Page 165 of Lose You Twice

“They were the exact same problem with different numbers.”

I point to the equation. “You subtract four from both sides.”

“Why?”

“Because you need to isolate the variable.”

“Maybe the variable likes company.”

“It doesn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know how math works.”

Wren turns slightly in her chair, and her knee presses more firmly against mine.

My brain forgets what comes after subtraction.

She watches me for a second, blue eyes bright. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“You went quiet.”

“I’m thinking.” I look back at the worksheet because looking at her feels right in a way I don’t understand.

“Subtract four,” I tell her.

She does, slowly, making a show of concentrating. Her handwriting tilts across the page messily, and when she finishes, she taps the pencil against the answer.

“Then divide by three?”

“Yeah.”

She writes the final number and circles it with a flourish. “Look at that. A genius.”

“You’ve known how to do this the whole time.”

Her eyes widen, and she puts both of her hands over her heart like I’ve offended her. “That’s a serious accusation.”

“You keep getting them right before I explain them.”

She shrugs. “Maybe you’re just a really good teacher.”

“That’s not how it works.”

Her knee shifts against mine again.

My heart beats so hard I’m sure she can hear it.

I don’t know when Wren became different from every other girl back in middle school. Maybe she always was. She’s Harlow’s loud best friend who steals food from our kitchen and leaves hair ties everywhere. She argues with adults when she thinks they’re wrong, talks through movies, and knows every embarrassing story about me because Harlow has more loyalty to her than me.

But lately, I notice things I didn’t before.

The way she bites the inside of her cheek when she’s trying not to laugh. How she always gives Harlow the better half of whatever they’re sharing. How she remembers when my games are, even though she claims hockey is “just aggressive figure skating.”

I notice when she walks into a room.