Page 52 of Lose You Twice

I scrub with more force. “Haven’t replied.”

He nods in understanding, heading down the hall to his room. I hear his shower turn on, and give up on making the already spotless counter any more spotless. I grab a cup of water and pick up my bag off the floor before walking to my room. I close the door behind me, fish out my phone, and plop onto my bed.

Unlocking my screen, it’s still just the one message from Wren mixed in with dozens of other notifications.

Just the one message.

I could answer now. I should answer now. I know that.

Knowing does not make my thumb move, because if I answer, the conversation starts. If the conversation starts, I have to know what she needs. If I know what she needs, I know I’ll want to fix it. And if I want to fix it, I’ll have to remember I don’t have the right.

That is the part I don’t know how to handle.

What am I allowed to be to her now?

8

KAI

The next two days pass in a blur of little sleep and being an absolute chicken shit, refusing to reply to a simple fucking text. Not sure if I’m more scared or stubborn; who the hell knows.

All I know is that by the time we finish practice Friday afternoon, I feel like I’ve been run over by a dump truck that decided to pull forward and back up a few times for good measure.

I push open the locker room door behind Weston and Grayson, still consumed in my own stupid thoughts.

Then I see her.

For a second, I don’t understand what I’m looking at.

She’s wearing her hair in her favorite space buns, black leggings, and her neon pink sneakers. My eyes snag on the PCU polo she’s wearing, and that’s when the pieces start clicking into place.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I mutter.

Not quietly enough.

Weston makes a strangled sound behind me, and Grayson suddenly becomes extremely interested in untying his skates, even though we are both still standing.

Wren looks up.

Her eyes meet mine, and there it is.

That glint.

I know it too well. It used to show up in high school right before she said something that got both of us in trouble. Right before she dared me to kiss her in the hall between classes or convinced me that sneaking out after curfew was reasonable because the stars were prettier when we weren’t supposed to be out looking at them.

I drop my helmet onto the bench harder than necessary and walk toward her.

Every step feels watched.

Probably because it is.

I stop a foot away. Close enough to see the small crease between her brows. Close enough to notice the purple ink on the side of her hand, and the way she grips the jerseys tighter when I get near.

“What are you doing here?”

Her mouth curves, causing her dimples to peek out.

I have not earned the right to react to those anymore, so I don’t.