wren as I do. She’s still smiling, but it appears thinner. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part.
“I didn’t think you’d make it,” Macie continues.
I feel guilty, letting Macie think I came here to see her play, but mentioning I totally forgot she’d told me about being in the tournament seems way worse.
I settle for hedging some. “I, uh … we stopped by to pick up Ricky. Thought I’d check it out while I was here.”
Macie nods, then glances at Wren. “Hey!” She hugs Wren next,pulling back to beam at her. “Congrats, champ! I tried to come over after you won, but you were totally mobbed.”
Well, I was right about it being too easy. Shewon.
When Wren commits to something, she goes all in. I feel a little sick with the realization that maybe that’s what she tried to do with us. Writing to Wren was separate from the rest of my subpar life, and I freaked out at the first unexpected collision.
My phone buzzes; Ricky is calling. I answer, and neither Wren nor Macie notices. They’re busy chatting with each other.
“Where are you, Cap?” Ricky asks. “We’re all at the car, waiting for ya.”
“Yeah. Uh, I’ll be—I’ll be there in a minute.”
