Page 7 of Friends to Lovers

chapter six

Ren is nowhere to be found when I move my things to the screen porch after a fitful night of sleep.

He’s taken his usual bed, which is closer to the doors into the house.

It’s flawlessly made, also as usual, and I make a mental note not to let mine turn into the tangle of blankets it normally would be this week.

Things like that were fine when we were close.

Now I feel a sudden need to behave around Ren like I’m sharing a room with a colleague.

The same small dresser stands against the opposite wall, a row of hooks beside it where we would dry swimsuits and towels when we were kids. A black hoodie hangs on the farthest hook, the rest of them empty.

As my hands hover over the dresser, wondering if Ren left the top two for me like he used to, the door to the front yard clatters and I jump, letting out a small yelp.

“Sorry,” Ren says as he removes his earbuds. He’s just back from a run in a pair of exercise shorts and a T-shirt. He nods at the dresser. “I left you your usual drawers.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you sleep well?” he asks politely, inserting his earbuds into their case.

I stare at the middle of his chest, the rise and fall of it. “Sort of. You?”

He shrugs, casually grabs his water bottle from the windowsill above his bed, then sits on the edge, dangles it between his knees. Maybe I should do the same thing. Sit down, let him set the pace.

I opt to pick at the flaking paint on the corner of the dresser. “How’s—” I begin, but Ren says something at the same time, and I wave him forward only for him to do the same.

“Were—” he says, gesturing toward me.

“No,” I say. “Were you going to say something?”

Ren shakes his head.

The silence between us lasts for what feels like a lifetime.

“Well,” Ren says, standing. It puts us that much closer in this narrow room, my spine pressed against the dresser, the backs of his legs touching his bed like he’s trying to keep as much space between us as possible.

Still, if we wanted to, we could reach out and brush our fingertips together.

The sudden image has me clearing my throat, shifting on my feet.

Ren seems to notice my discomfort and moves toward the door.

“I’m going to shower. Sasha just texted that they should be here in an hour or so. ”

“Thanks,” I say. I don’t know why I’m thanking him.

After quickly unpacking, I make my way to the front porch and watch the spot where the road breaks through the trees, willing a car to appear through it, other people to join us.

Stevie’s been texting me from the road too, noting every landmark they pass and sending me blurry, terrible photos of each.

The fruit stand where we used to stop when we were kids to load up on cherries and peaches and plums. The gas station that hasn’t ever actually been in service and we’re convinced was built to be used as a movie set.

The tunnel we used to hold our breath through.

Things I hardly saw as I drove here on Sunday in something of a fugue state, half-obsessed with dissecting the details of my firing and half in emotional free fall over being in Oregon again, both of which I very much didn’t want to feel and was trying desperately to reconcile with the celebratory week ahead.

Ren comes out a half hour later and sits next to me.

He drums his fingers against the arm of his chair, but doesn’t attempt to make conversation.

I try not to peek over at him, but can’t seem to help it, my eyes landing on the tattoo below his elbow, the same one that I have, then traveling up to his hair, damp from the shower, one familiarly stubborn lock falling across his forehead.

I look down at where our knees are angled slightly toward each other, only a few inches separating them, the tan of his skin against his olive green shorts a stark contrast to my paler, shut-in-a-studio-for-months-on-end legs.

We’ve sat out here together countless times, in these chairs or against the balusters on either side of the front steps, talking about nothing and everything.

I twist in my seat toward him, his gaze jerking up when my knee just bumps his, some pointless question about the weather on the tip of my tongue, but at that moment the crunch of gravel sounds and “going to the chapel” floats toward us from Stevie’s little blue car.

Ren and I glance that way, then back at each other, like we’re both just remembering we have to pretend to be best friends, and then my parents’ car is coming down the road too, and I can’t remember what I was going to ask him anyway.

As Leo pulls into the spot behind mine, Ren and I stand robotically, march down the three steps to the driveway in lockstep. We must look like two servants outside a Regency home, positioned a measured distance apart, hands behind our rigid backs.

Stevie leans across Leo, turning the music up even louder. “Someone laugh! It’s supposed to be funny!” she shouts, and suddenly I’m rushing up to the car, throwing open the door, and folding her in a tight hug. I’ve never been so grateful to see my sister.

