Page 19 of Lose You Twice

Wren: Same shit different day. It’s fine. I have to appeal something. Also maybe work-study??

Harlow: So everything is on fire?

Wren: *elmo and dumpster fire gif*

Harlow: Want me to come over?

My throat tightens before I can stop it.

Harlow showing up would help and also make it real. She would look at the red-letter bills if they were still on the counter. She would hug me, and I would either make a joke or crack right down the middle. I’d become Humpty Dumpty, and I’m not too sure I could put myself back together again.

Wren: I’m good. Twins have homework and Justin needs picked up at 4:30. Rain check?

Harlow: Always. Love you.

Wren: Love you too.

I set the phone down and exhale.

“Wren,” Daisy says from the table, pencil hovering over her worksheet. “What’s seven minus two?”

“Five.”

She writes it down. “What’s eight minus three?”

“Also five.”

Her eyes widen. “Whoa.”

Lily gives her a bored look. “The answers are all five, Daisy. Today was all about the number five.”

I do my best to cover my laugh and start to get things ready for dinner.

By the time headlights shine in through the front window, I have garlic chicken penne on the stove, the twins have completed twelve math problems with one emotional breakdown, and I have remembered three separate times that I need to look at the work-study portal.

Each time I sit down to do it, someone needs something before I can.

Justin enters through the back door with his backpack hanging off one shoulder, basketball shoes squeaking against the tile. Thankfully, another boy down our street plays on the same team, and his parents are kind enough to give Justin a ride most evenings when they have practice.

“I’m starving,” he announces.

I turn toward him with a grin. “Hi, Starving. I’m Wren.”

He stares at me, completely unimpressed. “That joke is older than you.”

“And yet it lives.”

He drops his bag by the table.

I point at it with the spoon I’m holding. He sighs like I’ve asked him to build a cathedral, then picks it up and hangs it on the chair instead, which is not the hook but is technically off the floor. I’ll take it.

“Snack?” he asks.

“Apple slices.”

“I said snack, not punishment.”

“Pretzels.”