Page 50 of Maybe You

“It’s not about luck. It’s about skill.”

Jordan turns his attention toward his son.

“And when I say skill, I mean that in a purely theoretical sense, of course. I would never do anything untoward to… bring shame to your household. Father,” Theo says quickly, fighting off a grin before he points at me. “Wren’s doing the walk of shame. A terrible example for an impressionable youth such as myself.” He moves his index finger between me and Jordan. “Discuss.”

“This is not a walk of shame,” I protest.

Theo’s gaze moves up and down me.

“You stayed out all night and now you’re rocking up here in last night’s clothes. It’s like the definition of a walk of shame.”

I point at him victoriously. “Well, joke’s on you. These aren’t my clothes. Ha!”

Theo’s smile is pure smugness. “Ooh. You showed me.”

Jordan looks at Remy and speaks out of the corner of his mouth. “Letting this conversation take place probably isn’t an example of good parenting, is it?”

Remy pats his hand. “You’re doing your best. And at least it’s entertaining.”

Jordan nods. “There is that.”

“Well? Did you clap cheeks or not?” Theo asks, tilting his head to the side.

I let out a scandalized squeak and an equally scandalized, “Theo!”

Jordan leans toward Remy. “Any parenting advice on how to address that?”

“Trust your gut?” Remy suggests.

Jordan nods.

“Theo,” he says sternly. “Don’t say clap cheeks. The word is sex. Wren.” He turns his attention to me. “Answer the question.”

“Oh my God,” I mutter as I escape up the stairs.

I can still hear their laughter when I close the door of my room behind me.

I spend the rest of the day hiding in my room, catching up on my studying to distract myself from what’s going to happen later.

It doesn’t really work.

Nerves run rampant no matter what I do, and by the time I start to get ready, it’s even worse. I skip dinner because I don’t think I can squeeze down a bite, and if I’m going to have sex, maybe it’s better not to stuff myself full of pot roast before.

I take a long shower and wash everything. And by everything, I mean everything. I’d venture a guess I’m cleaner on the inside than the outside at this point.

It’s lucky I’m allowed to finally remove the splint. The finger’s still a bit tender, but it’s manageable by now, so we’re all good on that front.

I’m just standing in front of the dresser, trying to figure out what to wear—a difficult choice between the few pairs of sweats, jeans, and long-sleeved T-shirts that make up my whole wardrobe—when Jordan raps his knuckles against the half-open door and peeks his head in.

“Going out?” he asks with a knowing grin.

I make a face. “Please don’t make it weird.”

He laughs, comes inside, and sits on the edge of my bed. “I wasn’t going to. Promise.”

“Somehow I don’t believe you.”

I pick up a shirt and inspect it for a moment before I drop it back in the drawer. Too green. Jordan stays silent while I’m having my shirt-related identity crisis. Finally, I just give up, pick a random shirt, and pull it over my head. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not going to Sutton’s to show off my nonexistent fashion sense. I’m going there to have sex.

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