Page 26 of Lost and Found

I’ve got wood and tile floors throughout, but rugs in every room to keep it cozy. Do my rugs suck? Squats.

After sharing a bedroom with Micah’s clutter for most of my life, I’m pretty good about keeping everything clean. I’ve got a few bookshelves and a decent array of books, but I don’t really have knickknacks or much in the way of decorations. Should I have some wall art? Some tchotchkes? Fuck. I grab a pair of heavier dumbbells.

Push-ups, lunges, weights, more jump rope. I’m all over the place, and I have no method other than getting my brain clear of everything butmoveandbreathe.

I’m gasping, lungs billowing for air, sweat dripping into my eyes and soaking through my clothes when I hear a screeching sound blare out above the music, so loud it rattles my skull.

“Shit.” It’s the smoke alarm. I drop the weights and haul ass out of the garage, sprinting across the breezeway to the house.

The sight of the smoke hits me first, but the smell hits me harder. Something burning . . . acrid. My heart was already pumping hard and now I canhearit over the sound of the alarm. My hands—why can’t I feel my hands? A blurry red shape zooms through my line of sight. The kitchen window whines open.

“Sorry!” I hear Bea call. “Your smoke detector is sensitive!”

I think my heart is pumping too hard. I can feel it in my temples. I can’t get a full breath. Nothing is computing, other than thatsmell.

“What’s burning?” I manage. My voice is an unrecognizable roar.

Bea stops fanning the detector and comes closer. The smell intensifies at the same time and I realize, with soul-sickening horror, that I recognize what it is. “Are you hurt?!” I grab her arms and look her over, manhandling her and forcing her to turn around. “Where are you burning?”

She spins out of my grasp and looks at me like she’s terrified and a little perturbed. “Silas, what the hell! I’m okay.”

“Something is burning,” I growl out between gasps.

Her lips pinch. “I singed the end of my hair,” she says. “I’m not used to your gas stove yet and got distracted on my phone cooking a grilled cheese. It started smoking. Ithentried to light a candle to help with the smell and my hair fell forward and caught that flame when the smoke detector scared the shit out of me.”

She’s fine. I’m okay. She’s fine. I try shaking out my hands. It feels like all my organs are fighting for space in my chest cavity.

“Yes,” I hear Bea say soothingly. “She’s fine. You’re okay.”

Fuck.

She’s guiding me over to my couch and encouraging me to sit. The backs of my knees cave sharply, my ass hitting the seat hard enough to bounce. “It was the smell,” I say dumbly.

“Shh, I know. I get it,” she soothes. “I think you’re having a panic attack. How can I help you?” Her voice is gentler than I’ve ever heard.

“Justneedaminute,” I say between breaths, eyes screwed shut. It comes out like one single word. I tuck my hands into my ribs, but it restricts my lungs from expanding. Bea flattens them to my thighs under her palms.

“Why don’t you count all the red things in the room?” she says.

I open my eyes again and let them settle on her hair, first. “One.” I give a half-hearted attempt at finding anything else in the room, but she remains the boldest thing. God, I feel pitiful in comparison. I spot the roses on her tank top next. “Two.” Then, the last thing closest to red that I can see, her mouth. “Three.”

“What can you hear?” she says, her delicate throat bobbing.

“Just heard you swallow,” I mumble. “Hear my music playing out in the garage.” I pause. “Hear us both breathing.”

“Good,” she says. “And all I can smell now is you . . . your sweat and deodorant. No more smoke.” No more burnt hair.

No burning skin.

I brace for a fresh wave of panic to hit me when I realize how much of my scars are exposed. “I need to go change.”

“Silas, no,” she urges. “Be comfortable in your own house.” When I focus on her mouth again, it tilts into a smile that is both snarky and encouraging. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“I look way better now,” I joke with a surprised snort. We typically give that part of our history a very wide berth. In that we have never ever discussed it. I’m surprised she’s willing to acknowledge it.

“Therehe is,” she says, grin spreading while her eyes rove across my face. “Getting better?”

“Yeah. Getting there.”