Page 73 of Lost and Found

I sigh and turn away from him again, pressing my cool palm against my overheated head. I don’t even know what we’re talking about anymore. “I have to go, Silas. It was good seeing you.”

Because he was right—more than one thing can be true. It’s always good to see him, but up close and personal . . . it’s also painful and irrational and stirs up a mess of out-of-control, out-of-order feelings. After having no control for nearly two relentless years and feeling way too much from moment to moment, I have no interest in that anymore.

Itwasgood seeing him.Andit hurt.

Because tonight only confirmed what I already knew: I can be friends with Silas Byrd, but only from a safe distance.

I go home with Brendan that night and sleep with him. I don’t feel much of anything.

CHAPTER 27

Now

Silas

I’m unsurprised when Ellis decides to pull me aside as soon as we reach the bay. Back on the boat, after catching her fish and steadying Bea on her feet again, I’d turned to him to celebrate, only to be pinned by one of his many-layered stares.

“You two head to the trucks,” he tells the girls now. “We’ll be right there.” His hand comes around back of my neck like I’m fifteen and he just caught me getting blitzed at someone’s garage party. When Bea bends a suspicious brow at him, he adds, “Just going to get sappy on the birthday boy for a minute.” I smile reassuringly at her and the sparkly-eyed, impish look I get in return makes my knees go rubbery. Wren loops an arm through hers, and they continue on toward the parking lot. I teeter like we’re still on the water.

“Well. That seems like it could be a problem,” Ellis says with a droll glare.

“Just readjusting to land,” I lie.

He crosses his arms and widens his stance, mirroring mine and still managing to make me feel small . . . no matter that I’m the bulkier of us two. “I’m not talking about your sea legs, Silas. I’m talking about you being flagrantly in love with that woman.”

I scoff. “I’m—come on, Ellis.” I don’t know what I am. I might just have an undiscovered lung disease that acts up when I’m either very, very near her, which is when it feels deceptively good. Or when I’m too far from her, which is when it feels very bad.

“Really? We’re gonna play that game?” he says. “Anytime you’re close enough, you get this dopey look on your face like you’re humming along to some melody stuck in your head. Then you touch her and it’s like anyone nearby might as well have to hear it, too. You’ve got your own heartbeat blasted across your face. Not to mention the fact that you looked like you wanted to shake her when she did something nice for you, which, in my experience, is how you tend to respond when someone you love has the nerve to show you some love back.”

“For fuck’s sake, do you hear yourself? Don’t therapize me. I’m the one who put you on to therapy.”

“You’re in over your head, brother.”

That rankles. “Why?” I snap. “Because I’m attracted to her? Because I enjoy her company?” Because I fucking adore the way she sneaks an unhealthy amount of treats to the cat with that concentrated little furrow on her brow? I like to imagine her tracking the progress between them in a journal, and laugh about it once a day. Sure, maybe it is a special sort of torture when I can hear her showering or tossing and turning in bed a floor above me . . . or when we cross paths just as she’s headed out for a run dressed in head-to-toe Lycra, big red ponytail swinging like temptation on a rope. I have a very active imagination, and a sharp memory, and the most recent memory of my couch to contend with, but I’ve also got a lifetime’s worth of conditioning when it comes to feeling guilt, plus a healthy relationship with my right hand.

I’m managing.

But none of that, not one bit of it even comes close to how it feels to make her laugh. Or how it feels when she makes me laugh. She’s damned funny and keeps me on my toes. We’ve lived under the same roof for eight weeks now and probably shared dozens of meals, but I get the sense that we’ll never run out of things to talk about. I have to stop myself most days from texting her to fire off questions as soon as they come into my head so I can save them up for later. I’m edging myself for more pieces of her, more conversation. I’ve never enjoyed a friendship this much, and that eclipses my physical desires tenfold. “It might not be a match for yours, but I do have some self-control, Ellis.”

“She told Wren what she’s doing,” he says. “The IVF, the list . . .” He tears his gaze down to his feet, kicking at an invisible pebble.

“Just spit it out, El.”

He sighs contemplatively. “She moved in under the understanding that you guys would remain friends, so I don’t think it would be right if that proves to be false, but I also think . . . Well. Accidentally making out is one thing. But Iworrythat when she gets pregnant, she might naturally feel more vulnerable.”

“You mean more susceptible to me and all my wily notions?” I mime twisting the ends of a villainous mustache. “Hadn’t thought of it that way. Maybe that’s when I’ll strike? What month do you think is ideal for me to take advantage of her?”

He ignores me. “It will be the biggest undertaking of her life, physically and emotionally.”

If I had hackles, they’d be raised. “Then I guess it’s a good thing she’s not yours to worry about.”

His brow goes smooth like I fell right into the trap he laid. “But she isyours?” he softly asks.

I become aware of the places my body is sweating and the places where my grafted skin never will. I give in and break eye contact first. “You don’t need to worry,” I tell him. “I won’t act on my . . . attraction. I’m not shitheaded enough to convince myself I deserve her at all, so I definitely won’t take advantage of her.”

He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Jesus Christ, was I this fucking obstinate?” he mutters to himself, then plants his hands back on his hips like his patience is spent. “Your commitment to misunderstanding me is impressive, Silas, but I don’t think this is some big long-term scheme just to get in the woman’s pants. I could give a shit if you’re god’s gift to women as far as sex is concerned; even if she ends up being ravaged by enough hormones to raise the dead, I would still give Bea more credit than that. What I am saying to you is, deserving her isn’t the goddamn problem. I sure as hell don’t deserve Wren. But I finally got it through my thick skull that I am the one who’ll work the hardest for the rest of my life trying to.I’mthe man for that job, you get me?” He stabs a finger into my chest. “So. What I am saying to you is, given this unique set of circumstances you are hurtling toward, you should probably keep that under advisement.Youare the only one who can decide whether or not you’re the man forthatjob.”

“I’m just her friend, Ellis.”