Page 9 of Lost and Found

“You’re right. I imagine I don’t,” clips Bea.

Leslie snorts and storms off, wobbling chin held high.

Bea’s bright gaze immediately finds mine, and I’m about to gather her into a hug and offer some comfort, but I’m stalled when she circles my wrist in a squeeze. “God, I’m so sorry,” she says. “Are you okay?”

“I—me? Ah, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” I stammer, eyes and ears heating. “Can I take you home?” I shake my head to clear it. “I mean, I haven’t had anything to drink in a few hours—can I give you a ride home?”

Bea’s smile is slow and soft. “Yeah.”

CHAPTER 3

Now

Bea

All the adrenaline from the night flees my body the moment I slide into Silas’s truck. I feel wrung out, muscles weighted and blood sluggish in my veins. I’m on the verge of tears again—for no good reason or maybe for all the reasons, I don’t know.

I realize my eyes have closed when I feel him slide into the driver’s seat.

“Thank you,” he says, deep and gritty in the enclosed space. I lift my million-pound lids to look at him. “For sticking up for me.”

“You’re welcome,” I say. Guilt lands a quick jab in my chest. I don’t know why I feel like I should explain myself, but I do. “Maybe I shouldn’t have snapped at her like that, but . . . a lot of our conversations go that way lately. She just says so much shit, you know? Things that feel fucking hurtful and careless, and it’s like I can’t help it anymore. Like I’m always primed for it now.” I blow out a frustrated breath. “I hope it wasn’t too much. You probably didn’t need me stepping in. I hopeIdidn’t end up making you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t. Promise.”

He starts the engine, and we head out into the night, quiet and stars blanketing us.

“You can talk about it,” Silas says. “If you want to. Whatever else is going on with you two. I might not have great advice, but I know it helps just to say stuff out loud sometimes.”

He’s right, I know. But I’m scared he might agree with her.

It took me a few months after learning about all of this, but when I eventually talked to Merritt’s family,hermom had been moved and supportive. Bonnie had been excited, even. She’d cried, telling me how much she loved the idea of having something of Merritt live on. Expanding their family, gaining another grandchild. She’d thanked me vehemently. Despite living four hours away now, we do our best to meet up for an occasional lunch and stay caught up in between.

Merritt’s sister, Devin, had been a different story. She had nothing to say at all, but her face hadn’t hidden much. I tried to stuff her response to a far corner of my mind and held on to Bonnie’s instead.

I’d gone back to my mom feeling like I was cupping a flickering flame, and her reaction all but snuffed it out. I feel like I am barely clinging to my resolve.

“My mom thinks that Merritt leaving this to me was unfair for her to do,” I decide to tell him. “That her asking me to carry a piece of her on wasn’t right.” I may as well blurt out the rest. “She thinks I’m not considering that I might meet someone and how a kid will be an added obstacle—her words, not mine. She also thinks that the grief is too fresh and I’m taking on too much. Asking too much of my body. She said . . . she said that I’m putting unfair expectations on a kid to fill a void.” The last part comes out too high and strained.

I sneak a glance at him when he’s quiet for a beat, but I can’t make out his expression.

“Well,” he finally says, “doyou think this kid is going to be some reincarnation of Merritt?”

“Of course not.”

“And youwanta kid?”

There’s a blurry image that lingers in my mind—a little baby with brown hair. A small piece of a person who unfailingly saw the best in others, who brought out the very best in me, back in the world and cradled protectively in my arms. Letting myself feelthiswant? It’s almost as intense as my sadness. So, yes, I want a kid. I wantthiskid. More than I’ve ever wanted anything, but I also feel like I have to qualify it. To only allow myself to want it in measured, safe terms.

I consider it as I have a thousand times over the last year, holding it up against my mom’s argument. Maybe the timing could be better, but in most ways, I do feel ready. I’m executing a plan to help cover myself financially. I just turned thirty. I have always wanted kids. Even when I was younger, I thought more about my future children than I ever thought about marriage. I enjoy flirting and (good) sex, and other than the last year or the times when Merritt was really sick, I’ve rarely deprived myself of either. But romantically, while men have added some joy to my life, nothing has ever compared to the love I had for my best friend.

And maybe that’s me. Maybe I haven’t let it come close enough to compare. Nevertheless, in Merritt, I had the kind of love that made me invincible and fulfilled, wholly myself and unequivocally known. It just so happened to be platonic. I don’t feel like I need romantic love, so I don’t feel like I need a romantic partner before I can be someone’s mom. And if romance were to come along one day, I would not be the least bit interested in anyone who’d consider a child to be an obstacle, anyway. Like having a kid would make me something to be settled for.

“Yes,” I state with as much conviction as I can muster in a syllable.

“Then she’s wrong,” Silas replies. “You’re not trying to fill a void. You’re trying to move forward and honor your friend. And if you’re not avoiding your grief or sidestepping it, I think that’s brave as hell. It’s hopeful as hell.”

My breaths pick up speed, but there’s no hardening in my throat, no struggle against the tears. I simply blink and they’re there, alongside a smile that’s just as inexorable.