Pressing my lips together, I look away from her, unable to stop the sadness from clawing up my throat. “Okay,” I say, finally, because I can fit the dress and show it to her without promising to marry Luca. “I can do that, Gran.”
Even if it’s just going to make everything worse.
Gran reaches out, grabbing my hand. Her skin is impossibly soft and papery “Thank you, Wren.”
Luca
After the Fine Dining Fair months ago, after the first time I brought Wren back to my place, I woke up to her going through my kitchen drawers.
I’d blinked sleepily against the light as I went to stand in the kitchen, crossing my arms, watching her go through the items.
“Having fun?” I’d asked, and she turned slowly, already aware I was watching her.
“Admit it,” she’d said, closing a drawer and spinning around to face me. “You cleaned before I came over.”
“I just don’t own a lot of stuff,” I’d said. At the time, she was appalled that I’d already taken down my Christmas tree. That’s when I had to tell her that I’d never actually put one up.
Now, she sets a defiant, sparkling green leprechaun’s hat on the mantle above the fireplace, crossing her arms and turning to me with a single raised eyebrow. It’s the only piece of color in the entire room.
Her hair is shorter now, just brushing the tops of her shoulders. She came to work one day looking like that—having chopped off several inches—and I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Finally, she’d snapped that it washerhair, and she’d do what she wanted with it.
I’d pulled her into me and kissed her hard, shivering when I touched my fingers to the tips of it. The truth is that everything looks good on her, and the shock of the difference was more of a turn-on than any specific hairstyle could be.
“See,” she says, gesturing now to the green hat. “Youcandecorate for the holidays. It looks nice.”
I bark out a laugh. It looks ridiculous, and my hands itch to grab it and put it away. I’m not sure it even qualifies as a decoration. “Wren, it’s a single green hat. I’d hardly call that decorating.”
“You’re right,” she says, turning back to it, a satisfied look on her face. “You need more. Maybe we could get some garland, and I could find some old Guinness bottles—”
I open my mouth to argue with her, or maybe just to admit defeat, but a ding goes off in the kitchen and I abandon the site of the decorations to make sure I pull the roast from the oven before it dries out. Wren sidles in behind me, reaching for the glass of sparkling water she left on the counter before.
It’s domestic. I’m smart enough to evaluate the situation and know that Wren and I are moving past playacting at this thing. When she’s gone, I miss her. On the nights that she goes to her apartment instead of coming here, I feel like a toddler wanting to throw a fit. Or a kid coming home to a house devoid of parents. When she’s not here, something is clearly missing.
Every time things start to feel too real, I run through the list of reasons for why this just makes sense. She doesn’t like to cook, and I always make too much food. Her being here helps us to keep up appearances. It’s likely contributed to nobody suspecting us of faking.
Wren being at my place every night is justlogical.
“What did your mom want, earlier?” Wren asks when we sit down at the table together. I pour her a glass of wine, lean back, and think about the conversation.
“She was asking about your favorite candy,” I say, flicking my eyes up to hers briefly before picking up my fork and knife and cutting into the roast. It’s perfect, and I can see with Wren’s first bite that she thinks so, too.
“…Why?” she asks.
I shrug. “She hates fighting with other people for Easter candy. She’s probably already placing orders to get it now.”
When Wren says nothing for a beat too long, I pause, glancing at her again and finding a strange expression on her face. The same expression I saw flickering there throughout Christmas—Sloane’s baby shower.
We’re adults. We should just be able to confront this growing thing between us, the fact that it’s getting real. When I was a kid, my mom used to say, “Don’t make that face, it’ll get stuck like that.”
That’s what happening to us now. After holding this position for so long—pretending to be in a relationship—we’ve started to get stuck that way. Started to actually grow around each other like two roots entangling together.
“What?” I prompt, even though I feel like I shouldn’t push it. It feels like the only reason this thing has lasted this long is me and Wren avoiding looking right at it. Skirting around it. pretending like we still need to keep up pretenses.
“It’s just—” She pauses, clears her throat, then sits up to look me in the eye. I get the feeling that this is about to be an important moment. That I’ll look back and remember what she says right now for a long, long time.
“My grandmother gave me her wedding dress,” she says.
“Gran…gave you her wedding dress?” I ask, trying to speak around the slightly choked feeling in my throat. “Why?”
