Page 146 of Say Yes to the Nemesis

We spend the next few hours just talking. She tells me about her obsession with Greek mythology in middle school, how she used to check out the same books about ancient civilizations over and over until the librarian started saving them for her.

“I wanted to be an archaeologist,” she says. “I had this whole plan to discover some lost city and become famous.”

“What changed?”

“Reality. Turns out, archaeology involves a lot more dirt and cataloging pottery shards than discovering lost civilizations.”

She pauses, looking out at the water. “Don’t get used to this,” she says quietly, almost to herself.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She shakes her head, forcing a smile. “Tell me about your worst hockey injury.”

I tell her about the time I broke my wrist trying to impress a girl in high school by jumping off the roof of the gym onto a snowbank that turned out to be mostly ice.

“You’re an idiot,” she says, but she’s laughing.

“Yeah, well, teenage boys don’t make good decisions.”

“Some of you never grow out of it.”

“Hey.”

She grins and pokes me in the ribs. “Present company excluded, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

She gets animated when she talks, using her hands to gesture, crinkling her nose when she’s trying to remember details. All I can think about is how badly I want to keep her exactly like this. Happy and relaxed and mine.

The thought scares the hell out of me.

By the time we head back to the villa, the sun is starting to set and we’re both exhausted from the day. We rinse off the salt and sand in the outdoor shower, which is basically just an excuse for me to watch water run down Wren’s body while trying to keep my hands to myself.

“You’re staring again,” she says, wrapping a towel around herself.

“Can you blame me?”

She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling. “Come on, I’m starving.”

We raid the kitchen still wrapped in towels. I watch Wren hop up onto the counter and start devouring mango slices and leftover grilled chicken like she hasn’t eaten in days.

“You eat like a linebacker,” I tell her.

“Shut up, I’m hungry.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

She throws a piece of mango at me and I catch it in my mouth, which makes her laugh again. The sound fills the kitchen and I want to record it, keep it somewhere safe for when thisis all over and I’m back to my regular life where Wren Rustin doesn’t laugh at my stupid jokes.

For a moment, everything feels perfect. Natural. Like this is what we do. Like this is who we are together when no one’s watching and there are no cameras and no rules about who we’re supposed to be.

But then something shifts. I can see it happen, the way Wren’s expression changes, like she’s remembered something unpleasant. She gets quiet, withdrawn, pulling that invisible shield over herself that I’ve seen her use a hundred times when things get too real.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Fine.”

But she’s not fine. She slides off the counter and wraps her towel tighter around herself, putting physical distance between us that feels like a chasm.