Page 13 of Lose You Twice

“I can miss.”

I glare at him, appreciative that he continues to offer, but displeased that we keep having to have the same conversation repeatedly. “No, you can’t.”

“It’s one practice.”

“And you love it, you’re good at it, and you need it for a scholarship.”

His jaw shifts, but he gets out. Before shutting the door, he leans back in and says, “There’s some money in the cup holder.”

I look down.

There’s a twenty and a few dollar bills folded under an old receipt. My throat tightens. “Holden.”

“For gas. I’d rather not have you stuck somewhere and leave me alone with the littles tonight,” he says and shuts the door before I can argue.

I sit there for a few moments with my hands on the wheel, trying to figure out how exactly we got here.

My junior year of high school wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Dad had a great job, Mom was able to do what she had always wanted and stayed home with us kids, never missing a single game or competition, a school recital, or anything in between. Sure, they had had their moments over the years, but I don’t think any couple who had been together for twenty-three years wouldn’t.

The end of my junior year is when it all went to hell.

I came home from school one day to my mom crying at the kitchen table, my dad nowhere to be found. She told me that Dad would be gone for a few days, which turned into weeks, then months. By the time the first day of senior year came around, they had filed for divorce.

I’ve seen my dad twice since then, refusing to speak to him either time. Eventually, we found out why they split. He cheated, had been for years, but this was the first time my mom had ever found out. It destroyed her.

She had devoted most of her life to making sure everything at home ran smoothly, so he could focus on his job. From the outside looking in, you’d think we’d have been the perfect family.

I guess perfection is only as good as the illusion.

My phone buzzes, breaking me from my thoughts.

8:04 — HEAD TO CLASS. DO NOT CRY IN A SCHOOL PARKING LOT. BAD FOR UR REP.

I laugh once because the alternative is worse, tuck the money into my wallet, and drive to campus.

By the time I make it to Pacific Coast University nearly forty minutes later, I am twelve minutes late to being early, which is basically on time if you’re a glass-half-full kinda gal.

I have to park in the far lot because all the good spots are gone, shove my laptop into my bag, and speed-walk toward the humanities building.

“Wren!”

I turn just in time for Harlow Mercer to appear out of the crowd, looking like a golden angel with two cups of coffee in her hands.

She carefully wraps both of her arms around me in a quick hug.

“Please tell me that coffee is for me,” I say into her shoulder. “Also, hi.”

“Hi.” She pulls back, eyes immediately scanning my face. “You look⁠—”

“Beautiful? Radiant? Like winter term is already my personal runway?”

“Like you slept in a dryer.”

I nod, accepting my fate. “Honestly, that feels valid.”

Her smile softens. “Rough morning?”

“A new normal morning.”