14. Kai
KAI
I make my way to the porch and get ready to knock on the door when the noise reaches me. Somewhere inside, something crashes, followed by a child yelling, “I’m okay,” in a tone that suggests nobody asked yet.
I knock.
More noise.
A thump. A high-pitched argument. Wren’s voice, muffled through the door.
“I swear, if that is a shoe in the sink again—”
The door swings open.
Wren stands there with her hair piled on top of her head, one sock on, one sock missing, cheeks flushed with morning chaos and eyes already narrowed at me.
“You are medically incapable of being casual, aren’t you?
” she says, stepping back just enough to point at me with what looks like a granola bar.
“I told Harlow seven. Just because you’re here instead of her doesn’t mean that changes to six forty-five.
That means you sit in your car and pretend you’re a normal human for fifteen minutes, Kai. Fifteen minutes.”
I hear her but don’t at the same time; my attention completely consumed by the shirt she’s wearing.
My old high school hockey shirt.
I remember giving it to her after a game because she was cold and pretending she wasn’t, but I wanted to see her in it. I remember her wearing it in my car with the sleeves covering her hands. I remember wanting to keep her in it forever and being too young to understand what forever really cost.
She kept it. She kept part of me.
Wren stops mid-rant, her eyes dropping from me to herself, and she holds out a finger to stop me from saying anything, as if my brain could form a coherent sentence right now.
Newsflash, it can’t.
“Don’t,” she says.
I try to speak, but nothing happens.
Yep, my brain is in full-on glitch mode.
Behind her, Daisy yells, “Wren, Lily says my hair looks messy!"
Justin shouts, “Why are there crayons in my shoe?”
Holden appears in the hallway behind her, backpack over one shoulder, takes one look at me, then one look at Wren’s shirt.
His eyebrows rise.
Wren turns bright red. “Laundry day.”
Holden nods slowly. “Brutal.”
“Go find the twins’ shoes, please.”
“Sure.” Without another word, he disappears back into the house.
Wren looks back at me, mortified and defensive and so beautiful it physically hurts.
“It was at the top of the drawer,” she says.
I still haven’t managed words.
Her grip tightens on the door. “Kai.”
That gets me.
I blink, then look at her face instead of my name on her body.
Big mistake.
Her eyes are softer than her voice. Tired. Embarrassed. Braced for me to make this mean something before she’s ready for it to.
So I don’t.
Instead, I let the corner of my mouth lift.
“Six-fifty now,” I say. “Technically, I showed restraint.”
For half a second, she just stares at me.
Then she huffs a laugh, sharp and unwilling.
“Get inside before I change my mind.”
I chuckle, duck my head, and follow her into the chaos, trying, and failing, not to drink in the sight of her in my shirt.
I keep my eyes moving because there’s enough happening in the entryway to give me options.
A pink sneaker tipped on its side, a backpack spilling worksheets onto the floor, a cereal box open on the stairs, two crayons under the hall table, and what looks like a stuffed dog wearing one of Justin’s socks on his paw.
There is plenty to look at, but my strength only goes so far.
My name, on her body?
I am not built for this.
“Mercer, if you stare much more, you’re going to trip over something,” Wren says, already turning away from me. “I have to go change.”
I shut the door behind me as she rushes up the stairs.
With the distraction of her gone, the house hits me all at once.
Noise. Clutter. Heat. Toast burning somewhere.
A child yelling from upstairs. Someone else yelling back.
A timer beeping. There are shoes by the door, mail on the entry table, folded laundry on the bottom stair, and a half-finished poster board leaning against the wall with a glitter sun in the corner.
My pulse ticks up.
Not fear, exactly. More like my brain opening too many tabs at once. I’m used to the rink before dawn. Tape in the right drawer. Sticks lined up. Gear hung to dry. Ice cut clean. My apartment is quiet enough that the hum of the fridge sometimes feels loud.
This is the opposite of that.
This is Wren.
A walking tornado with one sock, messy hair, and my old hockey shirt under a cardigan she probably threw on because she forgot I was coming until I was already on the porch.
She is the polar opposite of me in almost every way.
She runs late. She leaves cabinets open.
She makes jokes when she’s cornered. She holds six problems in her hands and somehow reaches for a seventh.
Except there’s one place we match.
The loyalty.
Taking care of everyone else before yourself.
That part I recognize too well.
A small figure barrels around the corner and skids to a stop in front of me. Daisy has bedhead, unicorn pajamas, and one sparkly shoe on the wrong foot.
“Hockey Kai,” she announces.
