Chapter 5
No sign of Rory or Dad when I stumble downstairs. Just Mom, perched in a dining room chair with a cup of green tea, flipping through a cooking magazine.
“Happy Fourth,” I say weakly, walking into the kitchen.
We’re staying at Aunt Scarlett and Uncle Crew’s house while they’re at my aunt’s parents’ place.
The Ellsworths are hosting today’s famous party.
We don’t normally attend it, but my dad had a work trip get canceled and suggested it would be fun—mandatory—for our family to spend the holiday weekend in the Hamptons.
A decision I’m decreasingly resentful of.
“Good morning.” Mom leans back in her chair, grabbing her cup of tea and blowing at the steam. “Where were you last night?”
I knew this interrogation was coming. “Drove to Boston,” I answer. “Dumped some tea in the harbor to be patriotic.”
Mom shakes her head, unamused. “You’re grounded, Wren.”
I figured. I opted for the front door rather than attempting to sneak through the window last night and triggered the alarm, waking up the whole house.
My parents aren’t overly strict, but they’re not the type to ignore what sounded like a screeching cat competing with a siren.
Or that their teenage daughter wasn’t fast asleep in bed at two a.m.
I reach for an empty mug, filling it to the brim with coffee as I slump into a chair across from Mom.
“Where were you last night?”
I exhale, then admit, “A party.”
Mom sighs too. “Whose party?”
“I’m … not … actually … sure.” I swallow a large sip of coffee right after, avoiding her gaze.
Mom and Dad are masters of the we’re not mad, just disappointed shtick. It works on Rory.
“Wren, that is unacceptable. I understand wanting to have fun and spend time with your friends, but we need to know where you are and who you are with. It’s not—”
“Safe?” I supply bitterly.
Mom moves her tea aside and leans closer. “I’m always here to talk, sweetheart. And so is Dr. Hurts. I can call, set up an appointment—”
I shake my head immediately. I didn’t dislike Dr. Hurts, but I didn’t find our sessions helpful past a certain point. I mostly spent them pondering the irony of a therapist having the last name Hurts.
“I’m fine. If anything, going to a party with strangers shows how well I’m doing.”
Mom frowns. “Honey, you don’t have to prove anything.”
“I know. I’m good, Mom. Promise.”
I reach for the plate piled high with croissants, grabbing one and then helping myself to jam and butter.
“Did you drink at this party?”
I swallow a bite. “No.”
“Drugs?”
“No.”
“Am I going to be a grandmother in nine months?”
“Mom! No.” I grab my coffee and down half of it.
She reclines back in her seat, flipping a glossy page of her magazine, seeming mollified I wasn’t too irresponsible. “You’re still grounded.”
I nod, spreading more butter on my croissant.
The front door opens and closes, followed by the sound of my dad’s deep voice as he converses with one of the staff. He appears in the doorway a minute later, wearing running clothes and a wide smile as he approaches the table.
“It’s so peaceful, entering a house during normal waking hours,” he comments, snagging a cup of coffee for himself.
Mom nods. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Dad glances at me. “How is my favorite burglar this morning?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not considered breaking and entering if you have permission to be on the premises, Dad. If Rory were here, she’d back me up.”
For as long as I can remember, my sister has known she wanted to be an attorney.
It’s what I admire most about her, more than her propensity to always say or do the right thing.
I’ve never been that certain—about anything.
I keep waiting for some assuredness to kick in as I get older, but so far … nothing.
“I’m sure she’d also agree courts take second offenses far more seriously. No car keys or trip to Marseilles seriously. Understood?”
I nod. “Understood.”
Lots of people consider Oliver Kensington intimidating. But I rarely see it. Around Mom and Rory and me, Dad is attentive and loving. But that doesn’t mean he’s not capable of switching to his important CEO persona in some situations.
“Good.” He kisses Mom—I make a face and grab another croissant—then heads upstairs to shower.
“Is Rory sleeping in?” I ask.
Mom shakes her head, picking up her phone and typing. “She’s out by the pool. Carson called.”
I make a face again. I am not a fan of my sister’s boyfriend. But Rory and I have never had similar tastes in guys. One of our many differences.
“Wren,” Mom warns, noticing my expression.
I know she’s not a huge fan of Carson’s either, but my mom has mastered the art of keeping certain opinions to herself. One I have yet to attempt.
“I said nothing,” I remind her, then stuff my mouth with more croissant.