The three of them have an easy shorthand together that took me a few days to adjust to. Inside jokes, stories, and more than a decade of shared experiences. It should have felt isolating, but Eryn made sure it didn’t. She never let the conversations veer too faroff into past territory and always wanted to hear about how house renovations were going (good, but if I ever have to use a drum sander again, it’ll be too soon—it took me three long nights just to refinish the downstairs floors) or about my plans for after the summer (college, history degree, and hopefully a job in a museum somewhere).
Wren never asks questions, but he’s always listening to my answers.
I learn more about Eryn too, like how she’s hoping to get more of her recipes on the café’s menu and eventually wants to become a full pastry chef there. She’s definitely talented enough as far as I’m concerned. I still think about her morning buns an unhealthy amount.
When she leaves, though, there’s always an awkward moment. I feign interest in a napkin or a stray ketchup packet while she gives Wren a quick goodbye kiss. It’s nothing over the top, but it’s enough to make me overly conscious of my own hands, suddenly unsure what to do with them.
After lunch, Wren and I dive into his tour speech. The afternoons fly by in a blur of revisions, debates, and full-blown arguments. Mostly arguments. His stubbornness is maddening, but if I’m being honest, it’s also kind of thrilling. There’s an unspoken rhythm to our back-and-forth, like sparring partners who secretly enjoy the fight.
On Thursday evening, a full week since we started working on his speech, Wren insists it’s too dark for me to bike home.
As we cruise down the narrow dirt roads of Nantucket, he puts on “The Weight”by the Band, and the sound fills the car, warm and nostalgic. The windows are rolled down, and I let the breezewhip through my hair as I surf my hand against the air currents outside. The mix of sweet grass and salty sea scents the car, and for a moment, everything feels right.
“You know, I think the tour script is done,” I say, glancing at him. His profile is lit by the glow of the dashboard, his strong jaw and broad shoulders solid and steady. “I mean, we can tweak it more tomorrow if you want, but honestly? It’s good.”
He doesn’t answer immediately, his hands relaxed on the wheel. The quiet between us isn’t uncomfortable—it’s satisfying, like the calm after a storm.
“I might even call it great,” I add, leaning back against my seat with a small smile.
That earns a snort of disbelief. It’s barely a sound, but I recognize it for what it is: almost a laugh. I’ve heard it a few times this week, and every time it feels like a win.
“It’s not terrible,” he finally says.
At a stop sign, he stretches his arms overhead, groaning softly as his shoulders crack. The movement tugs his shirt up, and for the briefest second, I catch a glimpse of the skin above his waistband. My cheeks heat immediately, and I turn to face the window, hoping he doesn’t notice.
“So, what’s next?” he asks, dropping his arms with a sigh. “We work on delivery?” He says it like it’s some great inconvenience, even though he’s the one who brought it up.
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes with a text.
Mom:Home soon? Goldie wants a movie night, she said we can even watchRoman Holiday.
I make a groaning sound.
“Something wrong?” Wren asks.
“No, I mean, yes. My sister picked one of my favorite movies for us to watch tonight, but I’ve seen it so many times.” I side-eye him. “Don’t suppose you want to start rehearsing your speech tonight?”
“Now?I mean, I guess. You want to go back to the museum?”
The road ahead dips into shadow, framed by weathered white picket fences tangled with wild roses. My gaze catches on a towering elm tree set back from the road, its branches reaching over a patch of the greenest grass I’ve ever seen. Without fully thinking it through, I point.
“There,” I say. “Pull over by that tree.”
He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. The tires crunch against gravel as he shifts the car into park. While he waits, I text Mom a sad-face emoji and let her know I’ll be late and to start the movie without me.
Turning to Wren, I grin. “We’ll have you reciting this speech so perfectly your dad won’t be able to do anything but clap.”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t reply. Instead, he reaches for his laptop.
And for the first time, I can tell he’s starting to believe me.
“You want me to ad-lib jokes?” Wren’s tone is incredulous, as if I’d suggested he hurl children overboard during his tours. His brow furrows, and that muscle in his jaw—the one I’ve noticed flexes whenever he’s annoyed—tightens noticeably.
“Notjokes-jokes,” I say quickly. “Just, you know, funny historical stories. Haven’t you ever taken one of those tours at Universal Studios or something? They’re funny. People laugh. They telltheir friends.” I lean forward, stressing my point. “They leave good reviews.”
“Anything else?” His voice is cool, but I know him well enough by now to catch the warning undertone. He’s not really asking for suggestions—he’s daring me to add more.
Well, challenge accepted. I was saving the best for last anyway. “You’ve got to smile more.”
