The Infinite Moment of Us by Lauren Myracle
“Hey, Wren?” Tessa said. She tapped Wren’s shoulder. “Can I say one teeny-tiny thing?” She tapped Wren’s shoulder again. “Please? Pretty please? Just one teensy-weensy little thing?”
“What?” Wren said.
“You look really hot.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Wren wasn’t convinced, but she hoped so. “Well … thanks. And you look amazing.”
“Why, thank you,” Tessa said with a happy grin.
“And, Tessa?”
“Yes, Wren?”
She started to tell Tessa about her afternoon, and how she wept in her bedroom after the big talk with her parents, and how she wasn’t positive her parents would ever love her again.
Except of course they would. Of course they did. Didn’t they?
Why was Wren always trying to convince herself of things? Her brain was like a gerbil on a wheel, spinning and spinning in its ceaseless gerbil way. For a moment, everything locked up and she felt paralyzed. Then she thought, What the hell. Let it all go.
“Let’s do anything we want tonight,” she said to Tessa. “What do you think?”
“Absolutely,” Tessa said.
She cranked up the music and sang along, and Wren, catching her hair in a ponytail with her hand, turned toward the open window and closed her eyes. She let herself be swept away.
Ammon said, finding Charlie by the open front door to P.G.’s mansion. Neither boy had entered the house. It looked like a movie set inside—the arched front door opening into a well-lit foyer, the guests milling about, smiles and laughter and the clink of ice against glass. Just past the foyer, Charlie spotted caterers serving flutes of what appeared to be either champagne or sparkling apple juice. Charlie put his money on champagne.
“Just tell me where to sign, and I’ll do it,” Ammon said.
“I don’t think it works that way,” Charlie said.
“It might. It could. The Barbees could adopt me.”
Charlie’s mouth twitched. “You want to be P.G.’s little brother?”
Ammon, in his oversize shirt, flung out his arms. “Twin brother, yo. And it could happen. You know why? Because this is a time of no rules. Everything’s changing, and no one cares anymore about social standing, or who’s cool and who’s not.” He stepped directly into Charlie’s line of vision, his face half a foot away from Charlie’s. “The playing field’s been leveled, Charlie. Do you appreciate what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, sure,” Charlie said, moving to one side. He continued to scan the party guests, and—whoa. There she was, just past the foyer, laughing with her friend Tessa. She was gorgeous. When he’d seen Wren at school, he’d thought she looked great in her never-wrinkled blouses and skirts. He’d thought her style of dressing was better than the other girls’ jeans and T-shirts.
Charlie now realized he’d missed out on one key factor. A girl in jeans and a T-shirt looked amazing, if the girl was Wren Gray. Even if the shirt said Speedster! across the front and sported a picture of a girl on a motorcycle. Especially if the shirt said Speedster! and sported a picture of a girl on a motorcycle.
Her curves made him hard.
“—even listening, Charlie?” Ammon said. He lightly slapped Charlie’s cheek. “Dude, you still with me?”
“Huh?”
“Something’s up with you, buddy. I noticed it this morning at the ceremony, too.” He slung his arm around Charlie, rising up slightly in his puffy high-tops to do so. “Tell your old pal about it. Go on.”
Charlie wrenched his attention from Wren. He moved so that Ammon’s arm fell off him, but he looked at Ammon, blinked, and said, “I’m going to ask out Wren Gray.”
“Pardon?”
“On a date. I’m going to ask her if she wants to do something.”
“To do something,” Ammon repeated. “Like what? Bowling?”
“Anything, as long as it’s with me.”
“With you.”
“With me. Yes.”
Ammon opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.
“What?” Charlie said.
“I said everything’s changing. I fully own up to that, and I fully hold that it’s still mainly true. Mainly.” He puffed his cheeks with air, then exhaled. “But, Charlie, some laws stay laws even when all the others fall away. Like … gravity. Like the movement of the planets. I mean, the sun still revolves around the earth, right?”
Charlie raised his eyebrows. “Does it?”
“It does. Yes.”
Charlie had to laugh. “The earth revolves around the sun, Ammon.”
“Whatever. You know what I’m saying.”
“That Wren’s out of my league?”
