And then Gran gives her a melting smile, and Wren rolls her eyes.
“Oh, I must have gotten it mixed up,” Gran says, waving the spoon before digging in for a bite. “My head isn’t what it used to be.”
Wren plops down onto the bed with a huff, “Pretty sure your brain is just fine. What did you say to him?”
“The gum story.”
“You already told the gum story,” Wren says, crossing her arms, narrowing her eyes at me. She’s still in her outfit from today—a professional blazer, crisp pants—but her hair is down, falling loose over her shoulders, and it makes my neck hot.
“Nah,” I say, catching Wren’s eye. “This is the first I’m hearing of it.”
I’m conspiring with Gran, but I’m not about to out her. I may not have had the same childhood as Wren, but I still know what happens to a snitch.
Gran and Wren fall back into conversation easily, arguing about her taking her meds, her hiding Diet Pepsi under her bed, and her flirting with the man across the hall. As they talk, I have to grapple with the strange feeling growing inside me.
For once in her life, maybe Sloane was right about me being too cautious. Maybe Wren isn’t the person I think she is. When they bring through the supper and realize they only have two trays, I insist I’d better get going.
“Thank you so much for coming,” Gran says, snatching my hand and giving it another pat. “It was a joy to chat. Have Wren bring you back sometime.”
“Yeah,” I say, though I’m sure that’s not going to happen. Gran winks at me on the way out, and it only compounds the sticky regret rolling up in my stomach.
When I’m in the hallway, I hear Gran say, “He’shandsome, Wren! And not nearly as arrogant as you said.”
I snort when Wren replies, her voice hushed, “Jesus, Gran, he can probably hear you!”
“How about an autograph?”
I jump and turn, finding the man from earlier—Reggie—holding out a Frost hat to me, his other hand holding his walker for balance and clutching a Sharpie.
“Oh,” I take the hat, turning it over, something strange and warm churning in my chest when I take the Sharpie from him. “Of course. Who should I make it out to?”
“Reginald, please,” he says, voice gruff.
I sign the hat, pass it back to him, and get directions from a nurse to release the alarm and exit the building. Outside, the November air is frigid, closing in around me with a bracing push.
As I slide into the rental minivan, I think that maybe I’ll ease up. My gut is still telling me there’s something there, that Wren is hiding something, but maybe I can give her a chance to prove me wrong.
Wren
I walk into work on the second day of November and see something I haven’t before.
Luca McKenzie in the meeting room for our strategy session, smiling at me when I come through the door. I pause, glance over my shoulder to see if someone’s behind me—Sloane, maybe. But there’s nobody.
Which means Luca is smiling atme.
“Good morning,” he says, watching me as I walk in and take my seat. Yesterday, he sat and talked to my grandma for an hour, chatting with her about Milwaukee, about growing up out west and missing the mountains.
Was that all it took? Talking to Gran had convinced him I’m not the Antichrist? If I’d known that, I would have dragged him to Oak Park Retirement Home months ago.
“Good morning,” I return, trying to keep my eyes from skipping to where his t-shirt hugs his biceps, his broad chest, his tanned skin against the white of the fabric. When I look to his face instead, it’s not much better, my eyes dragging on the spattering of freckles over his nose and cheeks. The charming, handsome boyishness of his brown eyes and easy eyebrows.
“I’ve been thinking,” Luca says, leaning forward and flashing me a broad smile I’ve only seen directed toward others before. Being the recipient of it feels like stepping into the warmth of the sun on a chilly day.
“About the whole ‘switching up the lines’ thing,” he says, “And while we’re going to be moving Chen, I think we also shift O’Brien, too.”
My eyebrows raise. “To take over from Petrov?”
“Big guy won’t admit it,” Luca says, crossing his arms. “But he’s getting tired, run down. I think we save him a bit, make sure he’s on the ice at his most explosive. And I think moving O’Brien up will act two-fold. One: motivate him to play better, and two—”
