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GRAYSON

 

“MY FATHER WAS RUSHED TO THE HOSPITAL.”

The words came out of my mouth, but they felt foreign. I slid out of the booth and stood up, hoping it would help me make more sense of the conversation.

Wren sat bolt‑upright, shock in her eyes. “What happened?”

I rubbed my face, stumbling through my thoughts, trying to remember what Tiff told me.

“They think he had a heart attack. He’s at Bergen Point Memorial. I need to get there,” I said, raking my hand through my hair. The check, I need to pay the check . I moved toward the cashier. Front of the diner. One foot in front of the other. Wren came up behind me and grabbed the check out of my hand.

“Just go. I’ll take care of this,” she said, waving her hand toward the door.

A blast of icy wind greeted me as I rushed out the door into the parking lot. I jammed my hands into my front pockets for warmth.

Pop was in the hospital.

Heart attack.

Why hadn’t I answered the phone earlier? It wasn’t like Tiff called after school every day. I tortured myself, milling around the parking lot, blind to where I’d parked my car. My teeth chattered as I searched the lot and finally located the mud‑brown soft‑top of the Chrysler. I fumbled for my keys and realized I’d left my jacket inside. I turned back toward the diner to see Wren coming down the stairs, my jacket draped over her arm. Her hair fanned away from her face as she trotted toward me.

“You forgot this,” she said, handing me the jacket.

Thank you, I thought, though the words never quite made it to my lips. I shivered as I pushed my arms through the sleeves. Wren dropped her bag by her feet and unwound the blue knit scarf from her neck.

“Here,” she said, her breath disappearing in a puff of white. She reached up, on tiptoe, and tossed the scarf over my shoulders, winding it around my neck twice. The wool was still warm from her body.

My teeth chattered as I stuffed the fringy ends of the scarf inside my jacket.

“You’ll be okay?” she asked.

Mute, I nodded.

“I can walk from here,” she said, staring down the expanse of Broadway.

“I c‑c‑can give you a ride,” I stuttered. When did it get so ball‑shrinking cold?

“No, you need to get to your dad,” she answered, slinging her bag over her shoulder. I nodded again and watched her walk away, the word good‑bye forming a lump in my throat. She was right, I needed to get to the hospital, but my feet wouldn’t move.

Wren came back.

“I’ll drive,” she said, eyes sweeping the parking lot.

“What?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be behind the wheel right now. Hand over the keys.”

No one had ever driven the Chrysler but me and Pop. It wasn’t a sweet ride, but it was mine. The guys had always given me shit about how neat I kept it. How I practically made them take their shoes off before they set foot in it. Without protest I dropped the keys into her open palm.

Getting into the passenger side was alien. Wren tossed her messenger bag into the back and slid into the driver’s side. Her plaid skirt hiked up to reveal another two inches of milky white thigh that I couldn’t tear my eyes from. The sight of her bare skin sent a current of desire through me.



Grayson Matthew, you filthy horndog . My conscience took on Tiff’s voice. Your father could be dying, and you’re thinking with your prick .

Wren put the car into Drive. We lurched forward out of the spot as she lead‑footed the brake to let another car back up out of a space directly across from us. The near miss wiped my brain of pervy thoughts.

“Sorry, I’m used to driving my dad’s car,” she explained, tucking a few strands of static‑charged hair behind her ear. I cranked up the heat, then reached across her to switch on the headlights.

“It’s dusk. You’ll need those,” I said, leaning back into the passenger seat.

Gripping the wheel in the perfect ten and two o’clock position, Wren maneuvered out of the spot as if the car were the size of a boat. In the time it took her to get out of the parking lot, I could have been to Bergen Point Memorial and back.

Once we hit Broadway, she visibly relaxed. She kept doing all those things new drivers do–checking the side mirror and rearview, slowing down as the light changed to yellow. Conscientious. Adorable, even. But fucking three‑toed‑sloth slow. My knee bounced up and down with pent‑up energy. I chewed on my thumbnail as we stopped for our third red light in what seemed like two minutes.

“This is a bit of a shock?” she asked, her voice unsure as she stepped on the gas again.

“Yes,” I answered quickly, but then thought about it. “No, I guess not really. Pop doesn’t take care of himself. Tiff’s been trying to get him to eat better for years. And he smokes. Maybe not as much as he used to, but probably more than he lets us know. So not a total shock. But. I didn’t really think this is how I’d be spending my day.”

