Chapter 32
My phone lights up with a new text as I park in Macie’s driveway.
“Nice background.” I can hear the smile in Gus’s voice.
I roll my eyes, pull the key out of the ignition, then grab my phone off the seat.
Look at the photo first before checking to see who messaged me.
I’d had the same background forever—a slightly blurry shot from the marina dock I had taken the first summer I started working there—and felt like changing it.
I didn’t intend to swap it for the photo Wren had taken of us sailing, and I did intend to change it to something else after a few hours, but I never did.
“That’s more serious than asking a chick to prom,” Gus adds.
I roll my eyes, typing a quick response to my mom, letting her know I won’t be home until late. “Focus on your own love life.”
“Nothing to focus on, Cap.” He says it sarcastically, but there’s an undercurrent of something else, bitter enough that I glance up.
Gus notices my surprised expression. “C’mon, man. We both know girls talk to me to get to you. It’s always been like that. Maybe now that you’re taken, someone will settle for me.”
“Hey. That’s not true.”
“This isn’t a pity party, Cap. I’m just telling it how it is.”
“You’re the most loyal, trustworthy, supportive person I’ve ever met, Gus. Anyone who doesn’t see that—who doesn’t appreciate it—doesn’t deserve you. I sure as hell don’t, but I’m so fucking glad you’ve stuck around and are still my best friend.”
Gus grins. “You forgot to mention how sexy and charming and—”
“Yeah, your ego is fine,” I say, popping my door open and climbing out of the cab.
Gus laughs, jumping out too.
The house is packed when we enter it. It’s nice, bigger than mine, but nothing too fancy.
I recognize most of the people here, but not all of them.
Macie has been coming here in the summers since high school and has worked at several local businesses, crossing paths with other summer residents in addition to locals.
I grab a beer and start talking to Axel Rogers, a former baseball teammate who’s a junior at Penn State now. I haven’t seen him since he graduated, and he’s telling me about his college team when he suddenly breaks off mid-sentence, gaze focusing behind me.
“Goddamn. Who’s that?”
I wish I didn’t know just from the look on his face that Wren has arrived. I wasn’t sure if she’d show up tonight since she never replied to my text. Maybe I should have slipped her a note instead, defaulting to our former means of communication.
“She’s taken,” I say.
I’m hoping Wren isn’t within earshot because she’d probably have a lot to say about me making decisions for her.
We’re not together; she has every right to do whatever she wants.
But I’m not going to stand off to the side and watch this time.
I glance around, confirming every guy in the immediate vicinity is looking where Axel is.
One fewer admirer is still a lot of guys, but less.
Except Axel is still staring. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.” I add a little more bite this time, and it’s enough to make him glance my way. Realize why I’m sure.
His eyes widen. “Oh. Shit. Your girl?”
“Yeah,” I say, resenting how right the confirmation sounds.
“Lucky bastard,” he mutters, sucking down the rest of his beer. “I’m gonna grab another.”
“Sounds good,” I say, turning to survey the rest of the first floor.
The plan is open concept, convenient for entertaining, although I doubt Macie’s grandparents had this sort of party in mind when they purchased the place.
Wren is holding court in the kitchen, leaning a hip against the island as she talks to the four guys gathered around her.
I head that way, ignoring Gus’s shit-eating grin as I pass him, talking to Wade and Cammie. Cammie rolls her eyes; Wade flashes me a thumbs-up.
I shove right through the group of guys, jaw clenching when I get a good look at her outfit. Wren seems to own an endless supply of short dresses.
I unclench my jaw when one of the guys greets me by name, looking over to figure out his identity. “Hey, Schultz. Back up, yeah?” I glance around, including the other guys in the directive.
They all scatter, and then my eyes return to Wren.
She crosses her arms, pushing her boobs up. I stare, and she smirks.
“That was rude, Cap.”
I take a step closer so she has to tilt her head back to hold my gaze. “Can I talk to you?”
“We’re talking right now.”
“Outside.”
Everyone in the kitchen is attempting to eavesdrop on our conversation. And not very subtly.
“I was about to dance actually.”
I glance toward the living room, tempted to grimace. I hate dancing. Something Wren has probably guessed, and that’s why she’s mentioning it.
“Okay. Wanna dance with me?”
Surprise flashes across Wren’s face before she schools it. “Can you dance?”
