Page 92 of Lose You Twice

Harlow’s eyes soften, which is worse than teasing. “You sure?”

No.

“Yes.”

She watches me a second longer, then nods. “Okay. I’ll text her that I’m sick, and you’re coming instead.”

I stand there while she texts, every muscle in my body suddenly aware of the plan forming around me.

Harlow frowns at her phone. “I sent a text letting her know, but it isn’t showing up as delivered. My guess would be her phone died, but I’m sure she’ll charge it tonight at some point and see it.”

“What time?”

“She said seven.”

I check my calendar in my head and ignore the way everyone watches me do it.

“I’ll be there at six forty-five.”

I sit back down, but the movie is over for me.

I hate that I want to be needed by her.

I hate more that I want to be wanted.

14

KAI

The next morning, I park outside Wren’s house at 6:39.

At 6:45, I get out.

I make my way to the porch and get ready to knock on the door when the noise reaches me. Somewhere inside, something crashes, followed by a child yelling, “I’m okay,” in a tone that suggests nobody asked yet.

I knock.

More noise.

A thump. A high-pitched argument. Wren’s voice, muffled through the door.

“I swear, if that is a shoe in the sink again⁠—”

The door swings open.

Wren stands there with her hair piled on top of her head, one sock on, one sock missing, cheeks flushed with morning chaos and eyes already narrowed at me.

“You are medically incapable of being casual, aren’t you?” she says, stepping back just enough to point at me with what looks like a granola bar. “I told Harlow seven. Just because you’re here instead of her doesn’t mean that changes to six forty-five. That means you sit in your car and pretend you’re a normal human for fifteen minutes, Kai. Fifteen minutes.”

I hear her but don’t at the same time; my attention completely consumed by the shirt she’s wearing.

My old high school hockey shirt.

I remember giving it to her after a game because she was cold and pretending she wasn’t, but I wanted to see her in it. I remember her wearing it in my car with the sleeves covering her hands. I remember wanting to keep her in it forever and being too young to understand what forever really cost.

She kept it. She kept part of me.

Wren stops mid-rant, her eyes dropping from me to herself, and she holds out a finger to stop me from saying anything, as if my brain could form a coherent sentence right now.