In Boston, I’m Wren. Shorter. Easier. A name that fits in one breath.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it.
We eat in near silence, the sound of spoons against bowlsfilling the space. Outside, the elevated train rattles past. Inside, the apartment hums its tired yellow frequency, and Billie Eilish drifts from Larisa’s room in soft green waves.
After Dana’s gone to bed and Larisa’s breathing settles beside me, I pull out my phone. The screen lights the room in a pale glow that paints the ceiling silver.
Three unread messages.
My stomach tightens before I even read them.
KIERAN
Arrived okay?
Text me when you’re there
KIERAN
Queens yet?
KIERAN
Bus eat you?
This is…strange.
A flicker of warmth slides under my ribs, unwanted and immediate. I press my lips together, like that might contain it.
Why is Kieran O’Connor checking on me?
It doesn’t fit. Not with who he is. Not with what I am to him.
I stare at the thread for a full minute, thumb hovering, pulse tapping against my wrist. Then I type.
WREN
Arrived
But why are you texting me again?
Three dots appear instantly.
My breath catches. I hate that it does.
Then:
KIERAN
Queens treating you decent?
Decent is relative. The radiator hums, the air smells of perfume and soup, and my cousin snores softly under a pink comforter.
WREN
Fine. Haven’t looked at the 204 project yet
KIERAN
