Chapter 44
“Have you seen much of Wren this summer?”
I glance at the clock on the stove between bites. “Congrats, Mom. You lasted a whole twenty minutes without asking about her.”
“She’s the only girl you’ve ever brought home, Sawyer. Of course I’m going to ask. Are you two back together?”
“We were never together.”
“Well, you seemed together when I met her before. And just now.”
“We’re … friends.”
“You’ve never kissed Gus in the front yard.”
I aim a disbelieving look her way. “You were spying on us?”
“I glanced out the window.”
I scoff, heaping more sauce on my taco. “That’s suspicious timing.”
“If my opinion matters, I approve. She seems like a sweet girl.”
I hum, chewing. If my mouth wasn’t full, I might laugh.
Not only because sweet is not an adjective I’d use to describe Wren—dynamic, gorgeous, dazzling all seem like better descriptors—but because I truly don’t get why Wren thinks everyone in my life hates her.
Yeah, she left without much of an explanation.
But we hadn’t been dating. She didn’t owe me anything.
I owe her, probably, since Gus has always insisted she’s the reason the Coast Guard showed up the night Wade and I were caught in that storm.
I’ve never even thanked her for however she pulled that off.
I was too busy being bitter about how easily she left me behind.
“You should invite her over for dinner,” Mom continues. “I’d like to get to know her better.”
I swallow. “She’s leaving tomorrow.”
“Oh. Will she be back later this summer? I’m home for the next two months.”
“No, she won’t.”
“So, when will you see her again?”
I sigh. “I don’t know, Mom. Not for a while, I’m guessing. We don’t … we don’t really keep in close touch.”
“Because …”
I reach for a napkin, dabbing at the sauce that’s dribbled on my hand. “Because that’s just how it is with us. What’s with the twenty questions tonight?”
“I’m proud of you, Sawyer. I was proud when you left to try out and play in that minor league.
I was proud how you handled getting injured.
I’m proud you applied to college. I know it wasn’t easy to return to, then lose baseball or to ask for those recommendations.
I’ve never worried you wouldn’t be successful.
You’re one of the smartest, most driven people I know, and I know a lot of smart, driven people.
“But when it comes to emotions? To honesty and to relationships and to love? I know I set a terrible example for you. Navigating all of that can be confusing for anyone, but it might be especially confusing for you. You can talk to me about any of it, or if you want to talk to someone else, we can set that up too. I just—I would hate to see you give up someone important to you because of choices I made.”
“It was Dad’s fault, Mom, not yours.”
“Not all of it,” she replies. “I overlooked things I shouldn’t have.
I made excuses when I shouldn’t have. I put you and-and Skylar in situations that could have been much worse.
I can’t change any of that. You’re an adult; you can—do—make your own decisions.
But the two times I’ve seen you happiest lately were when Wren was here.
Don’t assume that’s a coincidence. Your generation probably thinks it’s not cool to get attached or that commitment is—”
“Mom,” I groan, “that’s not—”
“Let me finish, Sawyer. Letting someone know you care is important. I care about all the parts of your life, and I want you to know that. That’s all I’m trying to say.”
I nod. “I’m glad you’re home, Mom.”
“Me too.” She picks up a taco. “Your cooking has really improved.”
“Oh. Uh, I didn’t—Wren made these.”
My mom displays no surprise. “Do we need to have a conversation about responsibility when you have girls over to an unsupervised house?”
“Nope,” I say quickly.
“I assume health class covered the basics, but if you have questions—”
“No questions here,” I interject.
She gives me a fond, slightly exasperated smile. “If that changes …”
“Mom, no offense, but that is one part of my life you cannot care about.”
“As long as you’re being safe.”
“I am.” I exhale. “Also, there aren’t girls. There’s—I’ve only had one over, okay?”
“Okay.” She picks up her taco again. “Now, tell me about the marina. How is being manager going?”
After we’ve caught up on everything that didn’t make it into our phone calls over the past few weeks, Gus drops by to pick up the truck keys.
Mom is all impressed by Gus’s date plan, especially when Gus informs her the drive-in movie was Wren’s idea.
I almost pull out my phone to text her, telling her so, but something stops me. My pride maybe.
Wren hasn’t texted me. She hasn’t texted me in two years.
How hard would it have been for her to send a short message, letting me know she was going to Cambridge?
Or saying she’d be back in the Hamptons this week?
Aside from the letters she sent senior year, Wren has never reached out to me when we weren’t in the same place.
It fuels all my insecurities about how huge her world is—how small mine must seem by comparison.
Aside from trips to see my grandparents in New Hampshire, the only traveling I’ve done was with the minors team I played with for a partial season until my elbow crapped out.
And that was mainly smelly buses and budget motels, hardly the glamour I’m sure is part of the Kensington lifestyle.
Wren only seems to want me when it’s convenient—when I’m convenient—and that feels like a perilous position to be in.
After Gus leaves on his date, I head into my room. I’ve started sorting through the years of junk, organizing it into Keep, Bring, or Get Rid of It categories before I move to Lancaster’s campus.