“No. No way. I’m saying she’s out of everyone’s league, because she’s not in a league. She’s, like, in a league of her own.”
Charlie nodded. He would agree with that.
Ammon looked pained. “I’m just keeping it real, bro.”
“No worries,” Charlie said. He cocked his head at P.G.’s house. “I’m going in.”
Ammon’s voice went up a pitch. “In there? Where all the people are?”
“Yep. I’m going to ask Wren out.” He clapped Ammon on the back. “Just keeping it real, bro.”
When Charlie first spotted Wren, she’d been in one of the front rooms, standing by an antique sideboard. By the time he angled his way through the crowd of milling, happy seniors, and people from other grades, too—people from other schools, too, from the looks of it—she was gone.
He went into the dining room, glanced around, and scratched the back of his neck. He checked the living room, the TV room, and a room he assumed was a library, based on the shelves and shelves of books. P.G.’s house was huge. The party was huge. Wren could be anywhere.
He came to a room that he didn’t know what to call, or what purpose it served. No shelves, no tables, not much in the way of furniture at all. Just a tiled floor, a ceiling fan, and two overstuffed armchairs. Huh. No people in this odd side room, either, so Charlie turned to go.
“Hey, wait, can you give me a hand?” a guy called.
Charlie turned back with a start. P.G. Barbee, the guy who lived in this huge, crazy house, was kneeling by a large oak liquor cabinet. Broken glass glittered around him. He dropped a large shard into a dustpan full of other large fragments, then gestured at a broom propped against the liquor cabinet and the wall. He flexed his fingers impatiently. “You think you could …?”
“Right. Sorry.” Charlie stepped carefully over the glass, grabbed the broom, and thrust it at P.G.
“Some ass-hat dropped a bottle of my dad’s bourbon,” P.G. said. He didn’t take the broom but shifted his weight to his heels. “Would you just sweep the glass in? There’s tons of tiny pieces, like glass dust. Shit. But, hey, keep your eye out for the stopper. It’s got this, like, horse guy on it. What do you call those horse guys? You know, those guys who ride racehorses?”
“A jockey?” Charlie answered, trying to keep his tone neutral. Was P.G. making fun of him in some complicated way? The Barbees had lawn jockeys in their front yard. Did P.G. call the lawn jockeys “horse guys”?
“Yeah. That.” P.G. grinned. “Man, I’ve wanted that jockey since I was—shit. Ten? Twelve? It’s taken my dad this long to finish the damn bottle, and hell if I’m going to throw it away now.”
P.G.’s dad hadn’t finished the bottle, not if someone broke it. Charlie wondered if P.G.’s father would be pissed. He wondered if P.G.’s father was even here, or his mother, for that matter. Charlie had seen plenty of caterers but no other grown-ups.
He didn’t ask. He swept glass into the dustpan. With his third reach of the broom, he pulled out a cork stopper with a metal base with a tiny statue of a racehorse and a jockey fixed to it. He grabbed it and offered it to P.G.
“Here,” he said.
“Sweet!” P.G. exclaimed. He grinned at Charlie, and Charlie grinned back before realizing it.
“See how he’s le
“Cool,” Charlie said.
P.G. propped one knee beneath him, evening out his weight. “Thanks, man. You’re Charlie, right? Charlie Parker?”
Charlie nodded.
“I’m P.G. This is my place.”
“Yep,” Charlie said. “Uh, great party.”
“Thanks. Hey, that Starrla chick you’re always with. Is she your girl?”
Charlie was more than surprised. “Is she …?” He raised his eyebrows, then pulled them together. He couldn’t find words.
“She’s smokin’—I’ll give you that,” P.G. said.
“She’s not my girl, no,” Charlie finally said. He grew suspicious. Was P.G. interested in her? He shouldn’t be. If he was, it was for the wrong reasons. “Why?”
“Relax, man. I’m asking for a friend. For my girlfriend’s friend.” P.G. considered. “Maybe my girlfriend. On the way to being my girlfriend, at least, I hope.”
Charlie was baffled. P.G. was asking about Starrla on behalf of his maybe-girlfriend’s friend? Who was P.G.’s maybe-girlfriend, and who was her friend?
