Page 2 of Lose You Twice

Which meant I spent years trying not to fall for my sister’s best friend and doing a terrible job of it.

I asked her to be my girlfriend in sixth grade.

Much like her and Harlow, we were together every chance we had until the spring before I left for college, when everything—her life, my life, Harlow, the mess of growing up—started pulling us in opposite directions. There wasn’t some big blowout, no one slammed a door. No one screamed.

We just unraveled.

Slowly. Quietly. Just like two young kids who loved each other but ran out of the right timing.

I thought I’d get over it.

Obviously, I haven’t.

Across the room, Wren laughs again, and even over the music I know it isn’t fully real. I know all her laughs. Knew them, anyway. This one is close enough to count and wrong enough to get under my skin.

Weston leans down to say something in her ear.

“I swear to God,” I mutter.

Harlow pats my arm. “Deep breaths.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re calculating exactly how many suicides you can make him skate tomorrow.”

“Four,” I say. “Minimum.”

She laughs—an actual laugh, bright and easy—and for a second I almost smile too.

Almost.

“Just go talk to her,” Harlow says again, quieter this time.

“Not tonight.”

She studies me for a second. “Then when?”

I don’t answer, because I don’t have one.

Instead, I look back across the room at the girl who’s been the answer to most of my questions since sixth grade. Weston spins her, and she laughs as he catches her.

I remind myself that I’m the one who let go first.

Doesn’t make it easier to watch.

Weston leans in again, his mouth almost at her ear, and I’m already pushing off the wall when the image blurs.

I bolt upright in bed, skin clammy, heart trying to fight its way out of my chest.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

For one disorienting second, I’m still there. In the hockey house. Music pounding. Weston’s hands on Wren’s hips. His mouth almost at her ear. Almost⁠—

I scrub both hands over my face and drag in a breath.

A dream.

A nightmare, really. Courtesy of my own subconscious, which apparently hates me.