Scooping it up, I decide to toss it right now. The waste guys come around every morning just after I get here—I’ll dump it in the trash, watch them take it away, then go in for the meeting.
The plan solidifies in my head, and I’m standing, walking toward the trash can, relief coursing through me.
That is, until I hear her voice.
“Luca!”
I freeze, even though I know I should keep going, get the folder in the trash before she reaches me. But it’s too late, and Wren is standing in front of me, fine, strawberry blonde hair blowing in the wind.
She’s wearing a green hat today, knit, and it reminds me of her grandma. The coat she wears is soft and brown, with buttons running up the front. Her cheeks are flushed, and steam rises from the cups in her hand.
“Here,” she says, thrusting a cup toward me, her smile full and dazzling. “The coffee I owe you. Since I lost our bet.”
“I—” My hands are full, bag in one with folder in the other. I watch in horror as she reaches for the folder, trying to trade the coffee for it. Probably thinking it’s my notes for the meeting today and she’s going to see them anyway.
Moving too fast, I try to yank it away from her. Two things happen at once.
The first is that I manage to knock the hot coffee forward and onto her, so it splashes over the front of her coat. She lets out a little yelp and hops back, her eyes darting from the coffee to me, confused.
The second thing that happens is that I let go of the folder, and the frigid November wind grabs hold of it, ripping it from my hands and scattering the insides over the pavement around us.
I wish it was snowing, raining, anything to ruin the pages before they hit the ground. But it’s a bright, sunny day, seeming even brighter from the cold. Wren’s confused expression hovers, deepening as she looks from me to the first thing on the ground between us.
It’s a high-definition photo, showing Wren sitting on a stone bench next to a grave, her coat pulled tight around her, a thick scarf bunched around her neck. There’s no doubt that it’s her—it’s even the same coat she’s wearing right now.
And the headstone next to her readsCharles Beaumont.
That could be the Charles Gran mentioned. Wren’s grandfather. She shifts, looking at the other papers. I can’t see them, but the expression on her face tells me all I need to know.
Slowly, in a low voice, her gaze still fixed on the papers, she asks, “What the fuck is this, Luca?”
Time seems to snap back into place, and panic surges through me. “Shit, sorry about the coffee—I can pay for your coat—”
“I don’t give afuckabout the coat,” she snaps, finally looking up at me, and I realize there are tears brimming at her eyes.
I’m lucky that it’s this early and nobody else is here right now but us, standing outside the employee entrance. All I want to do is make this stop, make everything go back to the way it was just five minutes ago, before she found out that I did this.
Why did I even bring the folder with me? I could have just left it at home. I could have run inside, set it on the counter in my empty, quiet house. Come back to it when I returned.
“I’m sorry, Wren,” I manage to say, starting to crouch so I can gather the papers before someone else comes. But she reaches out, shoving the second, unspilled coffee into my hand and kneeling herself.
“What thefuck?” she repeats, and I hear the slightest sob in her throat. Normally, I’m pretty good in a crisis. Decent at dealing with tough situations and solving problems as they arise, but right now, it feels like everything is out of control.
“You had a P.I. sent after me? Seriously, Luca?”
My throat is thick, solid. I’m frozen by the circumstances, worthless to do anything for myself. Is this what other people feel like? Is this what stage fright feels like? I feel sorry for everytime I ever made fun of a guy who choked during his first game, his first time on the ice under the scrutiny of that many fans.
Right now, Wren is an arena, thousands of people, and I’m a tiny speck on the ice, hands shaking as I try to keep hold of my stick, keep from falling flat on my ass.
“I didn’t look at any of it,” I get out, taking a tiny step back. I watch as she shoves all the papers into the folder angrily, folding and crumpling as they go. Photos flash, and I look away, not wanting to see them.
This whole thing was stupid. I let my obsession over this go too far.
“Yeah, right,” Wren says, not meeting my eye as she rises to her feet. Her hands are trembling. “Right, sure. I get it. You’ve been pretending to like me. To get along with me. Waiting forthisso you can show everyone how much of a fuck up I am. Well, congrats, Luca. You win. I’ll quit before I go through that.”
With that, she hikes her tote bag jerkily up onto her shoulder and turns, the wrinkled, coffee-stained folder tucked under her arm.
“Wren, no, wait—” The words come out of me one after the other, piling on beginning to end. I reach out, catching the sleeve of her coat. She turns, ripping out of my grasp.
