Wren swirls the wine in her glass with one hand, the other hand still resting on Ruby’s head. Ruby has a big, goofy smile on her face, her tongue lolling out one side as she pants. Wren chews the inside of her cheek in contemplation for a moment before nodding.
“Sure, fine. The town can decide.” Perfect. A small victory.
Though, I’m wary of getting too cocky. Wren agreeing toa challenge is a declaration of her confidence in her ability to win. She thinks she’ll have the best design, and this is her area of expertise, after all. But I have a leg up, a clear advantage of having lived and worked in this town for the whole decade she’s been gone. I know everyone here, their wants and needs, what they love and what they complain about. I know how to win their hearts.
“Great.” A smirk tugs at my lips. Poker is the one game I’ve never been good at.
“Fantastic.” Her mouth stays in a flat line, no hint of amusement the way a good, friendly match might have amused her in the past. She crumples the napkin she used and sets it on her plate. “Since that’s settled, I should be going.”
I show Wren out, and we share few words in the process. Rivals, going our separate ways to prepare for the impending battle.
Ruby is staring at me, still with her goofy smile, when I close the front door and turn around.
“Why are you looking so happy?” I ask her. She cocks her head, one floppy ear perking up. “We don’t like Wren anymore, girl. She’s not a dog person.”
Ruby cocks her head to the other side, her ears relaxing into almost a flat expression. As if to sayYeah right. I huff a laugh at the irony of the entire situation. The girl I have been hung up on for a decade is finally back, and she is nothing like I remember. Nothing like I hoped she’d be.
Now, we’re officially enemies, and I can’t get away from her.
Not even in the solitude of my own mind. Ever since themeeting with Shelley, all I’ve thought about is Wren. I shake off the thought. It’s just old, lingering, stale attraction. It doesn’t mean anything now.
If this week has proven anything, it’s that Wren and I need to stay in the past. I need to move on. I pull my phone out and open my text thread with Emma. She’s sent me another picture of her dog.
EMMA
Murphy is looking forward to meeting Ruby next week!
I smile to myself before snapping a quick picture of Ruby, currently lying on her cushion, on her back with all four paws in the air.
Ruby doesn’t know what day of the week it is. Some days I don’t think she knows her own name.
Aww. At least she’s cute!
See? This is the type of girl I need in my life. This is a nice woman who shares my love of dogs, who probably wouldn’t get offended if Ruby got fur on her dress pants. She probably wouldn’t show up at my place in dress pants in the first place.
Fucking Wren Miller.
I open my e-mail to send her a message with the details for the public forum, realizing I never told her the specifics. I also attach a link for her to buy a sticky roller, though I’m doubtful she’ll want to ever spend much time with Ruby and I again.
I sign my e-mail with a note underneath my name.
P.S. Ruby: 1 Wren: 0
CHAPTER 8
WREN
Claireand I are standing on the front porch of our craftsman-style family home, waving to my parents as they pull out of the driveway in their motorhome. Claire came down the stairs already fully dressed in her dark wash jeans and a drapey silk blouse, sleek dark hair pulled back into a low, short ponytail.
To our neighbours, she must look like the picture-perfect child my parents always hoped for, standing on the front step, blowing them a kiss goodbye.
I, on the other hand, rolled out of bed and came down to see them off in my pajamas, a matching set of too-short cotton shorts with delicate lace trim and a spaghetti-strap tank top. My cow print slippers scuffed along the hardwood as I rubbed my eyes.
A week of keeping myself put together and groomed while Claire is visiting is exhausting even for me, and I’m tired of trying to play a part.
My mother didn’t hide her disdain for my outfit choice when she hugged me goodbye.
“Really, Wren. You’re going to be seen on the street looking like this?” she asks, as if anyone would care what I’m wearing on a random morning on our very own porch.
