I’m too jaded to trust happiness will last. And I love Wren enough to push her far away from my problems. She’d probably try to fix them for me, like she did with that fancy lawyer.
“If I had your number, I’d send it to you,” Wren comments, glancing at the photo before dropping her phone on the bench.
Her tone is casual, nearly breezy. I’ve realized—maybe too late—that’s a signal she’s saying something important.
I play along, answering the same way I did earlier. “If you want my number, Wren, just ask.”
She doesn’t.
She trails her fingers up my arm, lingering just below my left elbow. “Which tattoo was your first one?”
“That one,” I say, twisting my arm so she can see. It’s a black outline of a baseball’s stitches. Small, only a couple of inches long because I didn’t want my mom to spot it.
Wren traces it lightly. “Why did you stop playing?”
“It was my thing with my dad. I didn’t like being reminded of him.”
She nods, touching the anchor next. “I like this one.” She weaves her fingers through my other hand, lifting and inspecting that arm too. “The vines are cool too.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m glad you don’t have a skull or something fake macho.”
I laugh.
“You don’t, right?” She glances me over again, like she’s worried she accidentally missed it.
“You know I don’t. You’ve seen me naked.”
“Yeah, but when you’re naked, I’m not looking at your tattoos.”
I laugh again, my fingers tangling in her hair as the wind continues to play with it.
Her hand moves to my wrist, flipping it and brushing against the name there. I tense, but don’t pull away.
“How old was she?”
“Thirteen.”
“Was your dad already in prison when it happened?”
“No. He was stealing from the station, had been for years, but he hadn’t gotten caught yet. He got sloppy after Skylar died. She was the center of his world. He loved me when I pitched a no-hitter or did something else he considered impressive. But Skylar couldn’t do anything wrong. He adored her, and she adored him. At least”—my voice catches—“she never found out about … everything.”
I still haven’t told Wren the full truth about my father. Why his sins are so unforgivable. I’m not sure it’s something I want her to know about me. And right now, this perfect afternoon, doesn’t feel like the right time to bring any of the ugliness up.
“Are you excited about UCLA?” I ask, changing the subject.
Wren turns her head, meeting my gaze. “How’d you know that’s where I picked?”
I debate lying, then decide the truth is pretty harmless. “If you don’t want strangers looking at your social media, you should make your accounts private.”
She smiles. “You looked me up?”
“It took, like, two seconds. Wren Kensington isn’t a common name.”
“A whole two seconds, huh?” She snuggles a little closer, her head fitting perfectly under my chin. I can’t see her expression anymore, andI’m not sure if that’s better or worse. “No.”
“No what?”
