Page 9 of Friends to Lovers

chapter seven

Thanks to what Sasha thought was kindness, I end up in Ren’s passenger seat, one elbow out the window and a song on that I would probably know about if Ren and I were still on speaking terms. To make matters worse, I love the song. Ren didn’t get his job out of sheer luck.

The winery is packed when we pull up. We were silent on the ride, letting the music stand in for conversation, and as soon as Ren finds a spot at the far edge of the dirt lot, I lurch out of the car, striding in the direction of the round stone building, the afternoon sun glinting off its windows.

Ren’s long legs catch up with me easily in the parking lot. Once inside, we end up in a strange kind of race to the bar, which is fruitless because every available seat and all the spots in between are taken.

We hover at one end, laughter pealing around us, jazzy piano music floating down from mounted speakers. A few doors are open to the patio out back, and a breeze drifts in, picking up the ends of my hair.

“There’s a table out back,” calls a server as she glides by, tray tucked under an arm, and ducks behind the bar.

Ren leans toward her, carefully avoiding the space of a man who looks like he might be three sheets to the wind. “We’re just here to pick up an order,” he says over the din of the room.

“Name?” the server asks, eyes on the register.

“Miller.”

She taps something on the screen, frowning until her face brightens. “The wedding,” she says. “Tony can help you with that. Grab one of the tables out back and I’ll bring over something you can celebrate with.”

“Oh, we’re not—” I say, but she’s already sweeping away, walking confidently toward the other end of the bar.

Ren peers down at me, one eyebrow lifting in question. I shrug. Probably better to follow her instructions than try to flag her down again.

I trail him out to the crowded patio, where we sit at a bistro table, paint chipping and a few of the rungs on the back of the matching green chairs missing. When our knees knock together, Ren swings his legs to the side.

We sit in silence again, both of us turning to squint at the water.

I can feel the hot metal singeing the backs of my legs and my shoulders reddening in the sun, but I stay ramrod straight, still edgy after the close call in the kitchen.

When I glance out of the corner of my eye, Ren seems relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, sunglasses on.

I return my attention to the seagulls drifting above the waves.

“For the happy couple!” A hand appears between us, placing two glasses on the table.

My stomach knots. Being mistaken for Ren’s fiancée is not on my make-it-through-the-week bingo card. I twist in my seat, gripping the back of it as I look up at the server from earlier, and try to explain again. “We’re not—”

If she hears me, she doesn’t give any indication. “A gift from the winery. This is our most popular orange.” She pours a finger’s worth into my glass.

She walks around the table to Ren’s side to do the same for him. I shoot him a look, hoping he can still read me enough to know I need his help to get us out of this.

His mouth curves down, lines etching in his forehead. “Thank you,” he says to her. “But we—”

The server ignores him too. “I figured you’d probably be having enough champagne this weekend, so this just has a bit of effervescence to it. Not too funky if you’re new to orange wine, but enough skin contact that—”

“We’re not getting married!” I blurt.

I swear everyone around us stills, all eyes on our tiny, terrible table. The server stands with the bottle still poised toward me, her mouth open as her eyes flit toward Ren for confirmation.

“Maid of honor,” he says in a way that makes me think he wishes we could have just pretended to be engaged, waving a hand in my direction before back at himself. “Friend of the family.”

“Friend of the groom,” I hasten to add. “And the bride. Also, he and the groom work together. Well, maybe not together, but—”

“Anyway, we’ll pay for this, but we’re just here to pick up the wine order for the wedding,” Ren cuts in.

The server glances between us, then shrugs and fills both of our glasses before we can even try the taste she poured.

“Their loss,” she says. “Wine can be on us since you’re the ones who have to check this task off the list, alright?

Tony will be out in a few. Enjoy.” With a wink, she turns on her heel, weaving back through the tables on the patio.

I stare after her like she’s my lifeline on this sinking ship. Ren can be, if not cool, at least collected. Somewhere in the realm of normal. Yet here I am, flailing around in what are relatively shallow waters.

I reach for my glass, tap my fingers against the stem. It’s just one glass of wine. I should be able to handle this. It’s not like Ren is my enemy.

“Were you going to detail both our family trees for her?” he asks.

