The disappointment hits harder than I expected. I scan the room again, pretending I’m not searching for her or that the empty spot near the hallway isn’t betrayal in the form of a coatrack.
Nick approaches me, drink in hand. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Your mother invited my parents,” I reply. “It would have been rude not to come.” I take a glass of wine from a passing cousin. “Besides, why should I miss a perfectly good dinner just because you decided I didn’t fit your future?”
His jaw tightens. “That’s not what happened.”
“No? ‘You’re wonderful, Edie, but you’re not the right image.’ Ring any bells?”
He shifts. “I was trying to be kind—”
“You were trying to be strategic,” I correct. “And it’s fine. I’m over it.”
He studies me, eyes narrowing. “You seem different.”
“I seem like myself,” I say. “You just never liked that version.”
Before he can respond, the front door opens again.
Even from across the house, I feel the energy shift.
Wren strides in wearing dark jeans and a black button-down rolled to the elbows, her hair damp from the rain and curling at her temples. She looks like she stepped out of a storm instead of the usual drizzle that ruins half of the hairdos in the Bay Area.
Her eyes find mine almost instantly. It’s like being seen and stripped bare all at once.
“Wren!” Heather calls from the hallway. “We’re about to sit down.”
“Sorry, Mom,” she says, shaking her hair out with one hand. “Got held up at the shop.”
Nick moves toward her, already bristling. “Don’t even think about—”
But Wren’s already walking straight to me. She doesn’t slow down. One second, she’s a breath away. The next? Her hand is on my jaw, her lips on mine.
Not a polite greeting. More like abigholiday statement.
For a moment, I forget we’re not alone. I melt into her, hand rising to her chest, feeling her warm heartbeat beneath her damp shirt.
The room explodes.
“Wren Hall!” Heather’s sharp voice slices through the air.
Nick’s shout follows. “What the hell!”
Wren pulls back slowly, thumb brushing my cheek. “Hey,” she murmurs, low enough for only me to hear.
“Hi,” I whisper.
Nick’s voice cracks. “You’ve got to be kidding me! My sister?”
“I’m standing right here, Nick,” Wren says, dapperly calm and perfectly in control of the moment. Good. Because I’m not!
“What is wrong with you?” he hisses. “Are you doing this to humiliate me? To—what—get back at me?”
I square my shoulders. “Maybe this isn’t about you.”
He cackles. “Please. You think she’s interested in you? Wren doesn’t—”
“Doesn’t what?” Wren’s voice cuts through him. “Know what she wants?”
