Chapter 41 #2
“Ask her.” I shift, reversing out of the spot and pretending not to hear his response as I drive off.
His, “She didn’t come to see me,” echoes in my ears anyway during the drive home, even though I crank the truck’s radio as loud as it’ll go.
When I turn on my street, I’m greeted with an immediate reminder of the woman who’s already commandeered most of my waking thoughts today—Wren’s convertible is parked in front of my house.
I pull in the driveway with a muttered curse, slamming the truck door so hard that the entire cab shakes.
Wren doesn’t move from her spot on the front steps, a brown bag of groceries on either side of her.
I sigh, stopping a few feet away, spinning my keys around one finger. “I don’t want to argue, Wren.”
“Good.” She uncrosses her ankles. “Because I came to cook.”
I snort. “What?”
“You heard me, based on that rude sound.” She yawns. “It took me, like, ten seconds to find your spare key, but I figured I’d wait out here to be polite.”
“Before you cook,” I drawl doubtfully. “You can’t even brew coffee.”
Wren smirks, reclining on the stairs. The hem of her dress inches higher, and my gaze snaps to the exposed thigh.
Attraction is a rush. It’s fleeting, something your system processes until there’s nothing left. Wren should be out of my system by now.
“I learned how to cook in England,” she informs me.
I suppress another snort. “I doubt your British beau and I have the same taste in food.”
Wren arches a brow. “You sound jealous.”
“I’m not.”
Not of the guy who gave her that gaudy ring at least. I knew the second she showed up last night that she didn’t love him.
I pity the poor guy, assuming he proposed because he loves her.
Loving and losing Wren Kensington isn’t an easy ordeal to endure.
Whenever she goes back, if she ever starts wearing that huge diamond, she’s already tipped her hand.
She did when she took her clothes off for me again.
“Grab that, will you?” Wren stands, picking up one grocery bag and then continuing toward the front door. She reaches under the mailbox for the affixed key, unlocking the door and strolling inside without waiting for me.
I shove my keys in my pocket since, apparently, I will not be needing them and lift the second bag.
By the time I arrive in the kitchen, Wren already has the first one unpacked on the counter.
I scan the array of ingredients, reluctantly impressed by the variety.
If she’s lying about her cooking abilities, she’s being convincing about it.
“I’m going to change,” I mutter, heading down the hallway to my bedroom.
As I swap my polo and khaki shorts for a T-shirt and basketball shorts, I attempt to come up with a plan for tonight.
I know Wren. She’ll resume our earlier conversation at some point tonight, and I really need her to let it go.
The first few months after she left were hard, and I’m haunted by the prospect of reliving any part of them.
It’s for the best she never received the letters, and it says a lot that she never bothered to tell me she was going to school in another country instead of California.
When I return to the kitchen, I linger in the doorway for a few seconds. Wren is chopping cilantro with an intense look of concentration on her face, the falls of her knife crisp and even. I guess she really wasn’t lying about the cooking.
Before I can say a word, she glances up and catches me staring.
I clear my throat, taking a step closer. “Can I help with anything?”
Wren shakes her head. “I made the slaw, and the tortillas and fish are in the oven. Everything is almost ready. I meant to ask, are you allergic to anything?”
“Just cilantro.”
Her face blanches. “Fuck. Really? I already added it to …” Her voice trails when she glimpses my grin, picking up a dish towel and flinging it my way. “Asshole,” she mutters, resuming her chopping.
My smile fades as I walk over to the kitchen and pull out a soda. I offer one to Wren, and she shakes her head, leaving me to stand around, sipping, while she finishes dinner.
“This looks decent,” I say as we sit down.
Wren settles a napkin on her lap. “Gee, thanks. High praise.”
“I haven’t tried it yet.” I pick up a taco and take a large bite, making an exaggerated mmm sound.
I’m not even exaggerating that much. It’s really good. The fish is salty and zested with lime. The tortillas are warm, and she drizzled some green sauce over the slaw. Depending on how the rest of the evening goes, I might ask her for the recipe.
Wren rolls her eyes, but she looks pleased too.
And because I like seeing that pride, I add, “Really, I’m impressed.”
She reaches for her water glass, taking a sip. “Thanks. I’m spending my junior year abroad in Italy—fall in Florence and spring in Milan—so hopefully, I’ll improve more.”
I finish my taco in two more bites.
She goes to school in England. She’s spending the next year in Italy.
None of the details should matter to me—if she’s not here, she’s not here—but the realization that I know so little about her life is a bitter one.
There was a time I would have bet I knew Wren Kensington better than anyone. Now, we’re familiar strangers.
“Long distance doesn’t bother the Brit? Or is he going with you?” I do an admirable job of keeping my tone neutral, I think, as I reach for my drink and take a swig.
I’m not sure Wren agrees. Because she pushes her untouched plate away, resting her elbows on the table and fixing me with a determined look. “We broke up.”
My jaw flexes. “I’m aware.”
“Not me and you. Me and the Brit. Although Pierre is French, not English, technically.”
“Why?”
“Lots of reasons. I didn’t want to marry him. I don’t want to live in England for the rest of my life. I wasn’t in—” She glances down at the table, squares her shoulders, then glances back up. “I didn’t want to cheat.”
My fingers flex on the can. “Not having sex with me was another way to avoid that.”
“You weren’t complaining last night. Or this morning.”
“Why would I? I like getting laid.”
“So, that’s all it was to you? Just sex?”
“I …” I wasn’t expecting that question.
Discussing the past with Wren is complicated. My current feelings? Even thornier. She was gone from my life for two years. She’s been back for a matter of days. And I’m … I don’t know what the hell I am. Her being here makes me mad and sad and happy and relieved.
Conflicted. I’m very conflicted.
Wren tosses her napkin on the table. “I guess that’s my answer. Message received. I won’t bother you anymore.”
I listen to her steps down the hallway. To the screech of the spring I’ve been meaning to oil and the slap as the screen door meets the frame again. I think I’ll be able to hear her car start, too, but her engine is too quiet.
The house is too.
I thought that’s what I wanted. What I was accustomed to at least. But all of a sudden, I hate it.