Page 3 of Lose You Twice

The party was real. Wren dancing with Weston was, unfortunately, very much real.

But he hadn’t leaned in that close. She hadn’t looked at him like that. He hadn’t almost kissed her.

My brain added that part since being miserable with the truth wasn’t enough. I needed director’s-cut footage of my own personal hell.

I reach for my phone and squint at the screen.

4:13 a.m.

Two hours and two minutes before my alarm is supposed to go off.

Of course.

Not 4:10. Not 4:15. Something uneven and irritating instead.

I stare at the ceiling for all of five seconds before I decide I’m done pretending I’m going back to sleep. I kill the alarm so it won’t go off later and swing my legs over the side of the bed.

The apartment is dark and quiet. No sound except the low hum of the AC and my own breathing, which is already starting to even out now that I’m moving.

Moving helps.

Stillness gives my mind too much room to be an asshole.

In the bathroom, I turn the cold water on full blast and splash my face once, twice, three times. The shock cuts through the fog, but not through the image of Wren and Weston my brain decided to replay for sport.

She wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

That’s not the point.

The point is that even in a dream, even knowing none of it was real, it still lodged somewhere behind my ribs and sat there like a stone.

I brace both hands on the sink and look at myself in the mirror.

Three months ago, I hadn’t seen Wren in 1,248 days.

Not that I was counting or anything.

I brush my teeth, wash my face properly this time, then wipe the water from the counter because I can’t leave it there, not when I know it’ll dry in uneven spots around the faucet. Then I hang the towel straight, adjust it once when the corners don’t line up, and head back to my room.

I dress by habit, everything exactly where I know it should be.

Second drawer on the left: shorts.

Second drawer on the right: shirts.

Top drawer: socks.

I pull on a white T-shirt and black shorts, then reach for the socks I matched last week. Grayson says the system that I have is overkill and, to his credit, I’d say it’s borderline deranged. I write letters on the toes of every pair, so I know which ones go together, because wearing two socks with different levels of wear is the kind of thing that can throw off an entire day.

My gym bag is already ready to go because I packed it last night, same as always, but I check it anyway.

Shoes in the side pocket. Slides under the shoes. Lifting gloves in the front zipper.

Pre-workout, shaker, extra tape, backup shirt, towel.

I know everything is there. I can see that everything is there.

I still check one more time anyway.