Chapter 54
I’m a coward. I’m a cowardly coward who cowers. Who ducks and avoids and panics at the first sign another girl is interested in the guy I’ve been in love with for years.
I came to Lancaster with a clear plan. I landed, showered, primped, and drove straight here. I left my program in Milan a week early, submitting all my final papers ahead of deadline and skipping out on the final outing to Lake Como because I was so impatient to be here.
And now that I am? The plan is disintegrating. It’s like a bad first date, one where I’m insecure and awkward and self-conscious.
This is Sawyer, I try to remind myself. He’s seen me naked. Seen me cry, unfortunately. Seen me vomit, even more unfortunately.
He knows me. Most of the time, I’m more comfortable around him than I am around anyone else.
Except now. Because it is Sawyer, and so the stakes could not be higher.
At least, in this state of limbo, I’ve had some of him.
The last time I thought I was about to have all of him, I wound up with none of him.
And no matter how many times I tell myself it’s different, that he’s different and I’m different and we’re different, I’m back on that slate floor, chugging champagne, reclined against a washing machine.
I’ve never told Sawyer how much that, “Why?” wrecked me.
I attempted the opposite, lying to him outside of clubs and going upstairs with guys who weren’t him, in elaborate attempts to ensure he never knew how much he’d hurt me.
I’m embarrassed I resorted to that and even more mortified to admit that I did it to him.
So, at almost eleven p.m., I’ve said none of what I showed up this afternoon to tell him.
“It’s Wren, right?”
I glance at the guy who’s approached me. He’s one of Sawyer’s friends who was outside Faber Hall with him earlier. I recognized all their names because Sawyer had mentioned them in his letters, but I haven’t connected names with faces yet.
“Right,” I reply.
“I’m Jeff,” the guy says helpfully.
“Right,” I repeat. “Sawyer said you’re from Brooklyn? I grew up in New York City too.”
Jeff nods. “Yeah, Bennett mentioned that. He talks about you a lot, you know.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Kinda vague about your relationship status, and he’s never shown us any photos. I get why now.” Jeff winks.
“Here’s your drink.” Sawyer reappears beside me.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the cup he offers.
“Was just getting to know your girl, Bennett,” Jeff says, taking a sip of his beer.
Sawyer doesn’t correct him, and a bolt of electricity sizzles through me.
“Where in New York are you from, Wren?” Jeff asks me.
“The Upper East Side.”
He whistles. “Fancy. Whereabouts?”
“Fifth Avenue.”
“Fuck. Your folks must be loaded. Can I visit?” Jeff glances at Sawyer. “Relax, dude. Totally platonic.”
More guys join our group. More of Sawyer’s friends. He’s popular, which I’m unsurprised by. I noticed the second he stepped into that clearing—he has that rare magnetism that is impossible to learn or imitate. That you naturally gravitate toward.
A few of his friends ask me more questions, but most of the conversation is centered around other Lancaster students I don’t know. Mainly, I get curious looks, as everyone silently wonders why I’m here. What my connection to Sawyer is.
I finish my drink and excuse myself to use the bathroom. Predictably, the line is long, snaking around the side of the staircase. I join the end and lean against the paneled wall with a heavy sigh.
I had plenty of opportunities to talk to Sawyer earlier, when it was just the two of us, and I let every one slip by. Wishing we were alone now is ridiculous.
“Is this the bathroom line?” a brunette asks me, craning her neck to see ahead.
“Yep,” I reply.
She sighs, mimicking my position against the wall and then glancing over. “I’ve never seen you before.”
“I’m not a student here. I’m just visiting for the weekend.”
“From where?”
“I live in New York. Go to college at Cambridge. I just spent my junior year abroad, at Università del Tirreno.”
“Oh. Wow. That’s really cool—”
“Izzie! He’s here, in the kitchen!” A petite girl with a head of brown curls bounces up beside us, shooting me an apologetic look when she realizes she interrupted. “Sorry,” she says. “Crush emergency.”
“No worries,” I tell her, feeling my phone buzz in my pocket and pulling it out to check.
Rory: You’re in Connecticut?!
I sigh.
Wren: Yes, stalker.
Rory: Mom checks your phone location too.
