He mutters something and taps Eryn’s thread.
Eryn:What’s going on? No one knows where you are.
Eryn:You’re scaring me right now.
Eryn:I’m picking up Tate. We’re going to drive around and see if we can spot your truck. Please be okay.
His thumbs fly across the screen, tapping out a response.
Wren:I’m here. I’m fine. I fell asleep working on the research project and only just now checked my messages.
He drops his phone down between us, running both hands through his hair. Neither of us speaks.
I can’t believe we fell asleep.
Wren hasn’t mentioned me to Tate and Eryn yet, but what will they say when they find out we were together all night? I press my face into my hands. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” But he won’t look at me, and his hands are still tangled in his hair.
“I remember being tired but not falling asleep.” And definitely not on him. “Do you?”
Another head shake. “Are you okay? Your mom?”
I shake my head. “She doesn’t know.”
Wren’s phone dings. He grabs it so fast I don’t see the screen. He taps something in response, then starts the truck.
“I’ll take you home.”
My hand shoots out to cover his when he reaches for the gear shift. “You can’t. If I show up now, my mom will know I didn’t come home. Right now she probably just thinks I left early.” I lower my hand. “I can’t go back until this afternoon.”
He fists his hand on his knee. “Tate and Eryn are meeting me at the museum. I can’t show up with you before I’ve had a chance to explain.”
My brain is racing at this point, searching for a way out of this mess for both of us. “Drop me off somewhere on the way—a café or something. I’ll just come in later like I always do.”
His gaze locks onto mine, his expression serious as he takes me in. “In the same clothes you wore yesterday?” He breathes out, muttering a curse. “And I smell like you.”
“You what?”
“I smell like you.” His voice is louder now, but tight with frustration. “You were pressed against me all night. Your perfume—whatever it is—on my clothes, my skin.”
I might’ve argued that he was holdingmetohimall night, but it’s a pointless distinction in the moment. After what she said last night, Eryn will 100 percent notice.
My voice is hollow, sick. “What do we do?”
He shifts into drive. “The only thing we can do.”
We don’t say a word as he drives, and neither of us reaches for the stereo. There’s nothing to say. I text Mom, implying that I slipped out early this morning for work without outright lying to her. I don’t feel good about it.
That ill feeling only spreads when Wren parks in front of the museum.
He’s moving immediately, putting his chair back together and sliding out and into it. “Let’s go.”
I stumble as I get out, legs not cooperating. I feel like a zombie, shuffling after him, and my stomach churns at the thought of facing Eryn. I’d rather deal with my mom’s disappointment than her hurt.
We round the corner, and there they are—Tate sitting atop the gift shop counter, and Eryn with one arm wrapped around herself and the other up near her mouth, pacing until she catches sight of Wren, and then she’s running to him.
She throws her arms around him before he’s stopped moving, falling into his lap with practiced ease.