The music cuts out as Leo shuts off the car, hopping out and wrapping his arms around us too.

“Boss man! Get over here!” he yells to Ren, who’s still standing by the porch, hovering like he’s not a part of this. Arguably, he’s more a part of this than I am, given how much time he spends with the two of them.

He walks over, one thumb working at his opposite palm in front of him, feet crunching over the gravel. Our eyes meet briefly as Leo waves him into the hug, Ren hesitating before he slides his hand over my shoulders, a branding iron against my skin.

“Look at us,” Leo says into our huddle. “Everyone together again.”

At that, Ren’s hand twitches against me, lifting off my shoulder then resettling like he remembered others are watching.

I force a smile for Leo. By virtue of being engaged to Stevie, he knows that Ren and I aren’t friends anymore, but it’s hard to be irritated with him. He wants everyone to be friends, all the time, and wouldn’t that be nice if it were at all possible?

We’re about to pull apart when my mom climbs out of my parents’ car and hurries over, bags hanging from her wrists. “Wait, wait!” she calls. “Let me get a picture!”

We open our circle into a line and smile, Ren’s arm still around my shoulders. When my mom prompts us to scoot closer together, the space we’ve left between our bodies disappears, his warm side pressing into mine. I smile wider, all bared teeth and pleading eyes. Take the picture, take the picture.

As soon as she’s satisfied, my mom, angel that she is, yanks me into a hug of her own.

“I can’t believe I haven’t seen you since April!

” she says, my head hitting her chest. While I’ve been avoiding Oregon since Ren and I had our falling-out, I made sure to be at my aunt Charlene’s in Madison for Thanksgiving and convinced my parents to take a trip to New York in the spring.

“I know you’re working so hard, though,” she adds.

“Are the Websters on their way?” I ask her, desperate to change the subject.

“Just a few minutes behind— Hi, sweetheart!” She releases me, a smile breaking out on her face as she sidesteps me and reaches for Ren, who has to drop the bag he’s carrying to return her hug. My mom has always adored Ren, but now I feel a little passed over.

My dad strolls up the driveway. “What a welcome committee!” he announces.

“Hi, Dad,” I say, smiling at the sight of him.

A recently retired salesman, my dad is perennially reliable.

He has smelled like the same mixture of Dial soap and Old Spice aftershave at least as long as I’ve been alive, is deeply devoted to his two true passions, golf and his flower beds, and is the mild-mannered antithesis to my therapist mother I need right now.

He stops in front of me, holds me away from him. “You good?” he asks.

He’s looking at me patiently, like he did when I was younger and knew I wasn’t telling him something.

Maybe he’d tell me now that losing my job isn’t such a big deal, even keep the secret for me.

But he’s not exactly immune to my mom’s interrogations either, and I don’t want him to have to lie for me. “I’m good,” I tell him.

He claps a hand on my shoulder as the Websters’ car appears at the top of the road. “Glad to have you back here, kiddo.”

* * *

After everyone has suitably greeted each other in the front, Ren’s sister, Sasha, drags me into the kitchen, settling in at the table and pulling out her laptop.

“Final tally for the bachelor-bachelorette party on Thursday?” she asks. Sasha’s a professional event planner and the organizer of this whole week. She once told me that fun is more fun on a schedule . I was nine. Sasha was thirteen.

“Us, Leo’s brother, the band,” I say, leaning against the cool stone of the island. At Sasha’s impatient expression, I clarify, “Ten.”

“Perfect,” she says.

“Oh, we need to add capture the flag to Wednesday too.”

“I got your text,” Sasha says, eyes on her laptop, everything already rearranged to accommodate Leo’s tradition. “I was thinking you and Ren could pick up the kegs Saturday morning.”

My hand freezes inside the bag of grapes my mom set on the counter from the cooler she’s unloading, my heart stuttering to a halt.

“Ren?” I repeat.

“Yeah?”

I startle at the sound of his voice, eyes finding him as he enters through the mudroom, a box in his arms that seems to be filled with fun-size bags of Skittles, probably from Stevie’s car, and a backpack over each shoulder.

“What’s up?” he says to the room.

“You and Joni are picking up the kegs on Saturday,” Sasha tells him.

Ren’s eyes flick back to mine. “Are you okay with that?” he asks me.