Page 16 of You Had Me At Thirteen

Perfect.

With my favourite pair of high-waisted jeans and oversized t-shirt in hand, I’m almost giggling to myself, knowing full well Clive will have a meltdown at my fashion choice. Throwing the items on, I snap another picture and send it to Clive. It doesn’t take long before my phone alerts me to another message.

I grin.Got you, Clive.

But when I check the screen, Wren’s name is what I see. I groan as I open the message.

The first outfit was my favourite.

I snap my head towards my window, only to realise I’ve left my curtains open. Wren is leaning against the frame of his bedroom window, waving at me with his fingers. To top it off, he’s half naked, no shirt, just grey sweatpants hanging from his hips. An ache sets up camp in my chest, different from the one between my legs that only dances to the beat of Wren these days.

This is fast becoming our new thing, spying on each other through our windows. Although I’ve seen Wren half-naked plenty of times, I’m now seeing him for how blessed he truly is. And I hate it.

With my eyes squeezed shut, I suck in a deep breath through my nose, counting to four before releasing it in a slow, controlled manner. My years of racing have taught me to control my breathing when the nerves kick in. But Wren is skyrocketing me towards a nervous breakdown.

Perv!

You like it. Don't lie to yourself.

That arsehat is toying with me big time. My muscles twitch with the need to rearrange his gorgeous face with my fists. In our five years of living next door to each other and going to the same school, he’s barely spoken to me, and now he’s acting like we’re friends.

We are not friends. Not even close.

Instead of responding, I flip him off before yanking my curtains closed so I can change into my pyjamas. I’m sure Wren would love it if I undressed for him, so I’ll do the opposite of making him happy.

Clive has yet to reply to me, and I know for a fact the second picture would have sent him into a tailspin had he read his messages, so the only logical explanation why he hasn’t texted me back is Trevor.

There are several episodes of that crime documentary I still have to watch, so I open Netflix and press play on the next episode. This one is about some woman who murdered her husband in the shower after she found text messages on his phone from another woman.

I store a few notes in my brain bank of imaginary murder plans for the most annoying neighbour in history, speaking of which has just messaged me.

Again.

What are you doing?

Planning your murder.

Please tell.

If I told you, it’d ruin the surprise.

Funny! I hope you’re joking.

You’ll just have to wait and see.

Can’t wait.

For whatever reason, and to my horror, I’m grinning at Wren’s messages, and staring at them way too long. I drop the phone back on the bed before I head downstairs to get a drink.

Why, why, why, Matilda?

I have so much to focus on, and none of those things should be Wren. He can’t be something I want because if he is, then I’m utterly fucked.

I can see it play out now, he’ll work his magic on me, like he does every other girl – not that I’ll be easy, but I’m not that bloody strong – then, at some point he’ll wear me down, and Christ, I just have to look at him these days, and my body thinks it’s running a damn marathon. When he’s finished with me, I’ll just be another one of those no-names who dropped their underwear because Wren Stevenson smiled at them.

Pretty as he may be, I can’t afford to mess anything up.

With my fingers pressed into my temples, my elbows resting on the white granite top of my kitchen bench, I take a deep breath, my decision made. Running and school will remain my top priorities, and even though I have to work with Wren to make school a priority, I’ll keep my walls up, focus on what I need to, and in ten weeks’ time when we graduate, the boy next door will be just that. A beautiful boy I used to live next door to.

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