Page 137 of Lose You Twice

Wrenley Mae: It’s chaos here.

Kai: I know.

Wrenley Mae: Like fever, laundry, twins fighting, Justin homework, germs.

Kai: I understand the risks.

This time the answer comes faster.

Wrenley Mae: You’re annoying.

Kai: so is that a yes?

A minute passes.

Wrenley Mae: Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I’m smiling when Grayson walks past.

“She good?” he asks.

“Yeah, one of the twins had to stay home sick today, and her mom had an overtime shift, so Wren volunteered to watch her.”

“And let me guess…” His mouth twitches. “You’re gonna stop by?”

“That I am. I’ll be home later.”

I stop at the store before heading to Wren’s.

It should be simple.

It’s anything but. Normally, I come in, grab what I want, which is the same all the time, so I know exactly where it is.

Now, I’m standing in the medicine aisle for nine minutes reading labels as if I have any idea what the hell I’m looking for. Forever later, I end up with a bottle of children’s fever reducer, electrolyte pops, tissues with lotion, regular tissues, two kinds of soup, crackers, a thermometer, and a stuffed dog with floppy ears that I know is unnecessary, but I buy anyway.

Then I go to the sandwich shop three doors down and order enough food for the whole house.

Turkey and cheese with double meat for Holden because I remember he likes plain food. Italian for Justin, grilled cheese for the twins because sick kids and complicated sandwiches feel like a trap. A chicken bacon ranch sandwich for Wren, pickles on the side.

There are few things my girl hates more than soggy bread.

Hold on there, buddy. She’s not your girl anymore.

But she used to be.

I remember that from high school. From cafeteria lunches to gas station sandwiches after games, and the way she used to peel a layer of bread off with dramatic disgust if the pickles touched the bread for too long.

I remember too much about Wren. It used to be useful. Then it was painful.

Now, it feels dangerous.

21

KAI

By the time I pull into her driveway, the porch light is on, and the front curtains are half-open. I sit in my truck for a second with both hands on the wheel.

I’ve done this a hundred times over the years. Still, my heart beats too hard when I climb out.