Chapter 13
There’s nothing fun about attending a party while holding back tears.
If Kit hadn’t texted me earlier, asking where I was—or if I had anywhere else in this town to go—I wouldn’t be here.
And to think, I’d considered driving separately from Rory because I thought I’d want to stay in the Hamptons for longer than my sister.
If ditching Rory wouldn’t raise lots of questions in my family that I have no interest in answering, I’d be halfway back to Manhattan by now.
I glance at Gia, who’s happily chatting with some guy, then edge my way out of the living room.
It’s packed in here, loud pop music and even louder voices reverberating off the walls.
The kitchen is just as crowded. I don’t even stop; I just continue down the back hallway.
There’s something intensely isolating about being surrounded by laughter and merriment while you’re secretly miserable.
Especially when you have a reputation for being unbothered and outgoing and fun.
I don’t sulk at parties; I flirt and dance.
Gia has asked me what’s wrong twice. I lied and said I had cramps. If she notices I left the living room, she’ll probably assume I had to use the restroom.
Finally, I find a room that is empty and likely to stay so. I flip on the light, shut the door, and press my forehead against it, forcing myself to take deep, even breaths. The stinging in my nose is getting worse, not better, and my feet are killing me.
I move away from the door, shoes wobbling on the slate floor, then step out of the heels.
Take a seat, barefoot, on the cold ground, my back to the washing machine, half trying to avoid wrinkling my dress and half not really giving a shit anymore.
I’ll never be able to wear this outfit again without thinking about how long I spent picking it out.
God, I was so excited about tonight. I thought I’d be flirting and dancing with him right now, not sitting in my aunt and uncle’s laundry room, alone.
I can’t even be mad at Sawyer. I mean, I can—I am—but he was right; he’d warned me.
I was the one who got confused, who couldn’t keep it casual.
Who showed up, unannounced, expecting him to act like a boyfriend.
The sobs start a few seconds later. And once they start, they’re impossible to stop.
I can’t recall the last time I cried. I’m overdue, I guess. I was numb after what happened with Third. Furious and scared once the shock wore off, but never sad.
Tears continue streaming down my cheeks in salty streaks. I swipe them away before they can drip onto my dress, wishing I had a tissue.
“… swore I saw her headed this way,” a male voice says, followed by one I immediately recognize.
“That’d be useful knowledge, if you were ever reliable.”
Rory.
The door opens a few seconds later, revealing my sister. Flynn Parks is right behind her. Flynn is Kit’s best friend, so I’m unsurprised he’s here.
I do wish he weren’t here, in this room, seeing this.
Flynn is hot. In a perfect male-model sort of way, not in the rugged bad-boy way Sawyer is, but attractive enough that I care he’s seeing me crying on the floor.
He also might mention this to my cousin, and I really don’t need Kit coming in here, all concerned. I want to grieve my stupidity alone.
“What happened, Wren?” My sister’s expression is creased with worry as she kneels down next to me. She doesn’t even hesitate to lower to the floor, appearing unconcerned about wrinkling her silk dress.
I tease Rory for being so straitlaced and proper, but I can’t imagine a better sister.
I shake my head, still crying. My eyes are like two leaky faucets, and I’m focused on figuring out how to shut them off. I don’t want to talk. I’m not sure what I’d say.
Retreating footsteps announce Flynn’s departure. No doubt I freaked him out, but I’m too depressed to really care.
I release a watery sigh. Sniff. “Ugh.”
Rory rubs my thigh reassuringly. She looks awfully concerned, which is the equivalent of freaking out for my poised sister.
I feel like I lost something, which is absurd. I never had him to begin with.
“Here.” Flynn has returned, and he’s holding a full glass of champagne out to me. “Waiters aren’t serving back here.”
I manage a wobbly smile before accepting the drink. I gulp the contents in one go, the bubbles burning my throat.
“She’s seventeen,” Rory hisses.
“And already a pro,” Flynn says, taking the empty glass from me.
“You are so immature. And irresponsible.”
“Let me guess. You downed Shirley Temples to take the edge off in high school?”
“Of course you would think teenage drinking is some sort of accomplishment—”
“Is there more champagne?” I ask, avoiding Rory’s reproachful expression.
Usually, I enjoy listening to her bicker with Flynn since Rory rarely talks back to anyone. But alcohol will cheer me up more than their arguing.
“Tons,” Flynn replies cheerfully. “Kit’s party planner ordered about a hundred cases. But before you get drunk”—he crouches down next to Rory—“what happened?”
I blow out a long breath. “Bad night.”
Rory shifts closer, away from Flynn. “Are you … okay? Should I call Mom? Or … someone else?”
She means Dr. Hurts, but is considerate enough not to mention my therapist by name in front of Flynn.
“No. I’m not—I’ll be fine.” I sigh again, attempting to focus on the warm buzz of alcohol settling in my empty stomach instead of the sharp ache in my chest. “You were … you were right.”
“Happens to broken clocks twice a day,” Flynn comments.
My lips twitch in response.
“Shut up, Parks,” Rory snaps. “I know it’s a foreign concept, but not every situation requires your idiotic commentary.”
“Shutting up.” Flynn shifts, moving to the spot on my other side.
We would look ridiculous to anyone who walked into the laundry room now, reclined on the floor, but I’m still too heartbroken to care about appearances. Plus, we’re about as removed from the party as possible. I doubt anyone else is going to wander in here.
“What was I right about?” Rory asks softly.
“That it wouldn’t end well with him.”