“Who is this guy?” he asked, because Starrla wasn’t his girl, but he would still look out for her if he could.
“Huh? What guy?”
“The guy who’s … after Starrla. Interested in her. Whatever.”
“Huh? You lost me, dude. What are you talking about?”
“What are you talking about?”
P.G. regarded him. “Tessa Haviland. That’s who I’m talking about, not some guy. Tessa’s awesome. Her best friend’s Wren Gray. Awesome girl, too. She was asking about you.”
Charlie couldn’t process this. “She … Wren Gray … in the motorcycle shirt …”
P.G. chuckled. “You know who she is, then. And, yeah, amazing body. I agree.”
What? Charlie hadn’t said anything about Wren’s body. He didn’t like P.G. discussing it, either, amazing though it was.
“She’s interested in you, man. If you’re interested back—and I’m getting the feeling you are—well, she’s with Tessa in the sunroom.”
Charlie rubbed his temple, his fingers going to the scar along the side of his right eyebrow. He dropped his arm when he realized what he was doing.
“Go back through the living room and hang a right,” P.G. said. He lifted the dustpan. “I’ll be there in a sec.”
Charlie propped the broom against the wall. Dazed, he headed out of the liquor-cabinet room. He tried to remember where the dining room was.
“Thanks for your help, man,” P.G. called. “And thanks for finding the horse guy!”
Wren wasn’t in the sunroom. Neither was Tessa. Maybe because, even with P.G.’s directions, it took Charlie far too long to find it—and when he did, he wasn’t even sure it was the sunroom. The rooms in this house needed labels.
He finally found Wren and Tessa by wide French doors overlooking an outdoor pool. Wren spotted Charlie, and her eyes widened. She smiled.
He worked his way through the crowd to get to her.
“… sure I do,” Tessa was saying. “Anyway, you’re too sensitive. Anyway—Charlie!” Her laser beam gaze brought Charlie to a dead stop. “Wren! It’s Charlie!” She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward them, wobbling a little. “The real live Charlie Parker, from El Elegante! Remember?”
Wren’s cheeks turned red. “Oh my God. Tessa?”
“El Elegante?” Charlie said. “Uh, what’s El Elegante?”
Tessa tugged on her skirt. “Frick. I. Am. So hot. Jesus Christ. Is it burning up in here, or is it me?”
“It’s you,” Wren said. To Charlie, she said, “Ignore her. She’s had too much champagne.”
“I have,” Tessa agreed. She fanned herself. “El Elegante is a Mexican restaurant. Wren and I ate lunch there yesterday with P.G.” She glanced around the room. “Where’d that boy go? P.G.! Where are you, P.G.?”
“He’s coming,” Charlie said. “Someone broke something. He was—we were—cleaning it up.”
“Awww, you helped him,” Tessa said. “That was nice.” She whispered, very loudly, “Holy pickles, Wren, he’s totally cute. Not as cute as P.G., but yes. Totally cute.”
She gave Wren a thumb’s-up, and Wren whacked her.
“Owwie,” Tessa said, stumbling a little but grinning. “And, Charlie, guess what?”
“Tessa—”
“When we were at El Elegante, guess who Wren kept going on and on about? Want me to tell you?”
“No,” Wren said. “Oh my God.” She took Charlie’s arm. “Will you come with me? Please?”
Charlie let Wren pull him away, but he heard Tessa raise her voice and say, “She was going on and on about you! And how wonderful she thinks you are! And cute! And wonderful! Right, Wren?”
Wren walked faster. Charlie wanted to comfort her, to tell her everything was fine. No big deal. But cute and wonderful were helicoptering madly in his brain, and a fizzy feeling pushed against his ribs. He realized he was grinning, and he clamped down to make his grin go away.
It came back.
They passed P.G. as they pushed through the French doors.
“Hey, hey,” P.G. said to Charlie. “You don’t waste time, do you?”
“Do not let Tessa drive,” Wren told him. “I’ll take her home, okay? But she’s drunk, and …” She shook her head. “Can you go to her? And take care of her?”
“On my way,” P.G. said, slipping past them.
