Villain

Chapter 6

CONSTANCE

I couldn't read him. His intentions were unclear, blurring my focus on everything but him. Wren was seated at our table, casually sipping on a milkshake while having an even more casual conversation with my father, throwing sly glances in my direction whenever he saw the opportunity. 

Each moment that passed made me increasingly aware of my father's new liking towards the bane of my existence. My grandmother was another issue. I could see her planning our wedding in her head at this exact moment, for there really is no other reason she would be so excited to be munching on romaine lettuce. 

I would never use the word "close" to describe our relationship, but Wren was a familiar face from the time I was still learning to finger space between words. But in my memories, that's all he was during that time-- a face. It was hard to remember the color crayons he used the most, the design on his backpack, the lunch he brought from home, whether he was giddy and rambunctious or content and calm-- he had no substance. The sequence of events spent in his presence during childhood had indelible gaps in my head, the memories like a cluster of puzzle pieces that constitute the same picture but have incongruous edges that prevent them from becoming one.

This was precisely why, despite having "known" him for over a decade, I couldn't read him at all and was a stranger to his intentions (excepting the fact that they were undoubtedly all bad). 

The clank of a tall glass being placed on our table pulled me away from my thoughts as the waitress refilled our water. Above the glass rim, Wren's indifferent glance in my direction almost appeared comical under the pink hue of the strip lights that outlined the ceiling. He turned his face partially to the side to reply to something my father had asked, the lighting creating small puddles of radiance on the bridge of his cheekbone. 

"No, entertaining the corporate world isn't really Bishop's setting," Wren was saying, his voice going uncharacteristically upwards at the end of his remark. "He's already friendly with most of the operational staff and board of dad's company, but right now he's just happy teaching high school math."

My father made a slight grunt of disapproval. "Well, it's good that he has a sibling," he remarked pointedly to Wren. "You'd be willing to take on the reins with some time then, no? It would be a shame if McCray Communications was to be dropped on outside hands. Yes, your father has been exceptional at the telecommunications business ever since its birth..."

I felt unsettled at how cavalier my father was at that moment, discussing the implications for the company after the death of Wren's father, to Wren himself. Unsurprisingly, while the amicable curve of his lips persisted, his complexion seemed slightly more pallid and the occasional brush of his knee against mine under the table indicated that he was bouncing his leg up and down with bottled-up rancor.

"These sweet potato fries are great," I chirped awkwardly, trying to prevent Wren's hatred against me from metastasizing to my entire family.  

Wren's quizzical smile at my comment resembled that of an unsure, timid friend, while I knew it secretly veiled a glare that screamed what are you saying they literally serve this at school. I flared my nostrils and smiled back for show but with a passionate undertone of a sneer that communicated I go to a public school so all I get are apple slices and sloppy tuna sandwiches, fuck you.

Our attention was thankfully captured by an abrupt burst of laughter from Wren's former table. The one engulfed in an oversized sweater with an icon of Appa and Momo was sheepishly brushing fingers through his sandy hair whilst one of the waitresses raised her eyebrows at him, trying to stifle her laughter. His apologetic grin did not go unnoticed by Wren, who took the opportunity to fabricate an excuse for leaving.

He stood. "Thank you for the treat, sir," he said, picking up his glass, which now contained a fraction of the creamy dessert. "I came with some friends, so I'll be going now. Hopefully before they rebuke me for shirking my wingman responsibilities," he quipped with the trace of a smirk.

My grandmother was was dazzled. I glanced hopelessly at my father, who, equally enchanted by Wren's wit (or whatever the hell that was), flashed him a genuine, warm smile.  "It's a pleasure to see you all grown up," my father went on. "I believe my last memory of you before tonight was when you two were in elementary and Connie had you lifted up on her shoulders so you could climb the monkey bars." His laughter was rich, and so rare during this day of the year that for a moment I couldn't take my eyes off him. 

But even more surprising was the startling trickle of a blush forming on Wren's cheeks. It confused me.

His lips parted, but it took a moment before he could say anything. "I'm surprised you remember that," he admitted. He took one last glance at me before he pushed in his chair and left.

"You know what, Connie? Gardening does wonders for my mood, but I'm starting to think that nothing can top my old hobby," my grandmother crooned, staring after our dinner guest.

My father put into words what was on my mind. "Gross."