Page 55 of Lost and Found

“Fine,” I say, contemplating as I look out his window at the moon. “It had to be nature, right? People wanted to mimic the sounds of waves or birds or wind. Those things all sound different at any given time, but there’s still some repetition and rhythm.”

He nods before offering me another chip. “My mom used to hum a made-up song to me,” he tells me, then chuckles to himself. I’ve never heard him talk about his mom. “I’m not sure how well you remember my sister, Sage, but my mom was even more . . . even more, I don’t know,whimsical, I guess would be the word. She said that song she hummed was the way the wind sounded the day that I was born.” I think he expects me to laugh at this, the way he looks at me right then.

“Were you close?” I ask.

His eyes stray back to his plate. “Yeah. I was her favorite.” It’s a Silas thing to say, of course. But in place of his boastful swagger, there’s a joyless kind of deference.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I wish I remembered her.”

“She’d have loved you,” he says, eating another chip when he asks, “How about you? Are you close with your mom?”

I almost tell him no, not really, but it feels like a lie. “I think my mom is probably one of the top three most extraordinary people I’ll ever know, honestly,” I say. “She’s good at everything she does. She’s a good friend, she’s generous with her love and time . . . She’s just passionate about sucking the marrow out of life, and she manages to look fucking good doing it. Don’t pretend you never noticed.” He snorts softly, and I press on. “And for some reason, she thinksIam miraculous, too, but I don’t think I’ll ever live up to it. I find it impossible to honor her hopes for me and honor myself at the same time.” His handsome face shrinks into a bemused frown. “She’s not awful to me about things or anything. She doesn’t put insane expectations on me or live vicariously through me. Nothing like that. She is really good at explaining that her wishes for me are her own and that I should find my own path, but . . . but I guess her path is just so impressive, you know? She plays three instruments, speaks two languages, runs ultramarathons, and is a gourmet cook. She never missed a single extracurricular of mine. And wheneveranyone asks her what she does? None of those things come up. She always, always says she’s a mom. I don’t even think it’s because we’ve been conditioned as women to only think of ourselves in terms of what we are to others, either. I think she might just be proud.” I pick at some invisible dirt beneath my thumbnail. “I don’t know if we’ll ever be best friends, but I do hope I’m half the mom she is one day.”

“What’s your dad like?” he asks. “Or stepdad, I guess.”

“Meh,” I say and shrug, and Silas bursts into bright laughter. “No, I’m joking. In all honestly, Kurt is like a dad to me, and he is great. I love him. He’s just very much, like . . .” I struggle to explain. “He’s very muchmy mom’s husband. She is first for him, and second and third are on a different field, completely. And I think some people are just like that. They’ve got a ceiling and a structure on their love and certain people fit into those parameters neatly. I fit into the box he’s got for me, but he’ll redefine shapes for my mom, and I think maybe that’s how a marriage is supposed to be, anyway.”

“I don’t know,” Silas says. “I think, yeah, your partner should probably come first, but kids can, too, in their own way. Especially if they’ve got their own box and playing field and whatnot.”

“All right, don’t make fun of my analogies here. I’m recovering, still.”

“Not making fun,” he insists. “Not at all. I like the idea of there being room for all kinds of love. Having unlimited boxes. Or more like unlimited, undefinable shapes that move and grow with you. That’s probably naive of me.”

I know it is, but for some reason, I find myself thinking Silas might be the kind of guy who could pull it off. Finding a way to throw his whole heart into everything and everyone. Putting everyone first, however logistically impossible it sounds.

“I worry about my brother and Wren, even,” he continues. “They’re so determined to be good parents, I worry they’ll make less room for themselves. But what do I know?”

He is worried, I can see. His shoulders appear to sink under the weight of it all of a sudden.

“They’ll be all right,” I decide to tell him. “These things have a way of working themselves out.”

He nods and meanders the subject along. “What’s your favorite holiday?”

“My birthday.”

“Of course,” he says very seriously. “Let me rephrase. Of the nationally recognized holidays, which is your favorite?”

“Anyone who doesn’t say Christmas is lying to seem edgy or something, right?”

He studies his plate and cracks one of his chips. “I don’t know. I always get caught up in the idea of New Year’s.” He plays with his food some more. “I like the idea of a clean slate, I guess. The possibility of it all. Reflecting on the time that passed and knowing what you want to change. People thinking they’ll reinvent themselves because of something as simple as the number changing on the calendar.” He looks at me again and gives me one of his megawatt smiles. “Obviously,Iwould never want to reinvent myself—why would I ever want to be anyone but me?—but I think it’s charming when other people do.”

I want to parse out that statement and figure out the truth in it and the truth in him. But then he runs a finger down my thigh and asks, “So, you like your birthday, huh? Do you have a favorite?”

That one is easy. “My eighth,” I say. “My parents made it four-eight-themed. Since it’s April 8 and I was turning eight.” I spell it out with a finger in the air. “They made eight of my favorite foods, but, everything had to be ‘ate,’ soeverythinghad to be edible, too. They made edible cutlery and plates out of pie crusts.Our party hats were waffle cones. We watched eight movies over twenty-four hours. Painted our nails eight different colors. It was ridiculous, and I loved it. What about you?”

“Me?” His eyes glaze and his mouth twists wryly. “My eighth birthday was my least favorite.”

I’d meant if he had a favorite birthday of his own, but I decide to press on his answer. “How come?”

“My mom was dying.”

My stomach drops. I don’t want him to brush that off with something flippant just to lift the mood again, and I can see him already gearing up to try, so I say the first thing that comes to mind. “You can have my memory, if you want. I’ll share it with you.”

His gaze hardens. “How?”

I purse my lips. “I don’t know. What do you like to eat?” His brow and one corner of his mouth jump up. “Not like that, pervert. Think of eight favoritefoods. Close your eyes and start listing off eight of your favorite things and imagine having them. Think of eight movies you love, eight songs. Eight colors. Eight places. Eight’s a big enough number to feel like you’ve got a lot of things to love all over the place, but it’s not so overwhelming that you can’t think of enough.”

When I open my eyes, he’s giving me a look I can’t decipher. “I’m going to use that,” he says.