“You call your mother ‘Tiff’?” she asked, clicking on the directional. A few cars sped by before she could make the left turn onto the same block as the hospital.

“Tiff’s my stepmom. Five years. My mom lives in Connecticut. I don’t see her that much. There’s a spot,” I said, almost ready to jump on her lap and take over the wheel.

I was out the door before she killed the ignition. She caught up to me halfway down the street. Then I felt the warmth of her hand wrapping around mine. Surprised, I glanced at her. She gave my hand a gentle squeeze. I held on, and she took the lead.

We barreled through the sliding doors at the entrance and tore across the lobby. A stout security guy who must have lived for moments like this sat at a podium in front of the archway that led to the rest of the hospital. He held up his hand, and we skidded short across the marble floor in front of him.

“Visiting hours are–”

“My dad’s in the emergency room.”

“Your best bet would be to go back outside–”

“Can’t we get in through here?” I asked, cutting him off again and gesturing toward a sign that said ER with an arrow pointing down another hallway.

He soured as his eyes shifted to Wren. “Are you family?”

I glared at him, ready to verbally tear him a new one, but Wren intervened.

“Sir, he’s a mess. I want to make sure he gets where he needs to be, then I’ll leave, I promise,” she said, voice calm, working some sort of spell on him with her eyes. With a jerk of his head he gave us a quick, “Go.” We race‑walked down a hallway and through so many doors, it would have been funny if I wasn’t so panicked. By the time we got to the last one, I half expected to be outside again.

We emptied into the grubby, basic white waiting room of the ER. A woman cradled a crying infant in front of a small reception window that slid open and closed. The old woman behind it either didn’t hear or didn’t care. Her name tag read Myrtle. I knocked, and she peered at me through rimless glasses.

“My father was brought in about an hour ago,” I said, fingers twitching to reach for the magic door she had to buzz me through.

She picked up a clipboard, sliding a pen into the top clip, and paused to cough into her shoulder.

“Name,” she said, placing the clipboard between us.

“No, I’m not here for me. I’m here for my father,” I said, pushing it back toward her.

“You have to sign in, son,” she said. I grabbed the pen and scrawled something in one of the sign‑in spots.

“Ma’am, he had a heart attack. I’d really like to see him,” I said, handing her the clipboard. She glared at me and pushed the magic button.

I pulled Wren through with me, ignoring Myrtle’s outcry of “Family only!” We hurried toward the back of the large room, which was completely devoid of ER‑type activity. Tiff stood at the end of a row of curtained‑off spaces. Her arms were folded across her chest, her hand up to her mouth. My heart dropped to my feet then shot up into my throat. I wanted to go back to the diner, the car, my fantasy starring Wren’s thigh, anything to escape facing what was behind the curtain.

“Grayson,” Tiffany said, opening her arms. I released Wren’s hand from my vise grip and gave Tiff a quick hug.

“How is he?” I asked, going past her.

“See for yourself,” she answered. I walked into the curtained makeshift room to see Pop sitting up straight, arms folded across his chest, IV drip next to him. A rush of breath escaped my lips. He was alive.

“Pop, you okay?” I asked, gripping the rail on the side of the gurney.

“Tiff, I told you not to worry him,” he said, looking past me at Tiffany and then noticing Wren. The gleam in his eye told me that, for the moment, things were okay.

“I thought you were on your deathbed,” I said.

“Tiff thought so too. Doc said I just have angina,” he said, patting his chest.

“Yes, he needs to take care of it. It’s like a warning sign of things to come–if you let it get out of hand. Which I won’t let you do.” I noticed for the first time that Tiff wasn’t her usual put‑together self. Her hair was in a ponytail, and she had on the fuzzy black tracksuit she wore on her self‑proclaimed schlep days.

“What are you gonna do, Tiff? None of us gets out of here alive.”

“Blake.”

“Pop, come on.”

“Are you going to introduce your friend, Grayson?” he asked, tilting his chin toward Wren. Now that things had calmed down, both he and Tiffany gave Wren their full attention. She stood at the foot of the gurney, chewing her bottom lip, hands in pockets, eyes shifting from Tiffany to Pop to me.

I’d never brought a girl home to meet them. There was prom, and special occasions where they’d catch a glimpse of my social life, but not like this. Not this personal. This was new territory for me too.

“Hi, I’m Wren. Wren Caswell,” she said, reaching out to shake my father’s extended hand. “Hope you’re feeling better, Mr. Barrett.”

“Caswell?” Pop asked. “She’s the girl who–”

“–saved my life,” I said, finishing his sentence. “Yep.”

