Wren.
My heart does a weird little stutter—half warmth, half disbelief—because Wren calling means she’s really here. Not “London time, sorry I’m falling asleep on FaceTime” here. Not “send me a voice note, and I’ll reply between meetings” here.
Here.
I spit, rinse, and answer before my brain can talk me out of it.
“Hello?”
“Harlow Mercer,” Wren says, her voice bright and familiar, like she never left. “I’m on American soil. I’m breathing U.S. air. I just ate a bagel that didn’t cost twelve pounds. We need to talk.”
My mouth curves without permission. “You’re back!”
“I’m BACK!” she sings dramatically. “Do you feel that? The energy shift? The universe healing?”
“The universe is still loud,” I say, padding into my room and flopping on my bed.
“Okay, yeah, valid,” Wren concedes immediately. “ButIam here, and that means at least one part of your universe is now obligated to be entertaining.”
I can’t help but laugh at her theatrics. I really have missed having her around.
“How was London?” I ask, even though I’ve been getting the highlights in scattered texts for nine months, with photos of rainy sidewalks, little cafés, her shoes in front of something historic, captions likeI accidentally networked with a real adult.
Wren makes a delighted noise. “It was sexy. It was exhausting. It was—Harlow, I drank so much tea.”
“You hate tea.”
“I KNOW.” She sounds personally offended. “It’s like London is sponsored by chamomile. I kept ordering coffee, and everyone looked at me like I’d asked them to set something on fire.”
“That sounds accurate,” I say, grinning into my pillow.
“And the internship,” she continues, voice shifting into something softer under the humor. “It was actually…good. Like, I did things.Realthings. With deadlines, which I sometimesmissed, but that’s beside the point. And I had coworkers who wore blazers and not sweats.”
“You’re basically an adult now,” I deadpan.
“Don’t insult me.”
I snort again. It’s ridiculous how easy this is—how the sound of her voice makes my shoulders drop like they’ve been waiting for a cue.
Then Wren pauses, and I can hear her smile even before she speaks again.
“So,” she says. “How’s school going? How’s your brother? Still the world’s most intense hockey captain?”
My stomach does a small flip at the mention of Kai, but it’s not dread the way it used to be. More like…anticipation. Like I already know he’s going to be a thing.
“Kai is still Kai,” I say carefully. “Captain mode, of course, threatening people with skating until they cry and all that.”
Wren hums. “Good. Nature is healing.”
“And I’m…okay,” I add, because Wren is one of the only people who knows what “okay” actually costs me.
There’s a beat of silence on the line. Not empty. Just Wren letting me say it without rushing to fill the space.
“Okay,” she repeats softly. “Like okay-okay or okay like ‘I am a raccoon in a dumpster, but I’m functioning’?”
I smile despite myself. “Somewhere in between.”
“That’s still progress,” Wren says, and she doesn’t make it a thing. She just says it like a fact.
