"Pretty much," Zero says.
"Pretty much," I admit.
Wren takes a long, fortifying sip of her drink.
"...okay," she says. "Okay. I'm going to need a bigger glass."
Zero points at her with the neck of his beer bottle, his whole face lit. "Her," he announces, to the room, to no one. "I like her. She stays."
Margot calls us to the table at ten past seven.
The dining room is at its most domestic—the good lamps on, the chandelier dimmed, the centerpiece a low arrangement of greenery Margot cut from her own garden because she will not, on principle, pay a florist for cut flowers when she has acres of perfectly good ones outside. The roast is in the middle of the table. The corn pudding is in a deep dish next to it. The green beans with the slivered almonds are in the white serving bowl that always reminds me of Thanksgiving.
The lemon tart is on the sideboard, sitting out on a serving dish with the white box it came in probably stuffed deep into the trash.
Still, he made a show of placing it there so Wren would think he made it.
I’m not going to spoil his secret.
We sit.
Margot says grace. I swear as long as I’ve known her she’s never done that but she’s being deliberate. Wren bows her head in respect and I roll my eyes, playing along with the show too.
This is the kind of stuff people like Wren as I hate. The forced perfection, the theatre. But Margot doesn’t mean any harm by it and for that I can’t blame her.
Once Zero has saidamenthe loudest and made Richard ruffle, we pass the food.
Wren, on my left, eats slowly. She cuts everything small, the way I do. She takes a careful first helping and waits to see if a second one is offered before she reaches—the way I do, the way you learn to in houses where the food was never a sure thing. When the green beans come to her she hesitates a half-second before she serves herself, like she's confirming the bowl is reallymeant to include her. I see Bane see it but he says nothing. Instead, he serves her three times what he serves himself when the dish comes back around.
"So Wren," Margot says, after the second pass. "Tell us about you."
Wren takes a sip of water.
"...what would you like to know?"
"Anything. Everything. You're the first new person at this table in a while."
"...okay." A breath. "I grew up mostly in Iowa. My mom died when I was eleven. I went into foster care after, group homes mostly. I moved out here when I aged out at eighteen because—" a small pause "—I wanted to see if I could build a life somewhere that didn't already have my history in it. I work at Cornerstone Books most evenings. I read too much. I make terrible coffee. I'm getting better at it."
"Iowa to here is a long way to come on your own," she says. "That took some spine." A small beat. "And anyone who reads too much is welcome at my table for life. Richard will try to recruit you to his side of things—don't let him."
"It's a good side of things," Richard says.
"It'sa side, darling, and we try not to argue at the dinner table."
Wren's mouth tips. Something in her settles. Margot has, I realize, done the kindest possible thing—she took the hard parts at face value, gave them their weight, and then handed Wren a way back into the easy conversation instead of stranding her in the heavy one.
"You and Max met at the bookstore, right?"
"Yeah. He was on his way out. I was on my way in. We overlapped for a week."
"And then?" Margot asks.
My heartrate picks up. Bane’s hand finds mine under the table.
Wren picks it up like she’s rehearsed her answer a thousand times. "And then we ran into each other a few months later, at a coffee shop. He didn't recognize me at first. I'd cut my hair."
"You'd cut your hair," Margot repeats. Soft.
