It still surprised Spencer that someone wanted to know this stuff—but then, Wren had always taken a genuine interest in who she was. Taking a deep breath, she began to describe the bullying blog. “I think it would have made a great book,” she said wistfully. “There are so many stories that deserve to be told.”
“You can still write it, you know,” Wren reminded her. “After all, Cervantes wrote Don Quixote in prison.”
Spencer looked up at him, surprised. “Really?”
“And O. Henry wrote tons of his short stories while incarcerated for embezzlement.”
Spencer’s eyes lit up. “I love his stories.”
“Me, too.” Wren placed his chin in his hands. “I was always kind of sheepish to admit it, though. O. Henry was uncool with my classmates.”
Spencer snickered. “My AP English class always tried to outdo one another with obscure writers. I’m sure it would’ve been even worse at Princeton.”
“So what would your major be, if you were to go?” Wren asked.
Spencer sat back and thought for a moment. “When I first got in, it was going to be history, or maybe economics—my dad always thought I’d be good at business school.” She shrugged. “It’s probably not worth talking about, though. I’m not going.”
Wren laced his fingers. “I have a feeling that you will, if you want to.”
“So you think I won’t go to prison?”
He leaned forward. “I just believe that certain things have a way of working out.”
Spencer’s eyes widened. And then, before she knew it, Wren was leaning forward even more and kissing her lightly on the mouth. His lips tasted like sugar. His skin was warmed from the sun.
She pulled away fast, staring at him with her mouth open. As much as she tried to tear her gaze away from Wren’s face, all she could focus on was a tiny droplet of Coke on his upper lip that she suddenly felt the urge to brush away.
“Anyway,” Wren said in a small voice. And then he sat back in his seat and turned toward the woods, watching the trees, as if it hadn’t happened at all.
A few hours later, Spencer opened her eyes. She was lying on her bed in her bedroom, feeling groggy—she must have dozed off after Wren left, which hadn’t been long after the kiss.
The kiss. It had been only a second long, but she’d thought about it quite a bit since it happened. What had it meant? Had it just been a friendly, sympathetic peck . . . or something more? And was it a good idea for her to even get into something right now?
There were clinking noises of pots banging together and silverware being pulled from drawers coming from the kitchen. Spencer rose and padded into the hall, surprised to hear Melissa’s lilting voice downstairs. Her sister was laughing about something, clearly in a good mood. Apparently she hadn’t seen the trial recap on CNN.
She walked downstairs and found Melissa and Darren already seated at the table. Her mother, Mr. Pennythistle, and Amelia were seated as well. “What’s up?” she asked everyone.
“Spence!” Melissa’s eyes lit up. “I tried calling you! I was wondering where you were!”
Spencer frowned. “I was just upstairs.” She glanced at her mother, who probably knew that, but Mrs. Hastings just shrugged.
“Sit, sit,” Melissa said, gesturing at an empty seat next to her. “We have big news.”
Spencer slid into a seat. Melissa’s attention had turned to Darren again. It was then that Spencer noticed he was in a dark suit and a gray tie. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen him so dressed up in her life. He was also nervously fiddling with his fork. “Did I miss something?” Spencer asked.
“Well, we were just about to tell everyone.” Darren looked moonily at Melissa. “I’ve asked Melissa to marry me. And Melissa’s said yes.”
Spencer almost burst out laughing, quickly clapping her hand over her mouth before she did. Darren and Melissa were such a mismatched couple, but who was she to judge? She watched as Darren brought out a velvet ring box from his pocket and placed it in Melissa’s hands. All at once, she felt a little twinge: Had Mike proposed to Hanna like this? It sucked that she wasn’t speaking to Hanna and hadn’t gotten the story.
“I’ll do a reenactment, if you like,” Darren said. “Melissa Hastings,” he began in a far-too-sappy voice, “will you marry me?”
Melissa’s eyes widened. “Yes!” she exclaimed. “I will!”
Mrs. Hastings whooped. Mr. Pennythistle clapped his hands. Everyone was hugging, Melissa even grabbing Spencer and pulling her into the fold. “There’s more news, though,” she said over the din, then took a deep breath. “I’m also pregnant!”
Spencer’s jaw dropped. Darren beamed. Mr. Pennythistle clapped again. “How delightful!”
“H-how far along?” Mrs. Hastings stammered.
Melissa’s gaze fell bashfully to her midsection. “Nine weeks,” she said. “We just had an ultrasound, and everything looks great.” She pulled out a black-and-white picture and passed it around. Amelia and Mr. Pennythistle oohed.
When the picture made its way to Spencer, she focused hard, trying to discern where the little blob’s head and feet might be. She also felt a rush of love for her sister. Perhaps this was why Melissa didn’t want to get too involved with the Ali stuff—professing she was alive to the press, et cetera. Maybe she wanted to protect her unborn child from Ali’s wrath.
“Well, then, the wedding has to happen quickly,” Mrs. Hastings said primly, folding her hands. It was pretty clear the baby had been a surprise to her, too. “Good thing I gave Darren one of my rings for the engagement.”