Page 23 of Sire
“I’m going with you.”
“You’re cute when you’re mistaken.”
“You’re crazy when you think I’ll stay here all day.”
I shake my head, torn between keeping her safe by my side or relocating her to a remote convent on a cliff in Italy. “You can’t go to church with me. How will I explain who you are?”
“I’ll be a family friend.”
I laugh. “My family doesn’thavefriends.”
“Liar,” she scoffs. “I’ve met Jace. He could make a corpse catch feelings.”
She’s right about my brothers—most of them. Jace, Grant, Nick, and Loch could charm a teenager into giving up their phone. Forever. While me, Axel, and Nash? We’d just take the damn thing and tell them to quit finger-fucking it. Either works.
“Look,” Wren sighs. “Honestly, I’m a little afraid to be left by myself until I know my way around. So, just give me the lay of the land around here and I’ll be fine.”
“Escape routes.” I nod. “You’re always looking for them, aren’t you?”
“I can’t sleep in a room with no windows, or with my back to a door. Not since I was nine.”
Letting Wren see how she wraps around my heart with each tiny confession of her story would be a big risk. A reveal. A regret I don’t want to have because each one pulls me even closer to her.
“Okay. We leave in thirty.”
“What’s my story if someone asks?”
“Our moms are best friends. They went to college together, and … uh …” Fuck, I’ve never done this. To most, I have no family. The less I say, the better. “And you’re visiting Charleston, deciding if you want to go to college here.”
Her head tilts. “There’s no way our moms could be the same age.”
“Say you’re adopted. Always use parts of the truth to sell a lie.” She glances away. “Wren, we have to come up with something. No one can know how we met.”
“Or who weare,” she mutters, and I don’t answer. After a deep inhale, she chirps, “Okay. What’s your mom’s name?”
“Nadine.”
“Ms. Faye?” Her eyes widen. “I knew it!”
I don’t answer that part, either. “Use my last name with hers; Nadine Rutledge from Pickens, South Carolina. It’s my cover story. And your mom and origin?”
“Dolly,” she blurts. “Dolly Parker from Chattanooga. That’s my mom.”
“Tennessee? Is that where you’re from?”
“Close enough. I’ve been there before, so I can bullshit the rest.”
I search her eyes, trying to figure out her tell. For such an honest creature with no filter, how will I know when she’s lying? And when will she trust she doesn’t have to lie to me?
Mine are much worse.
On the way to the church, I show her the code to mydoor, the iron gate to the graveyard behind my building, and the prettiest path through the historic headstones.
Does it grab my heart again how she names the flowers and comments on the families buried together? Yeah. Because I can’t bear to think of her lying alone under blue hydrangeas for eternity.
By the time we emerge on Church Street, cars are queued for the preschool dropoff, and Ms. Davis, our director, stands on the sidewalk with worry written across her brow.
“What’s wrong?” I approach her with Wren on my heels.