He grabbed her hand with both of his.

Wren flushed bright pink as she accepted Pop’s gushing thank‑you. Tiffany moved toward Wren and pulled her in for a hug. Wren gave Tiff a quick squeeze. She bowed her head, professing it was “nothing, really, anyone would have done it,” as she stepped from one foot to the other, obviously uncomfortable with the attention.

“I played football with your dad in high school,” Pop said.

“You were a Crusader?” Wren asked.

“Yep, running back. Your father was defensive tackle. No one could get by him. Tell him I was asking about him.”

“I will,” she said.

“When all of this drama calms down, Wren, you’ll have to come over for dinner,” Tiff said.

“That’s all I’m worth, a dinner?” I asked, joking. Tiff frowned and clipped me playfully on the arm. I scowled, exaggerating how much it hurt. Wren laughed.

“I’d like that,” Wren said to Tiffany.

We stood there grinning for a moment, until Wren finally spoke. “I’d better get going.”

“Okay, I’ll walk you out,” I said.

Wren waved good‑bye to Pop and Tiff. When she turned her back on them, they both gave me faces of approval. I shook my head. It’s not what you think .

But what was it?

We walked out of the ER entrance, back into the cold. It was dark now, the sounds of rush hour echoing through the streets. Wren zipped her coat up to her chin. I burrowed deeper into the scarf she’d wrapped around my neck. The chivalrous thing would have been to give it back, but I couldn’t. Her scent, something citrus and tropical, surrounded me, making me think of summer.

“I forgot my bag,” she said, digging in her pocket.

“Why don’t you just take the car? I can swing by and pick it up later,” I said.

She held out the keys.

“No, really, I insist,” I said, touching her hand lightly and pushing the keys back toward her. She flipped them around her fingers.

“No, really. I can’t,” she said.

I took the keys from her. “C’mon, I’ll get your bag.”

We walked side by side to the car. I wanted to hold her hand again. Like at the diner. Or like before, when we ran into the hospital. Now, without a reason . . . would she let me? I opened the car and grabbed her messenger bag from the backseat.

“You sure you don’t want the car? Really, I trust you with it,” I said, trying another angle.

“Gray, thanks for the offer, but . . .”

“I know, I know,” I answered. “You don’t want to be seen driving it.”

“No, no, that’s not it at all,” she said. “I can’t drive.”

“What?”

“I mean I can, my dad’s taken me out a few times, but I’m supposed to be supervised by a legal adult. I didn’t want to get into it back at the diner because I thought you might say no if you knew and I didn’t want you to drive here by yourself and I–”

Without thinking I brought my mouth down to hers and swallowed up whatever else she was going to say. She was stiff with surprise at first, but then her lips softened under mine, parting, kissing me back. My hand found her face, my thumb caressing her cheek. Her tongue was warm and tasted like chocolate. It wasn’t my sexiest effort, but it felt right for the moment. Wren pulled away first. Had I just blown it?

She looked down, her face hidden behind her hair. Then she tipped back her head and laughed. God, her smile nearly knocked me over. I reached for her hand and brought it to my mouth. She got quiet.

“So you broke the law for me,” I said, my lips slowly grazing her knuckles.

“Um . . . yeah . . . I guess you could say that, but it was for a good cause.”

“Then at least let me give you a ride home,” I said. She gently pulled her hand away then gripped the strap of her messenger bag.

“No. After all that rushing and breaking the law? You should go back to your father. But wait,” she said, opening the flap of her bag and rummaging through the main compartment until she pulled out her phone.

“What’s your number?” she asked. I rattled off the digits. My phone rang. I grabbed it out of my pocket and answered.

“Hey, ’sup,” I joked.

She added the number to her contacts. “Call me later. Let me know how your dad is doing. Crazy that our fathers knew each other in high school, huh?”

“Yeah, really,” I said.

We lingered a moment longer before Wren came closer, put her hand on my shoulder, and brushed her lips softly across mine.

“I had fun breaking the law with you,” she whispered. “Bye.”

I watched her disappear up the block, her plaid skirt swaying. When she was out of sight, I landed with a thud and walked back to the reality of the ER. I pulled Wren’s scarf up to my nose, inhaling her scent and getting dizzy all over again. I was happy to have my face covered–no one walks into the hospital with a grin that wide unless he’s heading to the psych ward. But I couldn’t help it.

She kissed me.