I look toward the far corner of the living room again, where the speaker is set up and the dancing is taking place. The “dancing” in question is mostly a guy rocking in place while a girl grinds her ass against him.
“I think I can figure it out.”
She scoffs, then strides away, toward the music.
It’s not exactly an invitation or an acceptance of my invitation, but I follow her anyway.
Wren stops at the guy who’s got an amateur DJ setup, leaning down and whispering something that has him nodding and smiling up at her. She straightens, missing the way he checks out her ass, glancing at me expectantly.
She’s waiting for me to lead, I guess, and this is the one activity I’m really not comfortable doing so.
I can show off pitching or sailing, but dancing?
Way outside my comfort zone. I danced as a kid, putting on fake concerts with friends, but I’ve never attempted it as an adult.
I skipped every school-sanctioned event that wasn’t mandatory—and some that were after Skylar died—never attending homecoming or prom.
But I swallow my uneasiness and hold a hand out to Wren. She takes it, a quick smile appearing when I use our hands to pull her into my chest. We collide, and I let her hand go to wrap my arms around her lower back. She rests her wrists on my shoulders, head tilted back to maintain eye contact.
We sway like that, and I decide I don’t hate dancing. Not with Wren at least.
I bend my head, brushing my mouth right next to her ear. “I’m sorry for how I acted when you asked about college. I was only … it’s different for me than it is for you.”
Her fingers graze the short hairs on the back of my neck. “Just because it’s easier for me doesn’t mean it’s impossible for you.”
“It feels impossible.”
I’m still at war with my father’s expectations.
I graduated high school with a 2.5 GPA. I looked up what UCLA’s out-of-state tuition is—my savings would cover about an eighth of it.
Other schools that previously expressed interest in me are equally expensive.
I’m sure as hell not going to qualify for an academic scholarship, and quitting baseball means no athletic eligibility either.
I basically trashed my future, and I made my peace with that.
Assumed I’d scrape by, working at the marina or other local jobs.
Get a place of my own eventually. Buy my own sailboat one day, if things went really well.
And then Wren Kensington had to come along and make me question if that was enough.
The song changes, slow, sultry music switching to an increasingly upbeat tempo that I immediately recognize.
Wren smirks as my favorite song continues to play. I know without asking what she said to the DJ.
I love her. I really, really love her. And I’m increasingly concerned it’s not a feeling that’s going to fade away.
I saw her leaving for college as the natural end to us, and it’s occurring to me that I based that on nothing at all.
I’m still grieving Skylar two years after she died, and grief is essentially mourning the loss of love.
What if I still love Wren Kensington in two years?
What if my pathetic future includes pining away for a girl who’s out of my league in every possible way?
I don’t have one single thing to offer her—not even myself.
I’m too damaged. Too unpredictable. The antithesis of everything I praised Gus for being earlier.
Wren made a massive mistake, going into Wade’s bedroom with me instead of Gus or one of the other guys at that party.
Anyone else would have been a better choice than me.
“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Wren tells me.
At first, I fear she read my mind. Or that I accidentally said some of that aloud. Then I realize she’s just replying to my mention of impossible.
I hate that she has faith in me. Mostly, all I’ve done is let her down or push her away.
Wren rises up on her tiptoes, tightening her grip on my neck. Pressing her mouth against mine so lightly that it barely qualifies as a kiss.
My hands slide lower, covering her ass, and I feel her lips curve up against mine.
“Pretty sure all the guys here already got the message.”
“I’m not doing it for their benefit,” I say, then kiss her harder.
She moans. I can’t hear it, but I feel the vibration against my tongue as it slips inside her mouth.
We’re causing a scene, probably, and I couldn’t care less. Kissing Wren doesn’t fix my future, but it’s absolutely improved my night.
I’m close to suggesting we head somewhere more private when I hear commotion. Raised voices. A clatter. The music cuts out a few seconds later.
My head turns. Sure enough, lots of people were looking this way. But they’re starting to focus on the front door, where Brett Nichols is standing with one of the same guys he was at Lucky’s with in November. Brett glances this way, grinning when he sees me. Grinning wider when he sees Wren.
I scowl back.
Wren fists the front of my T-shirt urgently. “Do not hit him,” she whispers to me. “No matter what he says.”
I keep my gaze locked on Nichols, but I nod, confirming I heard her, before walking that way.
Gus and Wade have already confronted him.
