It was easy to talk to Ezra—so easy she could imagine doing it forever. They could travel together to faraway places. Brazil would be amazing…. They could sleep in a tree and eat nothing but plantains and write plays for the rest of their lives….
Her Treo beeped. Ugh. It was probably Noel, wondering what happened to her. She hugged one of Ezra’s pillows close to her—mmm, it smelled just like him—and waited for him to come out of the bathroom and kiss her some more.
Then it beeped again. And again and again.
“Jesus,” Aria groaned, leaning her naked body off the bed to pull it out of her bag. Seven new text messages. More kept beeping in.
Opening her inbox, Aria frowned. The messages all had the same title: STUDENT-TEACHER CONFERENCE! Her stomach turned as she opened the first one.
Aria,
That’s some kind of extra credit!
Love ya, A
P.S. Wonder what your mom would think if she found out about your dad’s little, uh, study buddy…and that you knew!
Aria read the next text message and the next and the next. All the messages said the same thing. She dropped the Treo on the floor. She had to sit down.
No. She had to get out of here.
“Ezra?” She frantically peered out Ezra’s windows. Was she watching, right this second? What did she want? Was it really her? “Ezra, I have to go. It’s an emergency.”
“What?” Ezra called from behind the bathroom door. “You’re leaving?”
Aria couldn’t quite believe it, either. She yanked her shirt over her head. “I’ll call you, okay? I just have to go do something.”
“Wait. What?” he asked, opening the bathroom door.
Aria grabbed her bag and tore out the door and across the yard. She needed to get away. Now.
24
THERE’S MORE THAN JUST SHOES AND JEANS IN SPENCER’S CLOSET
“The limit of x is…,” Spencer murmured to herself. She propped herself up on one elbow on her bed and stared at her brand-new, just-covered-with-a-brown-bag calculus book. Her lower back still burned with Icy Hot.
She checked her watch: It was after midnight. Was she crazy to stress over her calc homework on the school year’s first Friday night? The Spencer of last year would’ve whizzed over to the Kahns’ in her Mercedes, drunk bad keg beer, and maybe made out with Mason Byers or some other cute lax boy. But not the Spencer of now. She was the Star, and the Star had homework to do. Tomorrow, the Star was visiting home design stores with her mom to properly accessorize the barn. She might even hit Main Line Bikes with her dad in the afternoon—he’d pored over some bicycling catalogues with her during dinner, asking her which Orbea frame she liked better. He’d never asked her opinion about bikes before.
She cocked her head. Was that a tiny, tentative knock at the door? Putting down her mechanical pencil, Spencer gazed out the barn’s large front window. The moon was silvery and full, and the windows of the main house blazed a warm yellow. There was the knock again. She padded over to the heavy wooden door and opened it a crack.
“Hey,” Wren whispered. “Am I interrupting?”
“Of course not.” Spencer opened the door wider. Wren was barefoot, in a slim-fitting white T-shirt that said, UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA MEDICAL, and baggy khaki shorts. She looked down at her black French Connection baby tee, short track-star gray sweat shorts from Villanova, and bare legs. Her hair was pulled back in a low, messy ponytail; wisps hanging around her face. It was a completely different look from her everyday Thomas Pink striped button-down and Citizens jeans. That look said, I’m sophisticated and sexy, this look said, I’m studying…but still sexy.
Okay, so maybe she’d planned for the off chance this would happen. But it goes to show you shouldn’t just throw on your high-waisted underwear and old, ratty I HEART PERSIAN CATS T-shirt.
“How’s it going?” she asked. A warm breeze lifted the wispy ends of her hair. A pine cone fell out of a nearby tree with a thump.
Wren hovered in the doorway. “Shouldn’t you be out partying? I heard there was a huge field party somewhere.”
Spencer shrugged. “Not into it.”
Wren met her eyes. “No?”
Spencer’s mouth felt cottony. “Um…where’s Melissa?”
“She’s sleeping. Too much renovating, I guess. So I thought maybe you could give me a tour of this fabulous barn I don’t get to live in. I never even got to see it!”
Spencer frowned. “Do you have a housewarming gift?”
Wren paled. “Oh. I…”
“I’m kidding.” She opened the door. “Enter the Spencer Hastings barn.”
She’d spent some of the night daydreaming about all the potential scenarios of being alone with Wren, but nothing compared to actually having him right here, next to her.
Wren strolled over to her Thom Yorke poster and stretched his hands behind his head. “You like Radiohead?”
“Love.”
Wren’s face lit up. “I’ve seen them like twenty times in London. Every show gets better.”
She smoothed down the duvet on her bed. “Lucky. I’ve never seen them live.”
“We have to remedy that,” he said, leaning against her couch. “If they come to Philly, we’re going.”
Spencer paused. “But I don’t think…” Then she stopped. She was about to say I don’t think Melissa likes them, but…maybe Melissa wasn’t invited.
She led him to the walk-in closet. “This is my, um, closet,” she said, accidentally bumping into the doorjamb. “It used to be a milking station.”