Wren: I’ll turn it off.
Rory: That’ll reassure her.
Wren: I’ll be back in NYC tomorrow.
Rory: You’re supposed to be in Italy.
Wren: Left early. I didn’t want to bother Mom and Dad while they were out of town.
Dots appear and disappear as my sister types and stops. I’m sure she’s battling the urge to chastise me for leaving Milan early and for telling no one about my change of plans. Both were irresponsible.
Rory: Say hi to Sawyer from me.
I smile at my phone, liking the message.
“Good news?”
I glance up, straight into Sawyer’s green eyes. Belatedly realizing the girls who were whispering next to me have fallen silent. That everyone in this line, everyone in this hallway, is silent and staring this way.
In answer, I flash him my phone screen. One corner of his mouth curves up as he reads the latest text. “Hi back.”
My phone buzzes with another message.
Rory: And text Mom!
I roll my eyes, shutting off my phone before refocusing on Sawyer. “If you need the bathroom, it would probably be faster to walk back to your dorm.”
“I don’t. I was just checking on you. You’ve been gone a while.”
I’ve been in line for five minutes. Likely less.
I love you. The words are right there, waiting. Ready. Impatient.
“Yo! Bennett!” His roommate, Wesley, is headed toward us, a younger guy with him.
Wesley pauses to talk to someone else, but the guy with him continues this way.
“Hey,” he says, sticking a hand out to Sawyer. “I’m Austin.”
“Hey, man,” Sawyer replies, shaking it. “Nice to meet you. I’m Sawyer.”
Austin nods, smiling, then glances at me.
Sawyer does too. He hesitates, same as he has when introducing me all day.
“I’m Wren,” I say, smiling. “Sawyer’s girlfriend.”
I didn’t intend to say it. I’d wanted to say it before, to stake some obvious claim.
It’s socially strange to introduce someone as your first love or your first heartbreak, but simply calling Sawyer a friend doesn’t do a great job of encompassing our history.
I’m not calling him my boyfriend anyway.
I’m asserting he has a claim on me, not the other way around.
Also, he was the one who kissed me this afternoon.
If he didn’t want me getting romantic ideas about us, he should have kept his mouth to himself earlier.
I flip some hair over my shoulder before glancing at Sawyer, striving for some measure of casual. I’m off-balance, searching his face for a reaction, loving and hating that he still manages to make me this nervous. I feel like a seventeen-year-old who just walked up to her crush all over again.
“Nice to meet you, Wren,” Austin says, entirely oblivious to the seismic nature of this moment. He glances left. “This is the bathroom line?”
“It is.”
“Jeesh,” Austin mutters. “Which way is the kitchen?”
“Ahead and to the left,” Sawyer answers.
“Cool,” Austin says, lifting a hand at me before ambling away.
A group of guys pass by, including Wesley, most of them calling out greetings to Sawyer. He replies, but his eyes remain on me, stepping closer so they have more space to pass. His left hand plants on the wood panel closest to my head.
There’s no oxygen in here. I’m breathing too fast. Or maybe I’m not breathing at all.
“You know, there are bathrooms upstairs,” Sawyer comments.
I arch an eyebrow. “Are you asking me to go upstairs with you?”
There are whispers around us in the hallway, suggesting at least one person in line is eavesdropping. I couldn’t care less that we are not, in fact, alone. It feels like we are.
He smirks. “Went well last time.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I would have, if I’d stayed downstairs.”
I blink rapidly at him. “Really?”
I always assumed if I hadn’t followed him, nothing would have happened between us that night.
Sawyer nods. “This thing between us has been a lot of things, Wren, but it’s never been one-sided. Not on my end at least.”
I’m dangerously close to tears. My nose is stinging, and I’m excessively blinking again.
He leans closer. “We could also go back to my dorm room. It has a bathroom, no line, and a bed.”
“Don’t you want to stay longer?” I ask. “All your friends—”
“Not even a little bit.”
“You sure? I’m not trying to … disrupt your life.”
“All you’ve ever done is disrupt my life, Wren Kensington.”
He says it affectionately, not angrily, and I feel the blush burn my cheeks as I push away from the wall, following him outside.