“You weren’t invited,” Wade says.
“Yeah, I was,” Brett retorts.
“Well, we’re uninviting you,” Gus says, glancing at Macie, who nods.
This is a private residence, not a bar. He’s trespassing technically, if Macie doesn’t want him here. I’d rather not involve the cops, but I’ll call them if I have to.
“I came to talk to Bennett,” Brett says.
“I’ve got nothing to say to you,” I reply, pausing my approach a few feet away. Pull my phone out and add, “I’ll call the cops myself if you don’t get out of here.”
Brett sneers, “Go ahead. Like they’d side with a Bennett.”
With the music gone, the room is quiet enough that I can hear the mutters. Everyone knows that my dad was a dirty cop. But not many people are brave enough to mention it to my face. Not that Brett’s brave. More bitter.
“Wanna find out?”
They might resent my dad, but there are officers—like Mason—who don’t blame me for his bad decisions. Who are fair and by the book and would take my claims seriously.
Brett’s arrogance falters a little. He doesn’t want to find out, I’m guessing. He might get me in trouble, but he’ll wind up in some too.
He focuses his attention behind me. “That’s why you lost it at Lucky’s, huh? You got yourself a rich girl? She doesn’t care your dad is a thief? And a wife beater?”
There’s a collective inhale around me. Not many people talk about the crimes my father was convicted of. No one has ever mentioned the ones he got away with to my face.
“Get the fuck out of here, Nichols,” Gus snaps.
It’s the angriest I’ve ever heard him. Beneath the fury—the shame—I experience a flash of appreciation. I meant everything I said earlier—I’m damn fortunate to call him my best friend.
“This party sucks anyway,” Brett comments, finally turning to leave. His buddy follows.
A smaller hand slips into mine, another curving around my forearm. I glance at Wren beside me, searching her face for some reaction to the revelation about my dad’s domestic abuse.
She squeezes my palm once. “Normally, I’m a pacifist, but he really deserved that punch.”
I crack a small, grateful smile, squeezing her hand back before tugging her left. I’ve never been here before, but there must be a back door somewhere. I don’t want to risk running into Brett out front. He’s probably lingering, pissed he didn’t get his way.
I find a sliding door that connects to a small patio and lead Wren outside. There’s a firepit in the backyard that a few guys are sitting around, smoking weed, but no one else in sight.
I rub my face with the palm of my free hand. Exhale. “I should have told you myself. I—fuck, I hate talking about it. More than anything else.”
Skylar’s death was a tragic accident. My dad embezzling money? Awful, but most of it was “donations”—bribes that wealthy residents paid to erase incidents. Him dipping into those funds wasn’t hurting anyone directly.
Finding out that my hero hurt my mom? That he had been hurting her for years? I’m so furious and sad every time I think about it that it feels like the mixture of emotions stifles me. That I’ll never escape their weight.
“I didn’t want you to know,” I admit. “Didn’t want you to look at me differently.”
“Did he ever hurt you?”
“No. I knew he had a temper; he’d always had a temper. It was mostly yelling. Breaking dishes sometimes. But he never hit me.”
“I’m so sorry, Sawyer.”
“Yeah. Me too.” I glance down, scuffing my sneaker against the pavers. “It was happening in the same house for years, and I had no fucking clue. That part kills me. That I could have stopped it, somehow, if I’d—”
“Hey.” I watch Wren’s feet step closer. “Look at me.”
I blow out a shaky breath, then lift my chin to meet her gaze.
“Remember when you told me it wasn’t my fault, what Third did?
Nothing your dad did was anything you had control of.
No kid assumes anyone is capable of that, especially their parent.
We never have to talk about it again, but don’t ever blame yourself for not knowing.
” Wren rises on her tiptoes, wrapping her arms around me, whispering, “You’re not an asshole, Sawyer Bennett. Not even kind of.”
I could say it now. It would be so easy to let those three short words slip out. But I don’t want my dad to play any part in that important moment.
So, I just tighten my hold on her, trying to wordlessly convey how I’m feeling.
When we separate, she asks, “What time is it?”
I pull my phone out to check. “Twelve forty-five.”
She says nothing, just stares at the screen. And it takes me a beat to realize why.
I clear my throat awkwardly, like a middle schooler with a crush, not sure what to say.
Finally, Wren speaks. “It’s mine too.”