“Morning.”
She squints at me. “You’re early.”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“That’s a lot.”
“Apparently.”
Justin points at her with his granola bar. “Daisy, why are you wearing one shoe?”
“Because Lily said we’re doing things fast.”
I chuckle, bending down to her height. “That probably means we should get dressed and get the shoes we’re going to wear to school on our feet.”
Daisy looks down. “Oh.”
Wren dashes back down the stairs, now in a pair of jean shorts and a sweater that hangs off one shoulder, fixing her hair into a messy clip at the back of her head.
She takes in the scene down here and takes a deep breath before closing her eyes.
I take one step closer, carefully, because she already looks two seconds away from fighting me or crying or throwing the clip. “What do you need from me?”
Her eyes open.
Wren points toward the kitchen. “Justin, don’t rewrite your entire poster. Daisy, find your other shoes.” She turns to yell back up the stairs. “Lily, if you’re dressed, come downstairs. If you’re not dressed, become dressed. Holden—”
“I’m here,” a voice says from the stairs. “And this one is dressed and ready to go. Lily still needs to change, unless you want her wearing a tutu.”
Wren looks up at Lily, finally realizing what she’s wearing. “All right, come on, Lil, let’s go get you changed.”
Wren rushes back up the stairs, ushering Lily back into her bedroom to find a different outfit. My gaze must linger after her a beat too long as Holden clears his throat.
Right.
I turn to him. “What has to happen before everyone leaves?”
He nods toward the kitchen. “Toast is probably dead. Twins need breakfast, shoes, and their library folders. Justin and I are leaving in five. Our friend’s dad drops him off a little earlier than we normally go, but it’s the only thing that worked out.”
“Lunches?”
His mouth tightens. “Usually Wren does them. I can—”
“I got it, Holden. Just tell me what they normally have in them, and you guys are good to go. I can handle it. Do you and Justin have lunch or lunch money?
He looks at me then.
Really looks.
For a second, I see the weight under his eyes. Too much for sixteen. He’s trying to be useful without becoming a problem, which means he has already learned hard lessons too young.
I know something about that.
Holden nods once. “Lunch boxes are on the counter. Daisy hates crusts. Lily says she hates crusts but will eat them if Daisy doesn’t know. They both absolutely hate mustard, and both prefer ham over the turkey, depending on what we have left. If we don’t have meat, just do PB and J.”
“Got it.”
His mouth twitches. “You sure?”
“Yes. Now what about you and Justin?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “I think we’re good. I can eat after school if we get into a pinch.”
I reach into the back pocket of my jeans, fishing out my wallet before handing him two twenties. He looks like he won’t take it, so I cut him off before he can refuse.
“Look, I know how hard you have to work at practice. You will never be at your best on an empty stomach, and it won’t do anyone here any favors if you aren’t on your A game.
And if you’re anything like your sister when you get hungry, I’m taking mercy on all of those that are around you throughout the day. ”
That gets half a smile out of him.
He takes the money, putting it into his pocket. “Thanks, man.”
With that, I get to work.
It’s easier once there are tasks. A kitchen full of too many sounds and too much color becomes manageable if I sort it into steps. Burned toast into the trash. New toast down. Lunch boxes open. Sandwiches. Fruit. Granola bars. Water bottles. Napkins. Check. Recheck.
The kitchen is not organized the way I would organize it.
Nothing is. Bread is in one cabinet, peanut butter in another, fruit snacks in a basket on top of the fridge like someone once tried to hide them and gave up halfway.
The scissors are in a drawer with batteries, hair ties, tape, and one tiny plastic horse.
I find what I need anyway.
Partly because Holden knows where everything is.
Partly because I remember this kitchen.
Not exactly like this. There are different magnets on the fridge now, more bills tucked under one clip, fewer family photos since most of them had their dad in them, but the bones are the same.
Same sink under the window. Same cabinet that doesn’t close unless you lift it first. Same table where Wren used to sit with her knees tucked under her, stealing fries from my plate while pretending she wasn’t hungry.
I push that memory aside and cut the crusts off the twins’ sandwiches.
By the time breakfast is on the table, Daisy has found the correct shoes but is now wearing both on the wrong feet. Daisy climbs into a chair and stares at the toast. “This isn’t burned.”
“That was the goal,” I say.
“Wren burns toast when she has angry mornings.”
“She’s not angry,” Holden says from the sink. “She’s busy.”
The correction is quiet but immediate. Protective.
I look at him, and he doesn’t look away.
“Yeah,” I say. “Busy.”