“Okay.” I tuck the order pad back in my apron. “It’ll be right out.”
“This place is nice,” Dad says, leaning back in his chair and glancing around. “Maybe we should become members.”
“Isn’t Mom’s project wrapping up this summer?” I ask. “When would you ever use it?”
“We’ve talked about buying a place here. It’s nice to get away from the crazy pace of the city, especially now that you and your sister are older. More quality time. Fewer places for you to sneak off to, although you’ve obviously managed to find some.”
I roll my eyes. “I haven’t snuck out this summer.”
Dad tips his water glass to me. “You’ve earned a lot of responsibility points with this job too. I knew, Wren, from the second the nurse handed you to me, what a fighter you were. Don’t let anyone—me or your mom included—tell you what you can or can’t do. Within reason, of course,” he adds hastily. “You still have a curfew, and I still pay your car insurance, so I can take the keys away whenever I want.”
“I could pay it myself now,” I tease.
He sips some water. “Great. Write me a check.”
“I said Icould, not that I will.”
Dad shakes his head, but he’s smiling.
“And thanks, Dad. I know waitressing isn’t interning at a courthouse, but?—”
Dad sets his glass down decisively. “Wren, what your sister does with her life is her decision. Whatever you decide to do with yours, your mother and I will be proud of you and support you. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you.” I fiddle with the pen, rolling it between my fingers before admitting, “I’m still not sure about college.”
A crease of concern appears on Dad’s forehead. “About UCLA?”
“About … anywhere.”
“It’s a big change, Wren. It’s normal to feel nervous about it.”
I sigh. “Grandpa is mad I’m going to UCLA. He told me over the Fourth.”
Dad sighs too. His is heavier than mine. “I spent a long time trying to not disappoint your grandfather. Trust me, it’s impossible. He wants the very best for you. In his mind, that’s tradition. Reputation and prestige. He had very specific expectations for me and your uncle. Some benefited us; others didn’t. You picked UCLA. Unlessyouhave changed your mind, then that’s where you should go.”
I smile. “I love you, Dad.”
I feel lucky to be a Kensington. I feelreallylucky to be Oliver Kensington’s daughter.
He smiles back. “Love you too, Birdie.”
Dad hasn’t called me that in a while. I started telling him not to; I suddenly wish I could go back in time and not. One apprehension I didn’t mention to Sawyer when he asked why I wasn’t excited: I’m anxious about leaving my parents.
I value my independence. I’ve gone away to summer camps and visited Europe with friends, been away from them for longer stretchesof time. But I’ve never left home so far, for so long before. Even being in a familiar city, close to my grandparents, doesn’t make it sound less daunting.
California is far fromheretoo. And I’m not frivolous enough to build my future around a boy—let alone one who has repeatedly knocked down any attempt to—but I’ve never been that far from Sawyer since I met him. We’ve always lived in the same state.
“I’ll be back with your food,” I tell Dad, stopping at another one of my tables to see if they need anything and then continuing toward the kitchen to put in Dad’s order. I drop off the slip of paper, attempting to ignore the fact that a few of the guys from the marina—including Sawyer—are grabbing their lunches.
“Abby said your dad is here?” Macie asks, appearing next to me.
“Yeah,” I confirm.
She giggles. “She also said he’s hot.”
“And married. To my mom.”
Macie laughs. “Hey, I didn’t say it. Older men don’t do it for me.” She glances toward the guys. Toward Sawyer, who’s laughing at something Gus said.