Mom pokes her head in my room as I’m flipping through the binder full of old baseball cards. They’re probably worth something, but Dad helped me collect most of them. I toss the binder into the box that’s headed to the local thrift store.
“I’m headed over to the Griffins’ for a glass of wine with Clara.”
“Have fun.”
“If you fill any donation boxes, stack them in Skylar’s room. I’ll do a run later this week.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“I love you.”
“Love you too,” I reply, reaching for a middle-school jersey and adding it to the same box.
Gus texts just before midnight, letting me know he’s outside with my keys. I pull on a hoodie and head into the yard, watching him gather up the blankets in the truck’s bed and jump out.
The wide grin on his face basically tells me the answer, but I ask, “How did it go?” anyway.
“It was good. Really good.”
“That’s awesome, man. I’m happy for you.”
“She wants to plan our next date, so I won’t have to bug you with ideas for at least a week.”
“You weren’t bugging me, Gus. I’m sorry if—”
“Hey, I was kidding, Cap. Thanks for letting me borrow the truck. Was way better than the sedan would have been.”
He tosses me the keys. I catch them, tucking them in my hoodie pocket.
“I’ll see you at work tomorrow,” Gus adds.
I nod. “FYI, my mom’s over, gossiping with yours, so you’ve got a double inquisition waiting for you. And my mom tried to give me a ‘safe sex’ talk earlier, so that might come up too.”
Gus laughs. “She walk in on you and Wren?”
“Spied on us kissing.”
“Well, if you do it in the front yard …”
“You too? For real?”
“I drove by while she was waiting for you. I was just checking to see if you’d gotten back yet. Bad timing.” He hesitates before adding, “She’s leaving tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” I shove my hands in the pocket of my sweatshirt, fiddling with the keys.
“I think maybe—probably—it’s for the best. I don’t fucking know.
It’s so confusing with her, and then there are these moments of clarity when it all makes perfect sense.
We’re like … a roller coaster, and I’m blindfolded, so I never know what part of the ride we’re on. ”
“That sounds … fun and kind of awful.”
I laugh once. “Yep. It’s pretty much exactly that.”
“I’m here whenever you want to talk about it.”
“I know. And I am too. You’re never bugging me, and feel free to toss something heavier than paper the next time I’m being a shitty friend.”
Gus smiles briefly, but then it fades. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Cap.
You never do. You’ve got a lot of people in your corner.
Think about why that is sometimes. And remember, we’re talking about Wren Kensington.
There wasn’t a single guy, including me, who wasn’t interested when she showed up four summers ago.
She picked you. I saw it right away. And it was still there at Lucky’s last night. That’s special.”
I half smile. “You sound like my mom. She’s convinced we’re some epic love story too.”
Gus grins. “Do you want me to grab a banana and demonstrate how to put on a condom next?”
I roll my eyes, spinning around and heading back toward my house. “Bye, Gus!”
“Hey, Cap,” he calls after me.
“What?” I turn back.
“Are your hands tied?”
“Huh?”
He scoffs, like I’m the one asking weird questions. “On the roller coaster. Are your hands tied?”
“It was a metaphor, dude.”
“Obviously. But to, like, visualize, if your hands aren’t tied, then you can take the blindfold off. Or ask her to get off it with you. Just … you’re not stuck on it, you know?”
I know Gus is trying to help, but he doesn’t know everything. Doesn’t know I asked her to stay and she left anyway. Where am I supposed to invite her next? Six Flags?
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Gus knows me too well. He smiles ruefully. “It was your metaphor, man.”
“I know. That helped.”
“You’re a worse liar than I am.”
“I’m definitely not.”
“You are!” he calls, jogging away.
I shake my head, then return to my room. Stack the boxes that I filled, then get ready for bed.
Mom still isn’t home by the time I shut off the light and climb under the covers. Gus must be getting grilled.
I chuckle, then reach for my phone. Scroll down, down, down, until I find our text exchange.
It’s only two messages. The photo of us that she sent and the You should come text that I sent her a few days later.
I’d had lengthier virtual conversations with randomly assigned lab partners in high school.
Gus’s date went well, I type, then delete.
She’d care about that since she helped plan their night, but I don’t want to send her something about my best friend.
I toss my phone down, then pick it up again.
Hangover gone?
Stupid. She was functioning fine earlier. I erase that message too.
I love you too.
I stare at that text the longest. I’ve never told anyone I love them before, aside from my family—my mom now.
What would Wren reply if I sent this? I’m fairly certain she has no recollection of the semi-conscious moment last night. She appeared nonplussed earlier, when she thanked me for helping her into bed. If she recalled what she’d mumbled, I don’t think that would have been the case.
I don’t know if she meant it, and she definitely didn’t mean to say it.
This isn’t how I want to say it, type it, in the second text I’ve ever sent her.
I’ll probably never say it.
So, I delete the four words, tapping the backspace button so it disappears letter by letter.
Sawyer: Send me the taco recipe, please.