 

ELEVEN

WREN

 

Oh the weather outside is frightful

So come inside and get good and schnockered

Andy’s house

Dec 4–8:00 p.m. till whenevs

Be there, or don’t

So, no work tomorrow–wanna go? G.

 

I stared at the text invite, silent, like any false move would make my phone explode. We were in a mandatory yearbook meeting, and although it was technically after school, and checking my text messages wouldn’t garner me detention, I knew Mr. Fuller, our new yearbook company liaison, might freak at me squealing out loud.

I slipped my phone to Jazz, who was sitting next to me and paying way too much attention to a recap of how we were supposed to upload text and pictures to the yearbook for our midyear deadline. She mouthed the word schnockered , then passed the phone on to Maddie. To my horror Mads texted something back to Grayson.

I waggled my hand for her to give it back.

“Are you getting this?” Mr. Fuller asked, zeroing in on the three of us.

“Yes, Mr. Fuller. We need to minimize the photos before the initial upload,” I answered.

Satisfied, he continued with the presentation. Maddie’s eyes lit up at an incoming text and at lightning speed texted something back before handing me the phone. When I checked the message log I nearly fainted.

“Mads, I would never say ‘fuckin’ A’ in response, are you crazy?” I said, once we were outside heading toward the bus. I tried to sound mad, but I couldn’t. The thought of Grayson’s reaction was too funny.

“Sorry! When he said ‘hells yeah’ after I asked him if Mads and Jazz could come, well, I got caught up in the moment.”

“Who said I want to get good and schnockered this weekend?” Jazz asked. “And who’s Andy? We don’t even know these people.”

Maddie jumped in front of both of us, hand up, like an elfin traffic cop with her woolen newsboy cap slightly askew and her blond, spiky tufts sticking out. “Would the two of you get over yourselves?”

Jazz opened her mouth, but Maddie interrupted again.

“Look, I applaud your decision to do a half marathon, but missing one training run to go to what sounds like a helluva party isn’t going to ruin your finish time. And you?” she continued, focusing on me. “You keep debating whether Grayson likes you as more than a friend–well, get a clue–he just invited you to a party! Probably with plans to continue where he left off the other day. Hells bells, chicas, we need this.”

“Mads, stop,” I said, reddening at the thought of Grayson’s ambush kiss. It had been stunning and warm and incredible. And scary . . . I’d never felt such an immediate rush with anyone. If I hadn’t pulled away, I might have still been there. But anytime I thought of continuing where we left off, it completely consumed me.

“I never said I wouldn’t go,” Jazz said, her eyes wary. “Just wanted to think about it.”

“What’s to think about? I don’t know Andy either, but he uses the word schnockered , and I kind of love that in a person. And your potential new boyfriend just earned major friend points by being enthusiastic about our presence at said party. It’s a win‑win sitch.”

“Fine then, I’m in, but I’m not getting schnockered,” Jazz said.

“Yay, she’s agreed to go,” Maddie said, linking her arm through Jazz’s. “We’ll work on the schnockered bit. Wren, make sure you get the deetz. Could this really be happening? Could the three of us have plans together for the weekend?”

 

After dinner I called Grayson for the deetz.

“‘Fuckin’ A,’ Wren, really?” he asked, laughing.

“So you know that wasn’t me?”

“Maddie got a hold of your phone?”

“How’d you guess?”

“So you don’t want to go?”

“I do, yeah. Want to go. It’s okay for you to go? With your dad and everything?”

“Tiff’s got everything covered. He just needs to take it easy and, well, yeah, when Andy sent me the text, I didn’t think twice. This is just what we need. Don’t you think?”

We . Oh, how I loved the way that sounded. “Definitely.”

“Cool, but you guys need to meet me there. I kind of have to help set up,” he said.

That stopped me cold. “Um, sounds formal?”

“No, not like that. I’m part of the entertainment.”

“Get out.”

“Yeah, Andy and I have a band. Haven’t played together in a while though.”

“So you’re in a band band?”

“Yes. A band band. You know, we play music .”

“So what are you? Lead singer?” I asked, trying to envision Grayson behind a mike.

“Ah, you see me as a front man? Nice . . . but no.”

“Then what? Guitar, bass, tambourine?” I asked. “You’ll have to come to the party if you want to find out.”

“Grayson, please.”

“Nope. You have to promise me you’ll be there.”

“Fine, yes. We’ll be there.”

 

On the night of Andy’s party, Mads came down with a stomach bug–which must have been really, really, really awful, for her to bail on our night out–but she mustered up enough strength for a pre‑party fashion confab via Skype.