It takes her a minute. “Oh. This is about Marina Guy?”
“Who is Marina Guy?” Flynn wonders.
“Go get more champagne,” Rory instructs him.
“Oh, now you support underage drinking?”
“Just go, Parks.”
Flynn sighs, lumbering to his feet.
As soon as the door shuts, Rory spins so she’s facing me. “Two glasses—that’s it, okay?”
I’m not sure it’s a promise I’ll keep since oblivion sounds pretty great right now, but I agree. “Okay.”
“Did he hurt you, Wren?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “But not the way that you mean. I thought he—I thought we were something real. He just wanted to get laid.”
The bitter words leave an acrid taste on my tongue.
Because I know they’re not true—not entirely.
Sawyer didn’t write me letters for months on the off chance I’d show up tonight.
He didn’t invite me, had no idea I would be there, and I was the one who instigated sex earlier.
But I’d rather convince myself he never cared at all than deal with the reality he cared some—just not enough.
I was the one who chased him. Who followed him upstairs. Who sent the first letter. Who got stupidly swept up in the possibility he might be mine because I felt like his.
Rory strokes my hair the same way Mom does. “I’m so sorry, Wren.”
“It’s fine. I knew better.”
“You were safe? You used protection?”
“Yes, Mom,” I reply, rolling my eyes.
I say it partly to lighten the mood. Partly because I’ve never discussed sex with my sister and it’s a little weird that it’s happening now. She mostly treats me like a little kid, and I mostly let her. That’s shifting all of a sudden, and too much has already changed tonight.
Rory doesn’t smile. “It’s important, Wren. Not only for pregnancy, but also for sexually transmitted—”
My cheeks are flaming. “Oh my God, Rory. Stop. Just because I didn’t get an A-plus in health class, like you did, doesn’t mean I’m an idiot.”
“Of course you’re not an idiot, Wren. But if you’re too embarrassed to discuss sex, you’re not old enough to be having it.”
“I’m not embarrassed to discuss it. It’s just weird to talk about it with you. It’s not like you told me about your first time.”
Her smile is sad. “He was your first?”
I wriggle my toes, enjoying the freedom of not having them crammed into heels, and admit, “Yeah.”
She moves, mirroring my position against the dryer.
“My first time wasn’t that special. I went out on a few dates with a guy in my Political Philosophy class freshman year.
We went back to his dorm room after grabbing pizza.
It lasted about two minutes while his roommate kept texting, complaining about how he needed to get his soccer ball out of the room.
Mostly, I just remember the endless buzzing being annoying. The second time was a little better.”
“What was his name?”
“Calvin.”
“Did he wear—”
“I knew you were going to ask that. They were a different brand.”
I giggle. Rory does too, reluctantly.
“Thanks for telling me,” I tell her.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Okay if I come in?” Flynn calls.
Rory glances at me.
I nod. I spent forever on my makeup earlier, and I’m sure I look like a raccoon by now. At least I’ve stopped crying.
“Okay,” Rory answers.
Flynn enters a few seconds later. His arms are full, so he shuts the door with his foot. He hands Rory a bottle of Pellegrino, me a bottle of Dom Pérignon, and selected a bottle of Grey Goose for himself.
He takes his former seat beside me, knocking our bottles together. “Cheers, Wren. If you want me to beat him up, just say the word.”
“Thanks, Flynn.” I lean forward, letting the cork fly. It hits the ceiling, then bounces into a corner. I suck the foam off before it can spill down the neck, then wash it down with a hearty swallow. “He could take you though.”
I guarantee Flynn has never thrown a punch. He’s too easygoing and carefree. Whereas Sawyer possesses a raw intensity that makes me think he’d win any brawl, no matter his opponent.
Rory coughs, but it doesn’t really cover her laugh.
Flynn frowns. “How old is he?”
“My age,” I reply. “He’s … scrappy.”
“I’ll start training now. By next year, I should be ready to kick his ass.” Flynn checks his watch. “That gives me ten minutes.”
“Thanks for offering,” I say sincerely. “You guys should go grab good spots to watch the fireworks.” I glance at Rory. “Did Carson end up coming? Go kiss him.”
Rory shakes her head. “He couldn’t make it.”
Flynn scoffs lightly, then sips more vodka. I don’t like Rory’s boyfriend because he’s bland and predictable. I wonder what Flynn’s issue with him is.
“But as long as you’re sure you’re good”—I nod in response—“I will go grab a real drink.” Rory stands slowly, careful not to step on the hem of her dress.
“I thought you’d started Dry January early,” Flynn tells her.
Rory ignores him. “If you need anything, Wren, let me know.”
“Thanks, Rory.”
My sister leaves, and Flynn stands a second later.
“I should check in with Kit. I couldn’t find him earlier, and the caterers had some questions.”
I nod. “Thanks for being my personal bartender.”
“Anytime. As long as you don’t tell your sister.”
I smile. “What’s your issue with Carson?”
“Who?”
“Rory’s boyfriend. You scoffed when I mentioned him.”
“I think I swallowed some lint.”
I glance around the spotless laundry room. Raise a disbelieving eyebrow. “Okay. If that’s your story.”
“Speaking of douchebags—”
“Were we?” I interject.
Flynn ignores me. “He’ll regret tonight, Wren. Take it from someone who was a high-school guy once—we take too long to figure some important shit out.”
I nod. I figured I was too dehydrated by now, but more tears threaten. At least I’m about to be alone again.
Flynn flashes me one final sympathetic smile, then leaves.
I reach for the bottle of champagne.