Page 32 of Lose You Twice

Walking inside, I set my keys in the bowl by the door, having to nudge them once until they sit flat.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Fishing it out, I see a text from Grayson.

Grayson: I’m running behind, but harlow is stopping by. i made some pasta salad before film for her so don’t touch it. weston already tried eating it.

I get another text before I’m finished reading whatever he sent next. This one from Harlow.

Harlow: Coming up now. Wren is with me. Be normal!!

I freeze with one hand on the fridge door.

For a second, all I hear is the rush of blood in my ears.

Be normal.

There are two problems with that.

The first is that Harlow only tells me to be normal when she has very little faith I’m capable of it.

The second is that I haven’t been normal about Wren for a single day in my life.

I hear the click of the lock before I can decide whether to flee, hide, or attempt to act like I don’t care.

The door opens; Harlow comes in first, cheeks pink like she’s been laughing, her eyes meeting mine for just a second, but my gaze shifts the second Wren steps in behind her.

And there goes any chance I had at acting normal.

I can’t help myself, my eyes taking in every inch of her. She’s wearing bright pink Converse with lime-green laces, her tan legs disappearing under denim shorts that have been frayed along the edges. A white shirt hugs the curve of her waist, a sliver of skin peeking out from beneath the fabric. Her hair is twisted up with a claw clip, but half of it has escaped around her face. And her eyes, pools of blue that I’d happily drown in, are now focused right on mine.

A faint blush brings the prettiest shade of pink to her cheeks, hiding her freckles slightly.

“Hi,” she says.

One word.

Ridiculous, how much damage one word can do.

“Hi.”

Harlow looks between us with the subtlety of a flashing hazard sign. “Great. Love this. Everyone is being so normal.”

I glare at her.

Wren lets out a tiny laugh under her breath.

Grayson appears in the doorway, saving all of us from whatever fresh hell Harlow was about to orchestrate. She lights up and turns to him immediately, throwing her arms around his neck, and he catches her like he’s been waiting all day to do exactly that.

Which leaves Wren by the door, and me in the kitchen, with about six feet of space between us that somehow feels like every mile from the last three years.

“You can come in,” I say.

Her mouth quirks. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure if there was a formal entry process.”

“Usually a background check.”

“Strict.”

“Very.”