Page 47 of Lost and Found

He brings his pinkie up between us. I link it with mine in quick agreement.

“Ialready came,” I say, shrugging apologetically. “And came well. You’d be hard-pressed to get me to regret that.”

I feel his warm chuckle on my bare arm. He skims two knuckles over the same spot. “All right, Ruby. You hungry?” he asks.

“Famished.”

CHAPTER 16

Now

Bea

Grief is like running, I’ve decided.

When Merritt went into remission the first time, she got this wild urge to train for a marathon. I negotiated it down to a half, but agreed to train with her. During that training, I got really into every aspect of it: used a heart monitor and a recovery tracker, bought specialized shoes, and read a ton of literature on it. One thing I came across that I found particularly apt was the rule of thirds.

It said that one-third of the time, running would feel awful. Another third, it would feel great. You’d get a runner’s high, the happiness that comes with succeeding, knowing you are making progress. The other third of the time? It would just feel okay. It’d be tolerable. It wouldn’t feel good or bad, but you’d be doing the work.

The last week has been an okay third. My workdays stayed busy and my evenings slipped away quietly.

When we were home at the same time, Silas and I continued orbiting each other comfortably. Perhaps a littletoocomfortably at times. I caught myself flirting with him, standing too close to him while we did the dishes. Smiling and holding eye contact alittle too long over meals on the couch or at the island. I’d snap myself out of it whenever I realized.

Overall, though, our schedules remained too busy for there to be too much downtime to navigate together, and I think that might be a good thing while I’m still trying to get a handle on this crush. The exposure therapy thing has clearly backfired.

I didn’t make any more sunrise stops, and haven’t made any progress on the list, but I also haven’t shut down thoughts of Merritt or shied away from bringing her up in conversation. I still haven’t spoken to my mom, and I’m . . . I’mokaywith it. Other than some expected fatigue and soreness, I still haven’t had any adverse side effects from meds thus far, and I had my last shot of estradiol two days ago. The number in my account continues to grow at an accelerated pace, and with it my readiness. I feelready. Anxious as hell to get to the next step, but ready.

All in all, I’m doing the work.

I decided to send off the final Sunday in May with an actual run, and at one mile in, it is currently trending in that okay column, too. Not terrible, but certainly not great.

It’s another strangely warm day for Spunes, with very little breeze and sunshine dappling the gloom. I slow to a walk when I get to a long set of cement stairs that lead down onto Main Street. Through the tops of scrubby trees, I can see downtown, the collection of businesses in the brick buildings that line the street, and Starhopper at the peak of it. An observatory tower hugs the side of the brewery, with bistro lights strung out over the patio bordering an expansive lawn area that spreads across the top of a cliff.

Today, that lawn area is dotted in vendor stands for the weekly farmers market, and it’spackedwith townies and tourists alike. Curiosity wins out over finishing my run, and I start to make my way down the steps.

I walk past booths overflowing with glossy, ripe cherries, piles of asparagus, peppers, corn, and every kind of summer berry. Baskets of colorful saltwater taffy and ropes of other homemade candies at another stand. There’s a girl manning a custom jewelry booth with trays brimming with charms. A man carving names and address numbers into custom wood placards. A few yards away, I spot Fisher’s niece, Indy, at a tiny renovated trailer selling flowers. Wren’s curly blond head pops out beside her and waves me over.

We exchange greetings, and I cast a look around the lawn. “When did this turn into—all of this?” I ask disbelievingly.

Wren laughs and finishes tying a bundle of fluffy hydrangeas. “I take it you haven’t been to one of these in quite some time?”

“I haven’t, no.” Another thing I’ve been sitting out of recently.

“Indy, babe, you got this for a bit?” Wren asks her. Indy nods, and Wren passes me the bouquet before slipping out of the trailer. “Walk with me?”

“Yeah, sure,” I say, lifting the bouquet. “What do I owe you?”

“On the house,” says Wren.

“The owner won’t mind?”

“Sage? Nope. Especially since I’m here covering for her on my day off.” She chuckles. “Extraespecially if I can weasel some info out of you on your new living arrangement.”

I give the flowers a look. “Knew they’d come at a price.”

There’s no real ire in it, though. Wren’s known me my whole life, basically, even if there have always been a couple degrees of separation between us. She has also been a client of mine for years. A few months after she and Ellis got divorced, she came in and declared she wanted some change. Eventually, we determined that she did not, actually, want any change at all. She wanted what she already had, but brighter. Refreshed. Guess that applied to more than her hair.

“You don’t have to tell me anything—not really,” Wren says. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”