Chapter 6 Wren
Six
Wren
“She offered to do what?”
Tate is sprawled in the open bed of my truck, twirling his captain hat around one finger while Eryn changes in the cab.
“Work at McCleave’s. For free,” I repeat, still not believing Tourist Girl had agreed. She hadn’t been thrilled by the terms
I’d offered her; in fact, she’d looked distinctly uncomfortable, but she’d said yes.
Eryn slides out of the cab, fully dressed in cutoffs and a tank top, then hops up beside Tate. She folds her legs beneath
her with effortless grace and tucks a loose strand of still-damp hair behind her ear as she turns to face us. “Doing what?”
“Running the gift shop, for one, whenever Bethany can’t.”
Tate raises an eyebrow, his mouth tilting into the beginnings of a grin. “That could be good. Anything else?”
“I haven’t thought it all the way through yet, but I guess anything.”
Tate’s grin widens. “So does that potentially mean any sort of job? Like, ‘Oops, someone flushed a hot dog again—better call
the new girl’?”
Eryn frowns at him. “I’m sure he doesn’t mean that.” Then she looks at me, tilting her head. “You don’t, right?”
“She did say she’ll do anything that doesn’t involve getting on a boat.”
Tate’s smile is now so comically wide I could count his molars.
“But neither of us agreed to anything yet. She said she had to figure some things out on her end, and I’m not thrilled with
the idea of spending a good part of my summer on some pointless research project.”
His grin crashes like a toppled sandcastle. “What—why?”
“Did you miss the part where she has this delusional theory about Kezia Gardner, of all people, that I’m supposed to help
her prove?”
“And did you miss the part about her doing all the stuff that makes you a miserable bastard to be around? What is the matter with you?”
Tate swipes at my head, but I duck just in time.
“Um, you’re the one who cleans the bathrooms,” Eryn points out.
“Um, we can all be miserable bastards, Eryn,” Tate says. “Wren doesn’t get a monopoly on that.”
She loops her arms around my neck, her wet hair brushing against my cheek, and I shift infinitesimally away from the cold
contact. “He’s not miserable.”
Tate steps back with mock outrage, hands raised in defense. “Whoa, whoa. Are you just going to sit there and let her get away
with calling you a bastard?”
Eryn immediately releases me and straightens. “I never said that.”
“No? Cause I called him”—Tate makes air quotes—“a miserable bastard. Then you said”—he moves to drape his arms around my neck but I shove him away with one arm, so he pretends to hold an invisible me while doing a not-terrible Eryn impression—“‘he’s not miserable.’ The only implication is that you think he is a bastard. ”
Eryn rolls her eyes.
They keep going, bickering the way they always do, the rhythm of it familiar, comfortable. I watch the way Eryn shakes her
head at Tate’s dramatics, the way he jabs at her just enough to keep her entertained. They’ve been this way since third grade.
There was a time, back in junior high, when I thought they might end up together, but neither of them showed any interest
in being more than what they were.
If someone had asked me back then if I thought I’d ever end up with Eryn, I’d have said never. But here we are, going on four
years.
“It doesn’t matter since I doubt she’ll even come back. She didn’t expect me to ask for anything in return and there’s no
way she actually wants to work at McCleave’s. She’s got that tourist energy.”
“Tourist energy?” Tate hangs his head. “Man, you’ve got to let that go. Not everybody is the same as—”
“Okay, okay,” Eryn interrupts. “This conversation isn’t going anywhere helpful.”
“I’m just saying . . .” Tate leans back on both hands. “This could be a good deal. Just don’t be an idiot and run off free
help. See how I avoided calling you a bastard? That was for you.”
A laugh slips out before I can catch it, but Eryn doesn’t join in. Instead, she says, “I think it’s a good idea too.” Her
voice is calm, but it feels like a jab.
I shift more fully toward her. “Really? Because I’d have to spend time helping her, time we already don’t get a lot of.”
Her gaze meets mine, steady and unwavering, her unnaturally blue contact lenses from her mermaid costume still catching the midday sun. “I’m working at the café more this summer anyway, so really it’s only Tate who’ll have to share you.”
Defeat rolls over me, inevitable as the tide, and when I turn to Tate, his triumphant grin tells me he knows it too.
“You’re not an idiot,” Eryn says, her tone softer now. She shoots a pointed look at Tate, who throws his hands up in mock
surrender. “No matter what you decide. But what’s so bad about offering someone a little help? And a research project for
the museum might even be fun.”
Fun. Right. Now I feel like I’m seasick.
I can’t help this girl. That much was obvious on the boat. She argued with me the whole time, like she thought she could wear
me down if she just kept at it. Like I was enjoying it as much as she was.
Okay fine, maybe I didn’t completely hate that part, but that still doesn’t mean I want to spend my summer with a tourist.
Tate shoves my knee with his foot, dragging me out of my head. “Dude, relax. You look like someone just poured sand in your
soda.”
I force a scoff, shoving his foot off me. “I’m fine.”
Eryn doesn’t say anything. Just watches me for a beat longer before hopping off the truck bed. “I should go.” She stretches
her arms over her head. “I told Teresa I’d take an afternoon shift today.”
I nod, trying to shake the strange unease creeping into my ribs, the feeling that something is shifting and I don’t quite
have control of it.
“Promise me you’ll give it a try?”
I glance away, staring at the edge of the truck bed where the paint is chipped, exposing the dull metal underneath.
It’s easier than looking at her. I haven’t liked anything about McCleave’s since I was a kid.
And maybe not even then. The things I care about—the real things—are crammed onto shelves in the backroom, forgotten because nobody else gives a damn.
And honestly, I’m no better. I’m just a guy a year out of high school with no qualifications beyond, hopefully, keeping those artifacts from falling apart.
The kind of degree I’d need to make anything of them doesn’t exist here on Nantucket.
Not that it matters; I couldn’t leave if I wanted to, which thankfully I don’t. I love this island.
I’m just stuck.
My gaze travels to Eryn again and I think about how utterly incapable I am of saying no to her. I never really could, even
before the accident. And after?
How many girls would stay with their brand-new fifteen-year-old boyfriend after he broke his back and spent months in the
hospital? How many would step up to take care of that boyfriend’s dad, cooking him dinner every night, keeping the house from
falling apart, so his dad could fight with insurance companies to get him a wheelchair? How many would still be there four
years later, dressing up in a mermaid tail every week for his family museum?
How many would talk about a future and a family with a guy who couldn’t even get down on one knee for them?
The thought twists in my chest, sharp and unwelcome, like a splinter I can’t get rid of. I lower my head. “I’d have to talk
with my dad,” I say finally, my voice low, resigned.
“That shouldn’t be too hard.” Eryn’s hand brushes against mine, her touch light, but it only makes the unspoken expectations
between us feel heavier.
“Sure,” I agree, forcing myself to meet her gaze. “But I can’t help her find something that isn’t there.”
“You can help her find closure,” she says, her tone quiet but insistent.
I seriously doubt that. Some people don’t know when to give up. My gaze drifts over Eryn’s face, and I realize just how true
that is.