“So which one would he be in The Break fast Club ?” Jazz asked.

“What?” I asked, holding up a black miniskirt and Brooke’s True Religion skinny jeans that I had on loan during her pregnancy for Mads to see.

Mads coughed, her pale face filling my laptop screen. “Oh, God, Wren, no jeans and TOMS tonight–please sex it up! What does this have to do with The Break fast Club ?”

“Fine,” I said, tossing the jeans onto my bed.

“You know, I think it might help to know what kind of guy he is . . . brain, athlete, criminal . . . so you can tailor your outfit,” Jazz said, rocking in my computer chair. Mads had talked her into wearing dark skinny jeans tucked into five‑inch knee‑high boots, which made her incredibly toned legs look like they went on forever.

“Jazzy, have you seen Grayson? Who cares about his personality type? Lemme see that purple sweater, the one with the deconstructed neckline, and that, um, black top with the shirred waist . . . cough . . . the one that ties on the sides.”

“He’s kind of all three,” I answered, grabbing the tops from my closet and showing them to her.

“Purple, with the matching tank. Your boobs look awesome in that shirt,” Mads said, “and the common denominator for brain, athlete, and criminal is the boobies.”

“Do you have to be so juvenile?” Jazz asked. “What do you mean he’s all three?”

“He’s just . . . I don’t know . . . a little bit of each,” I answered, from behind my closet door while pulling on my tights and shimmying into my outfit.

Mads laughed, her voice hoarse. “Yum. A hybrid. That’s hot. So he’s kind of a . . . brainathiminal.”

Jazz clapped her hands. “Omigod, that’s perfect!”

I chuckled, climbing into my riding boots.

“I guess. So what do you think?” I asked, twirling in front of the computer. I caught a glimpse of myself in my full‑length mirror. Mads was right; the shirt did hug me in all the right places. Grayson had never seen me in anything so revealing. The thought of his reaction made my stomach flutter.

“Wren Caswell, I would do you,” Mads said.

“Thanks, I think.”

“Me too,” Jazz said.

“Guys, stop.”

“Okay, my work is done.”

“What are we going to do without you?” Jazz asked, getting up from my chair. The two of us stood in front of the computer, waiting for words of wisdom. It would feel strange without Mads there. She brought up her fist to her mouth, cleared her throat, and sat up straight.

“Ladies–go forth. Flirt enough for all three of us and, for fuck’s sake, have fun ! I expect a full debrief après party. This is a dare‑to‑be‑great situation.”

“Dare‑to‑be‑great situation? Mads, you just quoted Say Anything !” Jazz said.

“Do you think that was by accident? See, I pay more attention than you think. Maybe you’ll find your Lloyd Dobler tonight, Jazz. And I hope you and your brainathiminal need a fire hose to break it up, my smoking‑hot girl wonder. Now excuse me, I have a date with a Supernatural marathon and my trash can.”

 

“Are you sure this is it?” Jazz asked.

“Yep, five twenty‑three Oak,” I said, staring up at the brick town house. No sounds of a band. No lights on inside. The street itself was a dead end, lonely and dark. Only a small, lit evergreen tree on Andy’s stoop suggested the season. I knew Grayson wouldn’t have tricked me, but maybe I’d remembered the numbers wrong. I pulled off my glove with my teeth to check my phone again.

“It’s freezing, and my feet are killing me,” Jazz said, stomping. I shivered as I scrolled through the messages.

“Nope, right address,” I said, staring up at the town house again. “I guess I could call him.”

Just when I was about to dial Grayson, a guy carrying a case of Stella Artois appeared out of nowhere.

“Here to see Sticky Wicket?”

On closer inspection he was probably too young to be carrying the beer, but he definitely looked like he knew where to find the party. Grayson had never told me the band’s name, but I figured I’d give it a shot.

“Yeah, Andy’s house?” I asked.

“Yep, follow me. Name’s Logan.”

As Logan led us, Jazz showed me her pepper‑spray key chain. I rolled my eyes. We followed him down a narrow alleyway along the side of the town house. My eyes adjusted to the dark, but there wasn’t much to see. Just when I was thinking the pepper spray wasn’t such a bad idea, we finally reached a door. Logan fumbled with the doorknob. I grabbed it for him.

“Thanks, angel,” he said. Was he joking? I winced at the forced affection and gestured for Jazz to follow him before I went in.

Strains of music surrounded us as we tromped down wooden stairs to a laundry room. Logan put his beer on top of the dryer, shrugged off his leather jacket, and covered the case of Stella with it.

