Page 75 of Lost and Found

I remember every time I wanted to call you over the years even though it didn’t make a lick of sense. How I used every piece of town news or inconsequential gossip as an excuse to send you a message.

I remember locking eyes three separate times while we were on three separate dates over the years, but how, until the wedding, you’d barely looked at me for the last eight.

How it felt to be something you regretted when I would’ve been glad just to be your friend.

God, Ellis was right. I am in over my head.

She shakes herself out of a frozen look, chewing her bottom lip and avoiding my eyes momentarily. I wonder how much of my inner turmoil made it to my face for her to read. “Um. Well, there was a heated debate in the group chat I started with your siblings, and ultimately, the only conclusive finding I could mine out of them was that lasagna is your favorite food. Other than that, I had to do some guesswork.” She walks over to the oven and opens it with a Vanna White flourish. “I have also made you a green bean casserole, and in case we don’t hate ourselves enough after that, to round things out, I’ve got peanut butter piein the fridge for dessert.” She lets the oven snap closed. “Boy, you really don’t do things in half measures, do you? Tonight’s menu is rich, rich, and richer.”

“This is too much, Bea. You didn’t need to go to all this trouble.”

“I ordered the lasagna from that Italian place in Gandon and made the rest in under an hour, Silas. You have the more difficult job of picking out two of your favorite movies for us to watch.”

Cali hops onto the counter with one of her chirruping hums. I scratch her down the length of her spine. “How many nail colors do I need to pick?”

Bea whirls on me, excitement lighting her up. “You’d let me paint your nails?”

“That was part of it, was it not?”

“An imperative part, some might say.”

“Then count me in, Red.”

The timer goes off on the food, and she pulls down some plates since it’s a special occasion and a napkin won’t support lasagna. We take everything to the living room and sit on the floor around the coffee table to eat. I grab the remote and pan over to the first favorite movie that comes to mind.

“Tombstone?” says Bea. “Too bad your mustache didn’t make it out of 2019.”

I could get drunk on that comment. I could take it straight like a shot or mix it in with a bunch of other things I’ve collected from her until it fucks me up. “Yourememberthe year I had a mustache?”

“Yes, Silas. My memory’s not so bad, either,” she says, rolling her eyes in that way I like. “You were ahead of the trend.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” I all but yell. “Thank you. I feel very validated.”

We get pulled into the movie for a while, both of us laughing when she catches me mouthing a few of my favorite lines. The problem with watching something I practically have memorized, though, is that it doesn’t quite hold my attention like I need it to. Not next to Bea, in this space. On my couch, smelling like laundry detergent and almond shampoo. With her socked foot grazing my calf and her nipples pebbling through her thin sweatshirt. I keep stealing glances at her and finding excuses to touch her. She catches me looking at her twice, and even in the fading light, I think I see her blush. The third time it happens, we don’t smile and look away quick enough. My hold on myself is unraveling, my heart beating hard enough to make me take slow, intentional breaths.

She disappears upstairs when the credits start to roll, like maybe she needs a reprieve, too. When she comes back, it’s with a bin full of polishes in her hands.

“I probably won’t be able to stay awake through the next movie, so let’s get you gussied up now.”

“You pick my colors,” I tell her.

She goes with three different shades of orange. “In honor of Calcifur,” she says, who acknowledges this with narrowed eyes and a twitch of her tail.

Bea grabs my left hand, and I exchange it for my right. “I’ll let you do my good hand, first.”

She freezes, deadly still other than the pulse beating in her neck. The look she gives me cycles through about seven different emotions before landing on outrage.

“Don’t ever say that again, Silas.Pleasedon’t . . . You can’t say that shit. You can’tthinkthat, ever.”

My heart gets rabbity in my chest. “Bea, it’s not that serious.”

“It’s not thatserious!?” she hisses. “What do you mean it’s not that serious? I’m not—” She breaks off and looks away. “Sorry, I know I shouldn’t tell you how to feel. Ican’ttell youhow to feel. You’re the one who went through it.” She pulls my scarred hand into her lap. “But this hand isgood, Silas. This is a good hand, okay? This skin protected something that has become precious to me. I . . . Goddamn it, I care about this hand, and it matters to me. It matters to Calcifur!” At this, the cat levels her one more withering look before she saunters off into another room. “This hand pets her. Feeds her. It’s helped me with the most important thing I’ve ever done in my life thus far, since this, specifically, is the hand that holds my butt in place when you give me my shots.” Her face is raw tenacity, a brutal, beautiful flame.

“Okay,” I say, feeling adequately chastised. I try to take it back, and her grip turns viselike.

She brings my knuckles up to her lips, and I cease breathing. The kiss is barely a graze, but with her stare holding mine it might as well be a chisel. “This is agoodhand. Say it.”

I have to be the one to look away. “You’re right,” I croak. “It is a good hand.” Until this moment, I never fully grasped that I thought less of it. It’s not as if I think less of anyone else’s scars. Not Garvin’s, Saul’s, or Mila’s. The only judgment I ever pass on theirs is to think that they’re all tougher than I am.