Page 22 of You Had Me At Thirteen

‘Wren?’ I say, flicking my pen on the blank page in front of me. ‘Where do you go every Thursday night?’

‘Out.’

I scoff. ‘Obviously. But where?’ I’ve become accustomed to Wren’s comings and goings on Thursday nights. It’s only been the last couple of months, but almost on cue, I can predict the time Wren will step out his front door and disappear for a couple of hours.

He takes a deep breath, holding it in, then when he lets it out, his gaze flicks up to rest on the space in front of him. ‘Nowhere interesting. Satisfied?’

‘Not really. Give me something to work with.’

His secrecy makes me wonder what the hell he does when he leaves. Maybe he’s a nude model for old rich women who get together to drink expensive champagne and ogle young male specimens while discussing their husband’s saggy balls.

I almost laugh at myself, until I realise I would have to explain the reason for my outburst, and I’m not sure Wren will appreciate where my mind has wandered.

‘Not my problem. Now mind your business,’ he says, his focus back on his laptop.

‘What about your parents?’ The words come tumbling out before I’m able to reason with my brain.

‘What about them, Matilda?’ His tone tells me he’s losing his patience, but I can’t stop myself.

‘Don’t they worry if you’re out so late?’

‘No.’

Lucky him. If I was doing God-knows-what on a school night, my mum would chuck a fit. She’s cool, but she has her limits, and being out late on a school night is one of them.

But she’s been working every Thursday night for the last couple of months, so if I was to sneak out, she wouldn’t know. Although I have nowhere to go, so there’s that. Maybe I could convince Wren to bring me to his nude drawing sessions. Actually, scratch that. I don’t want to see Wren naked. Up close. At all.

‘What is it?’ Wren’s glaring at me, the blue light from his laptop glowing against his face.

I glance around the room, trying to come up with something else to say. But when nothing else comes to mind, I give up. ‘Nothing.’

It’s useless trying to pry any information out of Wren. He’s as guarded as I am. When he stops eyeing me, I move over to the couch behind him, hoping to get a glimpse of what he’s writing.

‘Do you mind?’

‘Nope,’ I say, crossing my legs, getting comfortable.

He stops typing and glances over his shoulder. ‘Are you always this annoying?’

‘Yep. Are you always this conversational?’

‘I’m concentrating. Aren’t we supposed to be doing this together? So far,’ he turns around, ‘you’ve done nothing but ask personal questions. Ones you should keep to yourself.’

I shrug. ‘Just trying to get to know the real Wren Stevenson.’

He scoffs, turning back to his laptop. ‘Good luck with that.’

I poke my tongue out at the back of his head, crossing my arms over my chest as I sink back into the couch. He’s infuriating. And I hate him. But he smells fucking amazing. So much so that I lean forward again to sniff the air behind his head.

He stiffens. ‘Are you smelling me?’

‘No. I… have allergies.’

‘Sure you do. If you want me to fuck you, Matilda, just ask.’

I smack the back of his head, making him chuckle, and storm off back to where I was previously sitting. ‘You’re such an arsehole.’

He rolls his eyes. ‘So I’ve been told.’

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