Chapter 41
After Fred leaves and Gillian rides her hit-and-run evidence off into the sunset, Wren insists we all decompress in the kitchen.
This apparently means being force-fed a bowl of something green, lumpy, and steaming that smells like a witch’s brew and tastes like sewage—not that I’ve eaten sewage in order to know.
She calls it Wren’s Comfort Stew, her own take on the more flavorful Moroccan Comfort Stew.
It looks more like something she scraped out of a defunct aquarium.
Zala pokes hers with a spoon. “Is it supposed to move?”
“It’s quinoa and some other stuff,” Wren snaps, though she won’t make eye contact with the bowl. “It’s packed with superfoods.”
“It’s alive,” Zala corrects.
Freida refuses to eat anything, still sniffling and refusing to be comforted.
Luca tentatively nudges her shoulder, then playfully pokes her rib cage, almost cracking a smile on Freida’s lips.
Ivory stares blankly at her spoon as if hoping to astral-project out of this conversation entirely.
And the conversation? It’s not even about Fred anymore.
Somehow it devolved into a heated argument over the proper way to fold fitted sheets.
Wren claims she has a patented method. Zala claims Wren is a compulsive liar. They may both be right. I pretend to be listening, but my body is buzzing with everything I saw, everything that feels wrong, every off note in this supposed peaceful suburban symphony.
“I’m heading home get dinner started,” Luca announces, though no one seems to be listening.
Checking the time, I realize how late it is and I’m eager to get home.
Luca promised Ivory and Freida homemade authentic Italian pasta tonight, which means I have to make sure he and my mother don’t destroy the kitchen in the process.
I slip away from Wren’s center island and look for my coat, which isn’t hanging on the coat rack.
“Where’d you put the coats, Wren?”
“Aw, are you heading home already?” she says, then before I can confirm adds, “I put the coats in the upstairs spare bedroom.”
“I wish I could stay longer,” I lie out of politeness, even though it’s the absolute last thing I would wish for, “but I’m exhausted. It’s been a… day.”
A traumatic day? An eye-opening day? There are too many adjectives I could fill in that blank with. No one responds or seems to care that I’m leaving except maybe the sentient quinoa blob.
I climb the staircase of Wren’s recently renovated open-concept house that makes the second floor seem cavernous. I walk lightly in my socks, and glide up the stairs. The sounds of bickering float up behind me.
“You don’t tuck the corners first, Wren,” Zala is arguing. “What kind of sociopath—”
“It’s called structure, Zala!”
“You want to talk structure? This mush needs some structure!”
The upstairs hallway blooms with bright bohemian color.
A floral-patterned runner rug stretches its length, reds and indigos softened by footsteps.
Tapestries drape the walls in layered textures and symbols.
I open the first door I come to and find a heap of more clashing colors and patterns, clothes strewn all over the floor, the covers on the bed a rumpled mess, and an incense stick burning that makes me think of cinnamon snickerdoodles.
This must be Wren’s bedroom. It’s the type of room where you might go blind if you stare too hard.
Behind the second door is an equally messy bathroom.
The bedroom behind the third door doesn’t appear quite as messy, though it’s still cluttered with balls of yarn and crafting supplies and a wall-length desk holding a microphone, several computer screens, selfie ring lights, and enough equipment to host a podcast and full-feature movie production.
Along with her podcast, her self-proclaimed fashion design empire—if you call an Etsy store an empire—appears to live here.
Bolts of fabric hang from the walls. A mannequin stands in the corner wearing something that looks like a prom dress mated with a disco ball.
Sketches cover every surface. Sequins litter the floor like cheap glitter snow.
I step inside, listening to the voices downstairs. These women do not give up.
I find my coat on the bed next to a pile of fabric swatches, then linger near her desk doing some good old-fashioned snooping. Several binders line the table labeled: Client Sizing, Color Theory, and Confidential: For Wren’s Eyes Only. Obviously I reach for that binder first.
Inside? Podcast concepts in detail. Nothing illegal or thrilling. But then something catches my eye on the corkboard above the desk. A photograph.
A recent one, it looks like. She’s even wearing the same shoes she’d worn when I first met her.
Wren stands next to a man, his arm looped around her shoulders, and he’s kissing her cheek.
The girl is unmistakably Wren but sweeter, with softer eyes and a smile that looks genuine instead of the strained, tight-lipped thing she wears nowadays.
The man kissing her, however, intrigues me. I pull the photo down.
His profile looks insanely familiar. Not in a vague, Oh, he could be someone I passed in the grocery store way.
He is someone I met. Just recently. Someone whose presence sends cold needles down my spine.
I draw the picture closer. The curly red hair, the double-chin, the pale eyes… it looks just like—
“Shari?” Wren calls from downstairs.
Footsteps mount the steps. Someone’s coming, so I hurry to pin the photo back to the corkboard then jerk upright just as Wren’s familiar boots clunk down the hallway. I yank my coat off the bed as Wren walks in.
“Get lost up here?” she asks me with a stiff, straight mouth. There’s not even a hint of kindness in her tone.
“Oh, I was just admiring your sketches.” I glance at the papers strewn all over the place offering an array of revolting fashion creations.
She takes a long look at me before she says, “Thanks.” She stands way too close. Her lips are stretched thin, like someone pulled them taut with fishing line. “Well?”
She waits for me to answer, but I don’t know what the question is. “Well what?”
“What do you think of the sketches?”
“Oh, they’re great!” I exclaim, trying to sidestep her. “I admit I don’t know what the cool kids are wearing these days, but your style is… innovative. I’ve never seen anything like it.” I’m actually being honest.
She doesn’t move, but her eyes narrow by a millimeter. “I thought I saw my Confidential binder moved. Did you look inside it?”
My stomach drops so hard it hits my ankles. How the heck did she notice that amid all of the mess? I laugh a little too loudly.
“Oh, you got me! I was just curious.”
“In some modern societies we call that nosy.”
“Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be nebby. I genuinely admire your work.” I feel panicky over getting caught, but she seems to soften at my compliments. Seeing Gillian and confronting Fred has piled more anxiety on my already frazzled psyche. “I should probably head home. I have to feed Zoomie.”
I follow her downstairs, tasting bile rising in my throat.
I can’t push the gross visual out of my head of Macho Marshall kissing Wren.
I thought Wren was odd, but I didn’t peg her as desperate enough to date someone like him.
Though, since the beginning of time, some girls prefer a guy who drives a flashy sports car over having good character.
When I reach the entry, I bolt past her before she can interrogate me any further, nearly tripping over my own feet as I sprint to the door. The moment I’m outside, the fresh air welcomes me like freedom. I keep running until I’m halfway down the driveway, when I have no choice but to stop.