She decided not to think about it.
As they swung into Wren’s car, she turned to him and smiled. “You know, there are a few things I wouldn’t mind doing this evening, if you’re game.”
He looked at her and grinned. “I’m up for anything,” he answered. “As long as it’s with you.”
And off they went.
Two hours later, Spencer had a new pair of shoes from a shopping spree on Walnut Street, felt much more relaxed from the ten-minute neck massage she’d gotten from one of the Chinese women on the sidewalk in Rittenhouse Square, and was delightfully full after an impromptu cheese-tasting session at a small tapas bar on 19th Street. It was the most spontaneous she’d behaved in, well, maybe ever, and it felt good to shed that old Spencer Hastings attitude and embrace someone much more lighthearted, at least for one more day.
After a few more whirlwind stops wherever struck her fancy, she and Wren were walking hand-in-hand, her shopping bag swinging at her side, along Chestnut Street toward downtown. Suddenly, she spied something in the distance and squeezed his hand. “Let’s go for a carriage ride!”
Wren looked at her, seeming startled. “You want to go for a carriage ride? As I recall, you told me once that you thought they were cheesy and inhumane.”
Spencer frowned, vaguely remembering telling Wren that during one of their torrid make-out fests when she’d snuck into the city to be with him in the beginning of junior year. Well, that was the old Spencer. “Come on,” she said, grabbing his hand and dragging him to the line of horses and buggies on the square.
After Wren handed over forty bucks to a man in a top hat, tails, and Benjamin Franklin–style wire-rimmed glasses, the two of them climbed into the backseat of the carriage and snuggled under the provided flannel blanket, which smelled a teensy bit like manure. Spencer looked at Wren and smiled. “Isn’t this fun?”
“Sure,” Wren said. “Then again, anything’s fun with you.”
He pulled her closer, and Spencer sighed happily. The whole night, they’d found excuses to touch each other—playful little hand grabs, feet brushes under the table, a knee squeeze. She leaned in to kiss him, but suddenly Wren placed his hand on her shoulder, gently pushing her back.
“Whoa, Spencer,” he said, his British accent especially lilting. “We don’t have to rush things. Can we be serious for a minute?”
She cocked her head. “We’ve been serious all night.”
He raised an eyebrow. “We’ve been spontaneous all night. Which is, forgive me for saying this, not exactly the type-A Spencer Hastings I know. You’ve seemed . . . speedy. Like we’re rushing from activity to activity so you don’t have to think about anything.”
“No, I haven’t,” Spencer answered automatically, though Wren was pretty much right on the mark.
His gaze fell to the leather bag he was carrying. “I have something for you.”
He pushed a brown-paper–wrapped object into her hands. Spencer frowned and opened it. Inside was a copy of Nelson Mandela’s memoir from prison.
“What’s this for?” she asked, looking up at him.
Wren’s Adam’s apple wobbled. “I thought it might help if . . . you know. If you do have to go to prison. If justice isn’t done. You are allowed to bring books into prison. I mean, the guard will check through it, but it’s clean.”
Spencer riffled the pages between her fingers. “Oh. Well, thank you.”
Wren cleared his throat. “You’ve hardly talked about the trial with me—or what might happen. But I want you to know that you can.”
Spencer was grateful that the horse-drawn carriage was passing through a particularly dark section of the square so Wren couldn’t see her conflicted expression. “I’m trying not to think about the trial,” she admitted.
“I know,” he said gently. “But maybe you should think about it. And we should think about how we can see each other. I’ll visit you, you know—if it comes to that. And we can have phone calls, and—”
Spencer crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t want to talk about any of that.”
Wren frowned. “I’m going to be there for you, Spencer. This isn’t some random little fling for me. The more I talk to you, the more I spend time with you—I know it’s crazy, but well, I’m crazy about you, Spencer. I want to try this out, for real. See where it leads.”
A lump formed in her throat. I’m crazy about you. The thing was, she realized, she wanted to try this out, too.
But she knew exactly where it would lead. She was disappearing the next day. Cutting off all ties. She suddenly understood what Angela had meant, when she said that some people chose prison over disappearing because they couldn’t let go of their families and loved ones. If she disappeared, everyone in her life would essentially be dead.
But she couldn’t think about that now. She turned to Wren and shook her finger. “You’re ruining the romantic moment. Now let’s sit back, look at the stars, and breathe in the horse poop, shall we?”
Wren’s eyes shone under a passing street lamp. He looked so dissatisfied. “Is this because of what happened to us before? Is that why you’re not letting me in?”
I’m not letting you in because I can’t let you in! Spencer wanted to shout. She wanted to tear at her hair and punch the sky and scream until her lungs were raw. This was so unfair. She’d finally found a guy she liked, and now she had to say good-bye.