Page 7 of Lost and Found

“Yeah,” she replies, brows pinching sharply. “She—Merritt used to get fixated on certain songs. I’m talking repeat, nonstop, until she’d burn out on it and find a new one.” She tries to smile, but I think it costs her too much. She blows out a long, shaky breath instead, scanning the area like she’s already thinking of making a break for it.

“What if you let yourself cry for this one?” I offer. “Close your eyes and remember and just cry if you want. Squeeze my hand so hard it hurts. And I promise I’ll cheer you up for the next song.”

“I’ve beenfine, I don’t even know why this is getting to me right now,” she says, her voice too small. “I can’t let my mom see me lose it.” She straightens her fingers like she’s about to pull away.

“I won’t let her,” I promise. But when she gives the barest tug again, I practically growl out aplease, accidental desperation spilling into the word.

Those startled eyes find mine again, and the fear in them clears, right before she lets them fall closed. I keep us angled away from the opening to the barn where anyone else might see her, but I stay watching Bea and a hundred micro-expressions that flit over her face. The finespun muscles that tighten and loosen around her full mouth, her brow, the delicate, sparkly skin of her lids. I keep us moving, and she keeps letting me, nomatter that we get a little off beat. And when tears spill out from beneath her lashes, I catch her mouth also shaping into a smile, right before her head settles onto my shoulder. I feel the breath of a small laugh, some inside joke I’m not in on and want to be. By the time the next song rolls around, she’s grinning with damp cheeks. When she looks up at me again, the spikes of her lashes form little crowns above her eyes.

“Now,” I say, throat too tight around some feeling I can’t name, determined to deliver on my promise. “Now do you want me to toss you around a bit? Work you over ’til you feel good?”

Bea’s head dips back with the force of her cackle. “Do you hear yourself when you say those things?” she says. “Do you even recognize your own innuendos anymore?”

I know every step to this particular dance. My brows shoot up innocently, her laugh still ringing in my ears. “I was talking about dancing, Trix. What gutter did your mind get off to?”

“Don’t worry about where I get off,” she says, smiling broadly when my expression slips. She’s always been fun to spar with, but she hasn’t flirted back with me in years, and I’m sure my face isn’t hiding my surprise. “You know you’re not gonna pull one over on me, Si. Even when you’re subtle, you’re not. And what the hell is a Trix?”

Pretty soon she’s going to realize how close we are and she’ll put some space between us again. Her chest grazes the front of my ribs and I get a hit of her perfume. Subtly sweet, a little nutty mist on her skin. Reminds me of how the bakery smells when Wren’s doing something with almonds. Roasted marshmallows on a fire after a week of storms. “I bet with a can-do attitude and plenty of hydration, I could pull at least two or three over you. And,Beatrix,” I explain.

She gives her head a firm shake. “I draw the line atTrix. You can’t jump to a nickname withoutBeain it at all.”

“Ah. Against the rules of this completely imaginary game, is it? Okay.” I pull in a big enough breath that it pushes me against her more, then take my time letting it out. “Fine. Bea, Bea, Bea . . .Beathe change you wish to see in the world.”

I feel her bright, husky laugh where her palm presses into mine. I want to squeeze it in my fist until it burrows under my skin and lights up my veins.

“That’s a new level unlocked,” she says.

I spin her out of my arms before I pull her back in. Her fingertips tangle in the ends of my hair. I bite down on the temptation to let mine do the same.

“So . . .” I start. She seems relaxed now. Away from that anxious ledge she was skating along before. “Renting out your house? Moving back in with your parents?”

She snorts. “Come on. We both know that’s not what you wanted to ask me about first.”

“Fine,” I admit, laughing fully. “So, Bea, what’s new? How’s work? Any fun plans on your calendar? You trying to get pregnant?” Imagining her starting a life with someone else brings on a weak but familiar, insistent pain. Like something I should’ve gotten used to or addressed by now. A leaky faucet on another floor, I’ll manage during the day, but it’ll drive me crazy at night. Probably keep me awake.

“I am,” she declares . . . and doesn’t expand on it, like she abruptly got cold feet.

“Are you . . . hosting tryouts?” I joke. “Holding interviews? It’s been a while, but I could polish up my CV.” I stiffen when she skims one of the scars on my throat with her thumb. For a minute, I’d forgotten they were there. A little furrow digs itself between her brows.

“How’s it been?” she asks quietly. “Been back at work for a few months now, yeah?”

I smother my surprise at the change in tone, then squint playfully at her and tilt my head. “I show you mine, you show me yours, is that it?”

She nods, one side of her mouth lifting.

I roll my shoulders and focus on one of her ears, a whole constellation of earrings decorating it, and the tiny stars tattooed right below where it curves into the side of her face. The first time I saw those stars was when she visited me at the hospital after my accident twenty months ago. I’d finally convinced my family to leave, and with no one there to be up for, I’d fallen asleep for the better part of a day. When I woke up and saw Bea, I’d been so drug-addled and dazed, I thought I was having a dream. I reached up and touched her face, uninjured hand sliding through her hair. She’d turned in to my palm with a tiny, broken sound, and I’d seen the stars on her neck and realized I was awake.

“Not always great,” I admit, voice rough like I just inhaled that smoke all over again. “Only happened a couple of times, but I’ve had some . . . episodes.” My back teeth come together. “Panic attacks. Over nothing.”

She scoffs, her grip on my hand tightening. “I can’t think of a single scenario where fightingfirewould ever be nothing, Silas.”

“Your turn, Bea,” I plead. I’m desperate for a subject change. To recapture the pride I felt only a few minutes ago when she looked at me like I was offering something, instead of whatever that look is now. Probably pity. I worry I’ve overshared, like I always seem to do with Bea. I haven’t played it cool around this woman since I was fifteen.

She’s noticed how close we are and gingerly shifts a few inches away, studying my boutonniere as she goes. “Before Merritt started chemo the first time, she froze her eggs. And she . . . left them to me.And”—she heaves a sigh—“IVF is expensive. Having a kid is expensive. So I moved home andrented out my house for the rest of the year.” Her chin lifts stubbornly again, like she’s bracing for my reply or preparing to explain herself further. But then a fat raindrop lands on the tip of my nose, and I go cross-eyed giving it a dirty look.

Bea belts a sudden laugh at my face, and the rest of the world crashes in around us, Van Morrisonshalalaing just as the rain really picks up. My youngest brother, Micah, and my nephew, Sam, have their arms slung over each other’s shoulders and are attempting a belligerent go-go dance. Wren and Ellis rock from side to side in an embrace, and Sage and Fisher throw their heads back with their tongues out to catch the rain.

“Let’s finish this song!” Bea says over the rising noise.