Page 94 of Lose You Twice

I am not built for this.

“Mercer, if you stare much more, you’re going to trip over something,” Wren says, already turning away from me. “I have to go change.”

I shut the door behind me as she rushes up the stairs.

With the distraction of her gone, the house hits me all at once.

Noise. Clutter. Heat. Toast burning somewhere. A child yelling from upstairs. Someone else yelling back. A timer beeping. There are shoes by the door, mail on the entry table, folded laundry on the bottom stair, and a half-finished poster board leaning against the wall with a glitter sun in the corner.

My pulse ticks up.

Not fear, exactly. More like my brain opening too many tabs at once. I’m used to the rink before dawn. Tape in the right drawer. Sticks lined up. Gear hung to dry. Ice cut clean. My apartment is quiet enough that the hum of the fridge sometimes feels loud.

This is the opposite of that.

This is Wren.

A walking tornado with one sock, messy hair, and my old hockey shirt under a cardigan she probably threw on because she forgot I was coming until I was already on the porch. She is the polar opposite of me in almost every way. She runs late. She leaves cabinets open. She makes jokes when she’s cornered. She holds six problems in her hands and somehow reaches for a seventh.

Except there’s one place we match.

The loyalty.

Taking care of everyone else before yourself.

That part I recognize too well.

A small figure barrels around the corner and skids to a stop in front of me. Daisy has bedhead, unicorn pajamas, and one sparkly shoe on the wrong foot.

“Hockey Kai,” she announces.

“Morning.”

She squints at me. “You’re early.”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Apparently.”

Justin points at her with his granola bar. “Daisy, why are you wearing one shoe?”

“Because Lily said we’re doing things fast.”

I chuckle, bending down to her height. “That probably means we should get dressed and get the shoes we’re going to wear to school on our feet.”

Daisy looks down. “Oh.”

Wren dashes back down the stairs, now in a pair of jean shorts and a sweater that hangs off one shoulder, fixing her hair into a messy clip at the back of her head.

She takes in the scene down here and takes a deep breath before closing her eyes.

I take one step closer, carefully, because she already looks two seconds away from fighting me or crying or throwing the clip. “What do you need from me?”

Her eyes open.

Wren points toward the kitchen. “Justin, don’t rewrite your entire poster. Daisy, find your other shoes.” She turns to yell back up the stairs. “Lily, if you’re dressed, come downstairs. If you’re not dressed, become dressed. Holden⁠—”