“Here, let me,” he said, helping Jazz, then me, with our coats and slinging them over a peg on the wall that was already piled high with cold‑weather gear.

“How do you know Andy?” he asked, giving each of us a not‑so‑subtle once‑over.

“Oh, I don’t. We’re here with Grayson Ba–”

“Gray, should have known. He’s always with the prettiest girls,” Logan said, looking from me to Jazz before I could finish my sentence.

Jazz beamed with the compliment. My mind was stuck on the always part. What did that mean?

“C’mon.” Logan pulled open a white door to a crowded room. We wedged ourselves into a wall of people and got absorbed whole, squeezing our way to an open pocket. Sticky Wicket was doing a cover of “Howlin’ for You,” and the whole room seemed to sway along to the beat. It felt like we’d wandered into a secret underground club, which in a way I suppose we had.

The room was huge, with exposed brick walls and dim lighting. The cartoon version of How the Grinch Stole Christmas played on a huge flat‑screen TV in the corner, for show apparently, since no one could possibly hear it over the music. There were couches and chairs and one couple going at it so hot and heavy on a giant beanbag chair, I felt like a voyeur. I stood on tiptoe and caught a glimpse of the shaggy‑haired lead guitarist/singer, but couldn’t spot Grayson. That’s when the crowd parted slightly, and I saw him.

The drummer.

He was completely lost in the song, his eyes closed. He moved his head with the beat, hair flipping in and out of his face. The crowd swelled and blocked my view again. I moved to get a better look, leaning against a pillar and craning my neck. Grayson’s eyes were open. He and the guitar player nodded to each other in mutual approval.

“Maddie’s right,” Jazz whisper‑shouted into my ear.

I cupped my hand around her ear. “What?”

“You’re a fiending lust puppy around him,” she said, tilting her chin toward Grayson.

I covered my mouth, reeling from her observation. Crap, was I drooling?

I watched Grayson, his arms lean and muscled, as he banged out the beat. His taut gray CBGB shirt moved with his body; his mouth puckered slightly, skin flushed. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. He finally spotted me in the crowd. My legs went weak. I ran a hand through my hair and smiled, watching him retreat into his drummer bliss once again. Then it was over with a thrash of the drums and the singer’s loud voice promising, “Be right back!”

“Hey, there’s a new game of king’s cup forming, want to join in?” Logan asked, forcing his way through the crowd back to us.

Jazz and I stood frozen, his invitation hanging in the air.

“She’d love to,” I said, nudging Jazz. She turned to me, eyes wide.

“Dare‑to‑be‑great situation,” I whispered.

“Hardly,” she said.

“For Maddie then.”

“For Maddie. And you’d better need a fire hose.”

I laughed. “Fine. Gross, but fine.”

We hooked pinkies in solidarity. “For Maddie.”

“Sounds great!” Jazz said, turning toward Logan. He took her elbow and pulled her through the horde. I looked back to the band.

Grayson shielded his eyes with his hand, with exaggerated movements pretending to search for someone over the sea of heads until he caught my eye. He pointed toward the bar. I wove through the thick crowd, stealing glances at him as I made my way over.

Grayson was already pouring something from what looked like a wine bottle into a drink shaker when I broke through the crowd. He added vodka and put on the top.

“You made it,” he said, shaking it vigorously over his shoulder.

That mouth .

Had been .

On mine .

“Yeah, pretty crazy.”

“Andy’s house always is,” he said, placing the shaker on the bar and leaning below. He pulled out a few shot glasses and poured the purple liquid from the shaker. He pushed one of the glasses toward me. It had a picture of the Three Stooges on it. I brought it up to my face and sniffed, which Grayson found funny.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Absolut and acai berry.”

“You lost me at Absolut.”

“Tiff sells this stuff by the case. Acai‑berry juice. Supposed to be like megavitamins, boosts your immune system. So half of this shot is good for you, and the other half not so good. Kind of like us,” he said, raising his glass.

Us .

The shot was smooth and sweet. Warmth spread through my chest as it went down. I ran my tongue along my bottom lip, trying not to react to the tart berry flavor. Grayson leaned in closer, resting his chin on his hand.

“So. What did you think?” he asked.

“Of what? The drink?” I teased, pushing the shot glass toward him.

He rolled his eyes. “Of the band. Of me.”

The first thought that came to mind was I think everything about you is amazing, Grayson Barrett , but I wasn’t about to share it with him. Instead I leaned back and shrugged.