My gaze darts up from my glass. He’s watching me with an amused expression.

“Just back five generations,” I say, biting my cheek to hide the smile threatening at my lips. Ren’s smiles have always been contagious.

Ren laughs, and the sound produces a familiar warmth in my chest. He raises his eyebrows and lifts his glass in my direction. The moment has me lifting mine too, clinking it against his before we both take a sip.

“So how’s Novo?” he asks, suddenly talkative. He uncrosses and then recrosses his legs the other way, his arm muscles shifting beneath the sleeve of his white T-shirt as he rests an elbow on his chair.

I work hard to keep the smile plastered to my face. If there is a worse question Ren could ask right now, I couldn’t think of it. “Good.”

“Any updates on the movie?”

Okay, maybe there is a worse question. The movie is the thing that got me fired, after all.

“Nope,” I say, shaking my head. “No updates.”

“Okay.”

For a few minutes, we don’t say anything else, just sip our wine, whatever tiny step we’d taken toward peace erased by the mention of my job, not that Ren would understand that.

I think we might sit in silence until Tony arrives, but eventually Ren sets his glass down, pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head, and leans over the table toward me.

“Listen,” he says. “You don’t have to tell me everything about your life, but there are probably some basics we should cover.”

“Basics,” I repeat.

“We were almost caught when Sasha brought up my trip to New York earlier.”

I twirl my glass one way, then the other, waiting him out.

Ren’s eyes study the movement, then trace their way back up to my face, settling on mine for a beat longer than necessary. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me,” he says finally.

I don’t know if he’s just being polite, pretending that he wanted to see me, but I was the obstacle.

Or if he genuinely did want to see me, but knew the complications of such a reunion were exactly why it’s been easier not to talk at all.

What would come after hello? Would we act like things were normal? That nothing had happened between us?

After that New Year’s Eve, I’d hoped he’d call.

I thought we’d give each other some time, that even after everything, he’d see through me.

Or miss me in the way I missed him, which was enough for me to pick up my phone most nights, hover over his contact, but not enough to set aside my fears and hit Call.

It wasn’t fair, the fact that I wasn’t reaching out to him but expected he would reach out to me, but the longer the silence went on, the easier it became to stop scrolling to his name.

He didn’t want to talk to me. And maybe I didn’t want to talk to him either.

I didn’t really want to talk to anyone about what had happened: not my mom, not Stevie, not my therapist, even when I knew I should go see her again.

He’s looking at me now like he’s hoping I’ll prove him wrong, to confess I did want to see him. But it feels dangerous to undo all my efforts to push the pieces of him from my life, the only way I knew how to soldier on after everything.

When I don’t respond, he sits back in his chair, his mouth set in a straight line. “Is there anything everyone else would know that I should too?” he asks. “If some big surprise comes up, it will be obvious we haven’t been talking. And you want Stevie’s week to be perfect, right?”

I’m still a few steps behind, the disappointed look in Ren’s eyes before he sat back burned into my brain. But this question, one with a clear-cut answer, brings me back to the present moment. “Right.”

He swoops his arm out as if he expects me to lay my cards down on the table between us. “Then what do I need to know?”

The sad truth of the matter is that there isn’t all that much to know.

I now do Pilates. I joined and quit a book club.

I’ve kept a variegated rubber plant alive for a whole year, and felt so proud of that minor accomplishment that I named her Dolly.

Not exactly the make-or-break items in the crash course Ren is suggesting, other than my lack of job, of course, but Ren and I will be in each other’s rear views before that comes to light.

“I don’t know.” I wave a hand. “I started grinding my teeth in my sleep.”

“Mmm,” Ren says, like this is important information. “Okay, I don’t talk in my sleep anymore.”

“You—” I hate the slight shock it sends through me. “What?”

His eyes tick skyward in a half roll. “Apparently, it’s not a curable thing, but—I don’t know. No more sleep talking.”

“A medical marvel,” I say.

We watch each other, two wary animals. Ren is as good as a new person in front of me.

I’d always thought history between two people was so important, but the fact of him not talking in his sleep anymore is simple proof that time works steadily to erase it, especially if you’re not around to pay attention.