I’m halfway through fixing my hair—a.k.a. shoving it into something that looks intentional from a distance—when my phone buzzes.
Wren: You home?
Wren: I have gossip, and I’m not carrying it alone.
I smile before I can stop myself, which is rude because I didn’t ask my face to do that.
Harlow: Come on over!
Wren: On my way!
I toss my phone on my bed and do a quick scan of my dorm room, like I can make it look less like a college student lives here. The mini fridge hums in the corner, the pile of laundry remains a crime scene, and my desk is a mess of notebooks,pens, and granola bar wrappers that make you feel personally judged by your own space.
I decide Wren can deal because I’ve dealt with her room looking far worse in the past.
There’s a knock a few minutes later, followed by the door swinging open before I even make it over to answer.
Wren stands in my doorway in the brightest pink shorts I’ve ever seen and a white T-shirt. Her sunglasses are perched on top of her head, like she’s a celebrity trying to blend in, which is hilarious, because Wren has never once blended in. Ever.
“Hello, emotional support best friend,” she announces.
I snort. “Hello, human megaphone.”
Wren’s grin spreads. “Rude. But accurate.”
She drops her tote on my bed like she owns the place, then turns and holds her arms out. I stand automatically because my body knows this routine. The hug is tight, warm, and familiar. The kind that saysI’m here, you’re here, the world can relax for five seconds.
“You look…lighter,” Wren says into my hair, quiet enough that it doesn’t feel like a spotlight.
My throat tightens because she’s not wrong and also because I don’t know what to do when someone notices the good parts without hunting for the bad ones.
“I feel…better,” I admit.
Wren pulls back and studies my face like she’s taking inventory. Then she nods once like she’s filing it away.
“Good,” she says simply, and the softness in her voice makes my chest ache.
Then she claps her hands once like she’s switching back into her default setting.
“Okay,” she says. “Sit. Because I have news.”
I flop onto my desk chair. Wren takes my bed like it’s her throne.
“First of all,” she says, “I miss London.”
I lift a brow. “You’ve been back for like, a week.”
“Exactly,” she says dramatically. “A week too long.”
I roll my eyes. “Tell me about it. Give me the highlight reel.”
Wren flops back on my comforter, staring at my ceiling like it owes her entertainment.
“London was…a lot, like I told you the other day,” she says. “In the best way. In the worst way. There were scones. There were men who said ‘cheers’ like it was foreplay. There was a woman in my office who told me I was ‘aggressively American,’ but I just took it as a compliment.”
“That is a compliment,” I mutter.
Wren points at me. “Right? Thank you.”
