Page 191 of Lose You Twice

“Also,” Harlow adds gently, “you saw her for four seconds.”

“I know what I felt.” Weston leans back in his seat, pouting. “Some friends all of you are. I thought you were supposed to be supportive.”

“You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry your future wife is dating a rival team’s captain.”

Weston narrows his eyes. “Your fake sincerity is weak as fuck.”

“And so is your chance with her,” Asher deadpans.

The table falls apart laughing.

“I hate all of you,” Weston mumbles, throwing another peanut Asher’s way before downing the rest of his drink in one go. “All of you will change your mind, just you wait.”

Looking around the table, I know I’ll miss everyone here like crazy whenever I leave PCU, especially the blue-eyed blonde leaning against my chest.

33

WREN

9:10 — ULTRASOUND. DRINK WATER. DO NOT PEE!

Nothing says “have a great day” like chugging water all morning and then having to sit and wait an extra thirty minutes for your ultrasound.

“Wrenley Calloway?”

My stomach drops with sudden nerves. I stand too fast, and my bladder immediately threatens to explode.

The ultrasound tech is around my mom’s age, maybe younger, with kind eyes and a voice that sounds like she has said the same twelve sentences a thousand times and still remembers there is a person on the other side of them.

“Hi,” she says. “Come on back.”

The room is dim and cool. There’s a narrow bed covered in white paper, a monitor turned slightly away, a counter with supplies lined in neat rows.

The tech explains what will happen. First part with a full bladder. Then I’ll empty it. Then another part, if I’m comfortable, for clearer images.

If I’m comfortable. I nearly laugh.

Comfort left the chat at thirty-two ounces of water.

But I nod because nodding is easier than explaining that the physical part bothers me less than the chances of them finding nothing and being no closer to the root of my problems. The way techs can’t say much, even if they see something. The way I will stare at a screen full of gray shapes and pretend I’m not trying to decode my own body from shadows.

“Any chance you could be pregnant?” she asks.

“No.” The word comes out fast. I clear my throat before clarifying. “I don’t think so. I’m on birth control.”

She doesn’t say anything, just nods and checks a box.

I lie back on the paper.

It crinkles under me, loud in the quiet of the room.

The first part is uncomfortable in a way that makes me want to crawl out of my skin politely. The gel is warm, the pressure uncomfortable over my too-full bladder, but not to the point of pain, and the tech’s face stays professionally neutral as she moves the wand across my lower stomach. Click. Pause. Click again.

I study the ceiling tiles. There’s a small crack in one of them, thin and crooked, running from the corner toward the center. I count the dots in the tile around it.

Seventeen. Then twenty-four. Then I lose track when the pressure gets worse, and my hand clenches around the edge of the paper.

“You’re doing great,” the tech says.