Wren led Charlie a little farther, not toward the pool but toward a courtyard sort of space. Japanese lanterns hung from the trees, and strings of Christmas lights made the lush ivy twinkle in the dusk as if lit by a thousand fireflies. It gave the backyard a magical feeling.
Or maybe that was Wren.
A cluster of stoner-druggie kids sat about ten feet away, sprawled over one another and laughing.
“Your shirt! It’s breathing!” one of them sputtered, ratcheting up their laughter another notch.
Charlie didn’t care about them. He cared about Wren.
She let go of him, and he missed her touch. She turned her back to him and stared up at the sky. Night had fallen, and the first stars had winked their way into existence, twinkling against a palette of inky purples, deep reds, and one last slice of pearly, light-infused blue. It was a blue that reminded Charlie of the ocean, or of pictures of the ocean. He’d never been. He wondered what Wren saw.
He stepped forward. Their shoulders barely touched.
“Tessa …” Wren began. She kept her eyes on the sky. “She’s great. I love her. She’s my best friend.”
“Okay,” Charlie said.
“But she’s so big. She’s just so big.” She hugged her arms around herself. “Her personality, I mean.”
Charlie didn’t know Tessa well, but he could see that.
“And El Elegante. Yes, it’s a restaurant. But Tessa—oh, I don’t know. I am so sorry. Could she not tell how much she was embarrassing me?”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Charlie said, adding silently, And absolutely nothing to feel embarrassed about. Nothing.
She dropped her gaze and toed the ground. The stoners were loud, and their conversation filled the silence. Bats. They’d moved from breathing shirts to something about bats.
“—not the way, man. Totally won’t work,” a guy with greasy hair said.
“No,” stated a girl with a squeaky voice. “If you let the bat sit long enough—”
“But you can’t cure something by just letting it sit there,” said a second girl. “Not even a bat.”
“To properly cure a bat, the first thing you have to do is eviscerate it,” pronounced a pale, lanky boy wearing a Bob Marley T-shirt and, for some reason, a lei.
“The first thing you have to do is kill it,” the greasy-haired boy said.
“Ugh,” Wren whispered. Her eyes, wide and alarmed, met Charlie’s.
The lanky boy continued with his
“I know a park nearby,” he blurted. He gestured toward the street. “I’ve got my car. We could go there and talk, if you want.”
Wren bit her lip. She was startled, Charlie could tell, and he mentally kicked himself for being so unsmooth. I know a park nearby. Why would Wren want to go to a park with him?
She looked over her shoulder at P.G.’s mansion. Voices and boisterous laughter spilled out, competing with the dead-animal debate the stoners were vehemently engaged in.
Charlie opened his mouth to say, “Never mind, crazy idea,” but Wren spoke first.
“Sure,” she said. She tilted her head and gave him a beautiful smile. “That sounds nice.”
drunk college kids—Wren assumed they were college kids because of their Georgia Tech T-shirts, and because they looked old in a way that even Tessa and P.G. couldn’t yet pull off—and they were as loud as the bat killers back at the graduation party had been, if not louder.
There could be no talking here. No nice boy to unsadden her. Her heart felt heavy, and after a Frisbee flew at her out of the darkness, making her duck, she exhaled and said, “We should go.”
“Already?” Charlie said. “We just got here.”
“Yeah, but …” She gestured at the partiers by the swing set.
One of them cupped his hands over his mouth and called, “Yo! Frisbee! Sorry ’bout that!”
Charlie knelt, grabbed the Frisbee, and threw it deftly back at the group. To Wren, he said, “One second.” He started for his car, then stopped. Came back for Wren and took her hand. “Actually, come with me.”
Wren’s tummy turned over. Charlie was … why was Charlie holding her hand? She’d held his arm earlier, but that was to get him away from Tessa, and she hadn’t thought about it first. She’d just done it. But unless she was mistaken, he was holding her hand on purpose.
She looked at their linked hands as if the answer lay there. She noticed the stitches on his thumb from his visit to Grady Hospital two days ago. She took in, again, how strong and capable his fingers were. With his hand curled protectively around hers, she felt safe—only, as soon as she recognized the feeling, she tugged her hand free. Or tried to. He tightened his grip, striding across the grass.