The chauffeur is a few feet away, getting himself a glass of the grapefruit cocktail. He stiffens. “Er—me? Do you really think that’s appropriate?”
Ophelia waves away his concerns.
Percy looks longingly back at the table but sighs and comes to join us at the canvas.
I once heard Mum gushing over Percy, and I have to admit that I now totally get the dreamy look on her face. He also seems really nice, with his deep voice and friendly smile. And it’s funny how formal he is with Ophelia, Lydia, and James, even when we’re in the middle of a sea of multicolored balloons.
“Here, go with the yellow,” Ophelia orders.
“Why yellow?”
“Because it’s a cheerful color and this is meant to be a cheerful painting.”
The way the two of them act around each other—Ophelia holding out the paint, and Percy’s smile losing a little of its stiff politeness—it’s clear that they’ve known each other for ages.
Percy dunks his thumb in the yellow paint, then presses it onto the canvas. His print is much larger than mine.
“I can’t believe you’ve got Percy painting,” says James’s voice, close behind me.
I turn toward him. “He’s good at it, don’t you—”
The words stick in my throat, and my whole body tenses.
Wren is standing next to James, his eyes fixed firmly on me. He looks like he’s about to open his mouth and speak to me. I’m not ready for that. As Wren’s lips part, I act on pure instinct: I mumble an apology, turn tail, and run toward the house.
I cross the conservatory, walk down the narrow hallway and into the guest bathroom. Once I’ve shut the door behind me, I spend a few seconds breathing deeply in and out, in a desperate attempt to finally get my heart rate down a bit. Then I go to the sink, run cold water over my hands and wrists, and dab some of it on my neck.
I stare pensively at the yellow-brown tiles, some of which, here and there, have little dogs printed on them. Ophelia’s taste is a bit weird, but kind of cute, and there’s something touching about it. Maybe it’s the grass and the pollen outside, maybe it’s the dog-print tiles, or maybe—this is just within the bounds of possibility—the tears that are suddenly stinging my eyes have something to do with Wren.
I summon up every ounce of strength I possess and try to pull myself together. This is meant to be a nice day. I refuse to let Wren’s presence get me down. Resolutely, I check that my mascara has stayed put, wash my hands again, and then open the door.
I turn right—and almost collide with somebody.
“Oh, there you are,” says Wren.
I can only stare at him. He’s greeting me like I’m his date, like he’s been looking for me and finally found me. Like we’re here together.
Which is bullshit.
I take a big step back from him. “Did you want something?” I ask.
“I’d like to talk to you if you’ve got a minute,” he replies.
I can’t read his expression, and I’d thought I’d got the knack of that by now. But apparently, I was only imagining it.
“I don’t know,” I say uncertainly, looking around to see if anyone nearby can hear us. I have no idea what I’d say to Ruby if she found me with Wren in a dark hallway. How to explain that Wren is the reason I was out so often and skipped school. That I wanted to spend time with him because he sparked something in me that I’d never felt before.
I don’t think she’d understand. I’m not even sure if I understand myself anymore.
“We really need to talk. We can’t go on with things like this.”
“There’s nothing to go on with,” I reply flatly.
Wren flinches, barely perceptibly. His face softens, looks almost vulnerable.
“Ember,” he croaks in the end. “There’s something I have to say to you.”
All the negative thoughts that have followed me since we last met outside my school come flooding back, full weight.