“Damn, Wren. Nothing?” he asked, reaching into the fridge and pulling out an orange Gatorade and some water. He cracked open the cap on the bottle of water and handed it to me.

“I thought we were pretty good, considering we haven’t practiced in months,” he said, taking a gulp of Gatorade.

“Do you want to know what I really think?” I asked, feeling brave from Maddie’s pep talk.

He leaned on the bar again, curious. “Um, yeah.”

What was I doing? My thoughts raced. The word brainathiminal popped into my head, and I laughed. Grayson waited. I picked at the label on my water bottle. “I think you’re so . . . well . . . you’re smart, you play the drums, you play lacrosse. Seriously, what don’t you do?”

A slow smile crept across his face. “I never told you I played lacrosse.”

Snagged.

“Well, so, I did some info digging. Same way you found me, right?”

“If you want to know anything about me, just ask.”

There was so much I didn’t know about him. Where to start? Logan’s comment about Gray always being with the prettiest girls? God, no. What made him kiss me the other day? Did he want to kiss me now? Were we just friends?

“This,” I said, touching his piercing lightly. He seemed vulnerable there. “Did it hurt?”

“That was sort of the point,” he said, closing his eyes, leaning into my hand. My fingers took on a life of their own, moving through his hair. I didn’t care that I didn’t know much about him. All that mattered was this. Now. Giving into the overwhelming urge to press my lips against his again.

As if he read my mind, he opened his eyes, closed the space between us . . .

“Barrett, where’ve you been?”

We snapped out of our trance, brought back to Andy’s house by a tall boy who stood a few inches away. Grayson stood up, arms straight, hands firmly on the bar.

“Luke. What’s up?”

My eyes were drawn to the boy’s mouth. His upper lip was slightly fuller than the bottom, giving the impression that he was frowning. Deep‑set hazel eyes held mine more intimately than was called for, but it somehow felt impolite to look away.

“Grayson, aren’t you going to introduce me to your girl?” he asked, leaning on his elbow against the bar.

“This is Wren,” Grayson said. “And she’s not my girl. Just a friend.”

My breath locked up. How quickly he said it. I tried not to flinch but felt hot with shame. Hadn’t we just been connecting? Or was it my imagination? Not that a shot and me running my fingers through his hair meant I was his girl, but it meant we were . . . something , didn’t it?

The corner of Luke’s mouth upturned, eyes still on mine. Chin‑length golden‑brown hair framed what should have been a pleasant face. All the right parts were there, but there was something unnerving and charged about him.

“Luke Dobson,” he said, nodding slightly.

“We went to Saint Gabe’s together,” Grayson added.

“Bro, we went to Saint Gabe’s together?” Luke said, turning toward Gray. His shoulder brushed against mine, sending a shiver through me. He bowed his head like he was about to tell me a juicy secret.

“Wren, don’t let him fool you. We were besties with testes. C’mon, fix me up with one of those, Grayson,” he said, tilting his chin toward the drink shaker. Grayson pressed his lips together as if he didn’t want to laugh, but he chuckled anyway. He freshened up the batch of Absolut and acai while Luke and I watched him.

He poured three shots and pushed two toward us. I reached for mine. I didn’t even want it, but I had the feeling not taking it would mean something.

Luke held out his glass. “In vino veritas.”

We clinked our glasses together. Luke downed his before I even had the shot to my lips. I could feel his eyes on me as the Absolut and acai slipped down my throat. The same warmth filled my chest, but the mood was different. I placed the glass back on the bar and met his penetrating gaze, feeling self‑conscious but not wanting to show it.

“So do you always get so close to your friends?” he asked.

“What?”

“You and Grayson seemed pretty chummy a moment ago. I was just wondering if that’s how you are with all of your friends?”

“Luke, get out of her face,” Grayson said, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

He looked at Gray’s hand, then at me. “Dude, just talking. Maybe I want to be Wren’s friend too,” he said, eyes moving from my mouth back to my eyes.

“Ava’s trying to get your attention,” Grayson said, pointing. My eyes swept across the room to my favorite Sacred Heart schoolmate, Ava. She wore an oversize, metallic flower in her hair, which she pulled off as chic. Her face lit up when she spotted Grayson and Luke, but the moment she saw me between them, she frowned. The expression on her face read, OMG, WTF are you with them? If it weren’t for the weird encounter that had just taken place, I might have enjoyed her reaction more. She gestured for Luke to come over.

