When one of us goes to Hannaford for groceries, we double-check whether the other needs anything, and even if I say no, when Wyn walks into the apartment, he’ll set a pint of blueberry ice cream on my desk in front of me, without a word.
And when Sabrina and I get our respective acceptance emails from Columbia—her from their law school and me from their medical school—and in a shocking twist, Cleo announces she’s going to work on an urban farm in New York City rather than getting her MFA, I don’t even resist the prospect of the four of us finding a new place with Parth in New York, of sharing yet another set of walls with Wyn Connor.
He’s become my best friend the way the others did: bit by bit, sand passing through an hourglass so slowly, it’s impossible to pin down the moment it happens. When suddenly more of my heart belongs to him than doesn’t, and I know I’ll never get a single grain back.
He’s a golden boy. I’m a girl whose life has been drawn in shades of gray.
I try not to love him.
I really try.
11
REAL LIFE
Tuesday
USUALLY ON TUESDAY we take a day trip to Acadia National Park, the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen and, perhaps more importantly, the location of our favorite popover restaurant.
I’ve been dreaming about fluffy, strawberry-slathered rolls for weeks, but now all I want is to climb into a cool, dark hole with a barrel full of Tums and a two-liter bottle of ginger ale.
After a quick stop home to change, hydrate, and pee, we repack the cars with picnic supplies. The process of getting everyone and everything out the door is like herding cats on acid. Like the cats are on acid, and the cat shepherd is also on acid.
Right as Parth returns from using the restroom, Kimmy realizes she forgot her sunglasses and darts back inside.
Sabrina says, “Do you think the first two hours of their days on the farm are Cleo sending Kimmy back into the house for every individual item of clothing she’s forgotten to put on?”
“And once more when she accidentally puts her pants on her head,” Cleo calls from down by the cars.
“That’s not an accident, babe,” Kimmy says, barreling back outside. “I’m just waiting for the day you finally embrace my forward-thinking approach to fashion.”
“Wear whatever you want,” Cleo says. “I’m more concerned with what’s underneath.”
“Awh!” Kimmy kisses the side of Cleo’s neck. “I don’t know if you’re being lascivious or sentimental, but either way I’ll take it.”
Sabrina slaps her forehead. “The wine. Can you run down to the cellar and grab it?”
“Pick anything pink or white?” I guess.
She shakes her head. “It’s the Didier Dagueneau Silex from 2018. You mind?”
“It’s not that I mind,” I say. “It’s just that I recognized very few of those words.”
“Silex,” she repeats, jogging her multiple tote bags up her shoulders. “It says that on the label, followed by Didier Dagueneau, and you’re looking for the 2018. It’s a white.”
I drop my own bag inside the door as I double back. The door to the wine cellar sits ajar, the lights already on. Allegedly, there are bottles worth twenty thousand dollars down there. Hopefully none of those also starts with Silex and ends with eau.
As I descend, a faint rustling rises to meet me.
At the bottom of the steps, I round the corner and stop short at the sight of Wyn, limned in the soft golden overhead lighting like some tortured fallen angel as played by James Dean.
“Silex something-something?” he says.
“Sabrina must’ve forgotten she’d already sent you to get it.” I turn to go.
“I’ve been staring at this spot for like ten minutes. It’s not here.”
I hesitate. When I pictured retreating to a cool, dark cave, this wasn’t what I had in mind, but if Sabrina has her heart on this particular wine, we’re not leaving until we find it. I mean that literally. When she gets an idea into her head, there’s little room for deviation. See also her reaction to Cleo canceling her and Parth’s visit to the farm.
I let out a breath and cross toward him, crouching in front of the shelf to run my fingers across the labels.
“I’ve checked everywhere,” he says, grumpy.
“It’s basically a universal law that if one person looks for something for an extended period of time, then the next person to walk up to it will spot it immediately.”
“How’s that going?” he asks.
Among the dozens of chardonnays, Rieslings, sauvignon blancs, gewürztraminers: no Silex.
“Satisfied?” he says.
The hair at the nape of my neck tugs upward at his bemused tone. My brain wanders to the absolute worst place it could possibly go in this particular room.
The cellar, for us, is full of ghosts. Not the scary kind. Sexy ghosts.
I straighten up. “Just grab a white that doesn’t look too expensive.”
His eyes flash. “You want me to look for a Big Lots clearance sticker, Harriet?”
“Choose something they have more than one of,” I say, practically running for the stairs, like he’s a riptide I need to claw free from.
Halfway up the steps, I notice the door’s shut. Then I reach the top, and the knob won’t twist. Won’t even budge.
I knock on the door. “Sab?”
At the bottom of the steps, Wyn steps into view, a bottle of wine in hand.
“The door must’ve locked,” I explain.
“Why’d you shut it?” he asks.
“Well, I was hoping it would automatically lock, from the outside, and I’d be trapped down here with you,” I deadpan.
He ignores the sarcasm and climbs up, brushing me aside to try the knob himself.
“Seems to be locked,” he says, probably to annoy me.
He pounds on the door. “Cleo? Parth? Anyone?”
I can feel heat rising off his skin. I descend a couple of steps, check my pockets for my phone as I go. Once again, my pockets are tiny, and my phone must be in my bag, in the foyer.
“Call someone,” I say.
Wyn shakes his head. “I left my phone in the car. You don’t have yours?”
“Upstairs,” I say. “We’ll have to wait until they get sick of waiting and send someone to hurry us up.”
Wyn groans and drops onto the top step, setting the bottle down by his ankle. He bows his head and knots his fingers together against the back of his neck.
At least I’m not the only one panicking.
Of course, I’m freaking out about being here with him, and he’s freaking out because he’s claustrophobic. He has been ever since he was a kid and a broken armoire fell on him in his parents’ workshop while no one else was home. He was trapped for hours.
As soon as the door’s open, he’ll be fine. Whereas I’ll still be reeling from the purchase of a stupid coffee-table book.
The whole stairwell sways as an awful realization hits me. I latch on to the banister to keep from falling over.
“What? What’s wrong?” Wyn leaps up, steadying me by the elbows. His drawn mouth is visible in bits under the black splotches swimming across my vision.
“We were taking two cars,” I squeak out. “We were taking two cars, so all four of them could’ve left in the Rover.”
His eyes darken, clouds creeping across the green. “They wouldn’t.”
“They might,” I say.