Sure enough, two cars away from the driveway stood Grayson, leaning against a crappy beige convertible with a darker tan soft-top. The car was worn and pale, like it had been out in the sun too long, but there was something about it. A car with character. It made him more approachable.
Maddie sauntered up to Grayson, said something to make him laugh, and waved us over.
“Wren, this is so Pretty in Pink . . . totally Blaine hacking into Andie’s computer and sending his picture,” Jazz whispered, taking hold of my elbow.
“Stop,” I said, trying to tame my smile, because seeing him here did feel as unreal as a movie moment, but I didn’t want to be that obvious.
Grayson looked younger than I remembered. His hair was a tousled mess, with those jagged bangs hanging in his eyes, and he wore this retro-style blazer with patches at the elbows that he somehow managed to make look cool. He had an eyebrow piercing by his left eye—something I hadn’t noticed at the wedding. And there was that grin again. A dazzling sun drawing me into orbit. The attempt to control my smile was futile.
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist yelling that,” he said as I reached him. “Besides, we were never formally introduced.”
“Wren Caswell,” I said, white-knuckling the strap of my messenger bag as if it were a lifeline. God, I wished I’d had the time to pop a piece of gum in my mouth.
“Grayson Barrett.”
Jazz poked me.
“Oh, um, this is my friend Jazz, and you already met Maddie,” I said, gesturing to her while she scrutinized Gray’s car. From the curl of her upper lip I could tell she wasn’t impressed—at least not with his ride.
“Jazzzzzzzzz,” he said. Jazz loosened her grip on my arm and giggled. “I like it.”
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“I’m breathing, so it’s all good.”
A girl called out his name, he shrugged one shoulder in greeting, and then it dawned on me. How stupid could I have been? He wasn’t there for me. This was just a coincidence.
“Well, I guess I’ll, um, see you,” I said, backing away.
Gray’s brows drew together. “Oh, I . . . I came to see if you felt like getting a coffee or something,” he said. “I mean, that’s if you, well, can I give you a ride home at least? You too, Jazz, Maddie, if you want.”
“Awfully nice of you, Grayson, but we love the party atmosphere of the Boulevard bus—all that BO and rubbing up against perfect strangers,” Maddie said, ushering a still-Grayson-struck Jazz toward the crosswalk. “You two kids have fun.” Maddie mouthed, Call me! waving her cell in the air.
When I turned back to Gray, his eyes gleamed with amusement. I was hyperaware of the mass exodus of Sacred Heart, the urgent rush of girls on their way home and the passing seconds of silence between us. I missed Maddie and her quick quips already. Why was I just standing there? Mute?
Gray’s smooth voice broke the silence.
“So, Wren. Do you have to go home?”
Grayson opened the passenger door for me and I slid in, picking up the book on the front seat. Plato’s The Republic. I fanned through the pages. There were highlights and ink scrawls in the margins of the first half.
“Light reading?” I asked, handing it to him as he got in.
He tucked the book into the front pocket of his backpack then hoisted it to the backseat. “For a class.”
“Really? Where?” I asked. Could he possibly be a college guy?
“Saint Gabe’s.”
Grayson wore faded denim jeans and a well-fitted white Henley tee under his jacket that I caught myself admiring for too long—not the usual St. Gabe’s khaki-and-button-down uniform.
“Well, the class is at Saint Gabe’s,” he continued as the engine grumbled to life. “I go to Bergen Point. They don’t offer philosophy.”
The car was immaculate—no wrappers or soda cans. He even had a Yankee Candle air freshener, Home Sweet Home, dangling from the rearview mirror. I spun it gently with my index finger.
“Let me guess: Mom?” I asked, smiling.
“Nope. All me. Can’t a guy have a good-smelling car?”
“Sure, why not?” I didn’t have much experience with guys and cars, but my brother, Josh’s, could probably be condemned it was so gross, and Trev’s . . . ugh, why was I even thinking of him?
He pulled out of the spot, driving slowly until we hit the first red light about a block away. I’d forgotten to roll my skirt after school and it sat at dweeb length, an inch above my knee. I crossed my legs, hoping to subtly show a little more skin. Grayson noticed.
“So what were you saying—you go to Bergen Point but take a class at Saint Gabe’s? I didn’t know you could do that,” I said, thoroughly enjoying snagging him.
He flustered, ran a hand through his hair. “Um, oh, philosophy . . . yeah, you can’t. I was supposed to take the class this year. Figured I’d just go through it on my own.”
“So you were at Saint Gabe’s?”
Yep, up until my junior year.”
“Maybe you know my brother. Josh Caswell? He graduated last year.”
He nodded. “Everyone sort of knows everyone at Saint Gabe’s, right?”
“Why’d you leave?” I asked.
The light changed to green, but he hesitated, gripping the wheel, until an insistent beep from behind got his attention.
“They kind of asked me to leave. Listen, why don’t we go somewhere? It’s not the kind of thing I want to talk about while I’m driving. I can’t see your face,” he said, giving me a sidelong glance that made me bite my lower lip.
“Okay,” I said, trying to calm the hormonal rush that had just surged through my body.
“How about that coffee? We could grab one and hit the park. It’s warmish. Any place you like?”
“Starbucks at South Cove?”
He grunted.
“I don’t do pretty coffee. I know this hole-in-the-wall deli with the best French roast around. You’ll love it.”
“Sounds good,” I lied. Coffee—pretty, French roast, or otherwise—tasted like battery acid to me, but I didn’t feel like mentioning it. Especially after he told me about leaving St. Gabe’s. Awkward. I wasn’t sure if the torqued-up feeling in my gut was attraction or a warning sign. I just knew I didn’t want to go home yet.
A tinny-sounding bell announced our entrance as we walked into the deli. The guy behind the counter beamed at Grayson.
“My man, where’ve you been?”
“Spiro, how’s it hanging?” Grayson answered, walking behind the counter to pour our coffees. Spiro clapped Grayson on the back, gave me a once-over, and whispered something to him. They both chuckled. Heat nibbled my earlobes. I waited, expecting some sort of introduction, but Gray handed me the to-go cup.
“Cream and sugar’s over there if you need it,” he said, turning back to Spiro. I added enough cream and sugar to my coffee to make it taste like Häagen-Dazs and tried to catch what I could of their hushed convo. . . . Tough break . . . brinker . . . a friend. Grayson joined me at the counter to put a lid on his coffee. When I reached into my bag for some cash, he stopped me.
“Wren, please, a coffee for a life. It’s the least I can do,” he said, pulling out a few bills from his pocket.
“Thanks,” I murmured, concentrating on clipping my messenger bag closed. My brain completely fogged over with the way his voice wrapped around my name. I stuffed the feeling down. Whether he was hot or not, I still had no clue what he wanted from me.
“So what should I tell Lenny if he asks for you again?” Spiro asked, handing Grayson the change. Gray shoved it in his pocket and ushered me toward the door. The bell jangled as he held it open for me.