Page 11 of Lose You Twice

“It’s fine,” I say.

Before she can say whatever apology is already forming, Holden walks in wearing jeans, a hoodie, and the expression of a sixteen-year-old boy who would rather still be in his bed than here.

“Morning,” he mumbles.

“Wow,” I say. “A full word. Personal growth.”

He opens the fridge. “Don’t start.”

“Too late. I’ve started.”

“Do we have eggs?”

“We have cereal.”

He stares into the fridge for another second, then closes it. “Cereal’s fine.”

It isn’t. He’s six feet tall and constantly hungry, but cereal is fast, and fast is what we have.

Justin comes thundering down the stairs five minutes later with wet hair, one shoe on, and his backpack half-open.

“Has anyone seen my homework packet?”

“No,” Holden and I say at the same time.

Justin looks betrayed. “You don’t even know which packet.”

“You lose all packets equally,” I tell him.

“I don’t lose them. They relocate.”

“Into the trash?” Holden asks.

“That happened one time.”

“More like once a week,” I murmur, finishing up the sandwiches, cutting the crust and making sure I have them in the lunch boxes.

The twins run into the kitchen wearing matching pink coats because apparently the sock war ended in diplomacy. Daisy’s hair is brushed on one side and wild on the other. Lily has toothpaste on her sleeve.

I check my phone.

6:37 — HAIR. SHOES. BACKPACKS. GODSPEED.

I look at the room.

My mom is watching all of us with guilt in her eyes, holding her keys in her hand.

I hand Mom her lunch and nudge her toward the door. “You gotta go, Mom, or you’ll be late.”

She quickly kisses the twins, squeezes Justin’s shoulder, tells Holden to text her when he gets to school, then pauses beside me. “I’ll transfer money for gas after my break.”

“Don’t worry about it. I have more than enough for the week.”

I do not have enough gas. She knows that since she drove my car over the weekend while hers was getting an oil change. I know she knows that. We both pretend anyway because pretending is really the best we can do at this point.

She kisses my temple. “Thank you.”

Then she’s out the door.