Page 48 of Lose You Twice

Doesn’t matter, Wren. Does. Not. Matter.

Then I lock my phone, shove it into my bag, and head for my car.

I got the job. I texted Kai to give him a warning. Nobody died.

Yet.

7

KAI

Wren texts me at 3:42 p.m.

My phone lights up on the desk in front of me, right beside my Strategic Management notes, and for one second, the entire classroom fades to nothing.

A contact I haven’t seen in years is on my screen, accompanied by a picture of the two of us when we were still in high school. I can even remember the exact moments leading up to the image being captured.

My arms were around her waist, and she was laughing at something I had said. She just looked so happy, so perfect, that I had to lean in and kiss her cheek. She chose that second to take the picture, and it turned into my favorite to date.

Wrenley Mae: We need to chat. You free?

The professor keeps talking about competitive advantage and market positioning.

I hear all of it. I understand none of it.

My pen stops halfway through the word stakeholder.

I stare at the message longer than I should. Long enough that the screen dims once and brightens again when my hand shifts beside it.

I turn my phone face down. Problem solved.

Except the message is still there. Under the glass. On the desk. In my head when I force myself to write down the next bullet point.

I don’t open it. I can’t.

If I don’t open it, I haven’t ignored it. Not technically. The preview appeared, and I saw it by accident. That’s different.

Professor Nolan changes slides. I write down market positioning, underline it once, then realize I have no idea what he said before or after that.

Twelve minutes later, I check again.

Same message, no follow-up, just Wren’s name and six words I don’t know what to do with.

I lock the phone and put it in my bag.

I’m in class. That is a reasonable excuse. Mature, even. Answering a serious text during a lecture would be rude. Distracting. Borderline irresponsible.

The fact that I have answered Weston during class at least four times this week is irrelevant. Weston sends pictures of dogs in sunglasses and asks if I think they would be good in the locker room as decorations.

This is different. Wren is different. She always has been.

Class ends at 4:05. I pack my things slowly, putting everything away in the right order because the wrong order makes my skin feel too tight. Notebook first. Pen in the front pocket. Water bottle. I stop myself from pulling out my phone, sliding it deeper into my bag without looking at the screen.

I have treatment, film, captain duties, a quiz, and a lift plan to send Dane. I do not have time to stand in the middle of campus and let one text take apart the rest of my day.

I’ll look later.

The walk from the business building to the athletic training room should take nine minutes if the crosswalk cooperates. It takes twelve because a group of freshmen stops in the middle of the path to argue about where the dining hall is. I check the time on the clock above the training room door when I get there, not daring to grab my phone to check the time.