“Ah, she can’t let me out of her sight for long,” Luke said to me. “Dude. I need to talk to you later.” He pushed off the bar and pointed at Grayson, then snaked his way through the crowd. The whole scene left me feeling confused. Grayson put a hand on my shoulder.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“That,” he answered, “was about Luke.”

I wanted to ask him to elaborate when Jazz sidled up to me. Grayson offered her a shot, but she shook her head vigorously.

“We need to get out of here. Now,” she whispered in my ear.

“Why? Did something happen with Logan?” I asked.

“No. I just . . . can’t do this . . . I have to leave,” she stated again.

Arguments filled my brain. We just got here! Grayson and I came this close to kissing again! One more set! But what did it matter? Truth was, I didn’t feel comfortable at all. Not with Luke. Or Ava. Or even Grayson. The way he’d thrown out the “friend” remark so quickly. And as I recognized others from school–girls who might ask for notes in class but would snub you in the hallway–I wanted to leave too.

“If you want to stay with Grayson, I understand, but I’m outie,” Jazz said. “I can pick up my stuff from your house tomorrow. I just had to sit through Darby Greene describing what she did to a guy in the bathroom. And by the way, if you stay, don’t use the bathroom.”

“No, let me just say good‑bye to Grayson. We’ll go.”

“I’ll wait for you by the coats,” she said, heading toward the side door as quickly as the crowd allowed her.

Grayson was just finishing up a conversation with the guitar player. Unlike Luke, the guitar guy was an open book, loose and relaxed and holding out his knuckles to give me a fist bump.

“I’m Andy, little Caswell. Mi casa es su casa ,” he said. A moment ago this would have been charming; now it felt forced. I knocked my knuckles against his before he walked away.

“Grayson, I have to go,” I said.

“What? Why? You just got here.”

“Jazz feels sick. I want to make sure she gets home okay.”

“Can you come back?” he asked, leaning on the counter like before.

“No,” I said, ignoring the tingle of regret I felt as his eyes darkened.

“Let me walk you out.” And before I could protest, he was behind me, his hand on the small of my back as he guided us toward the door. Jazz was in the laundry room, my coat in her hand, chatting with Logan. Grayson acknowledged him with a tilt of his chin. The lie I’d told about Jazz feeling sick was obvious. Grayson’s eyes told me he knew it too.

“Feel okay?” he asked her.

Jazz handed me my coat. “Oh . . . no, I feel a migraine coming on. If I don’t get out of here now, I’m going to be doubled over in pain.” Score one for friend telepathy.

“I keep telling her a beer will fix that right up,” Logan said, raising his bottle. His remark was met with tense silence. Logan nodded to Jazz, then skulked back to the party.

I put on my coat, and we climbed up the stairs.

“Grayson, the band was great,” Jazz said, leading the way down the dark alley.

“Glad you could enjoy it before the migraine hit.”

We emptied out onto the street. A light dusting of snow was already on the ground, and flakes seemed to be falling sideways on us.

“Jazz, would you mind if I talked to Wren for a moment? Alone?” he asked. She prodded me toward him.

“No problem. I’ll wait by the corner,” she said to me. “Bye, Grayson.”

We watched her walk toward the street lamp. Finally Grayson spoke.

“If Jazz has a migraine, then I have dengue fever,” he said, shrugging his shoulders against the cold. “Did I do something?”

“No, Grayson.”

“Then what is it? I thought we were having a good time,” he said.

“We were, I guess, then . . .” I trailed off, not knowing what to say. The truth made me sound pathetic.

“Come on, come back.”

“Gray, I suck at parties, okay? I thought I could deal, but it’s just not me.”

“Wren, it’s a party, not a pop quiz. What’s to deal with?”

How could he understand? He was the party.

“I don’t know half the people in there, and the people I do know I can’t stand.”

“And what half do I fit into?”

I toed the snow collecting at our feet. “Jazz wants to leave, and you’ll be playing another set soon, and then what would I do? Call me later if you want. Or I’ll just see you next week, at work,” I said, backing away from him.

“You’re sure we’re okay? You can get home all right?” he asked, stepping from one foot to the other.

“Yep. No worries.” I gave him an awkward wave and caught up to Jazz. What was I doing? Why was I walking away from him?

“Are you sure you want to leave? I’m fine leaving solo,” Jazz said, linking her arm through mine as we braced against the cold.

She’s not my girl. Just a friend .

“Yeah, totally.”

 

TWELVE


Date: 2015-02-16; view: 544


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