Page 55 of I’ll Find You

Rose looks up immediately. “What?”

Callie smiles, a little brighter this time. “We're putting together a fundraiser for the shelter. A five-mile run to raise money, bring awareness, and get more people involved. We've been planning it for months, but we could really use help promoting it.” Her eyes flick to Watson before returning to us. “People connect to stories, and you've got a good one.”

“I’ll do it,” Rose says instantly.

I don't know why I expected any other answer.

“What would we need to do?” she asks.

“You'd run, raise sponsorships, and help spread the word,” Callie says. “That's really all we're asking.”

Rose’s hand tightens in Watson’s fur. I already know that look. She’s made up her mind.

Then Callie looks at me. “And you?”

I don't answer right away because I already know what I'm not doing. “Running isn't really my thing,” I admit.

She smiles. “Then help at the finish line. Cheer Rose on, hand out water, keep things organized. We always need people making sure the runners are taken care of.”

Control. That, I can do. I nod once. “Yeah. I can do that.”

But it’s more than that. I glance at Rose again, already picturing it. She’s running, pushing herself, crossing that finish line. And I, waiting there for her. Making sure everything’s ready when she gets there.

“I’ll make sure no one gets overlooked,” I add. “And no one gets hurt.”

Callie studies me for a second, something approving in her expression. “That’s exactly what we need.”

Rose looks between us, a soft smile forming. Watson lets out a small huff at her side, his tail brushing lightly against her leg, adding his own approval. Callie gathers the signed papers, tapping them into place.

“Alright,” she says, “looks like you just adopted a dog, and signed yourself up for something bigger.” She beams, but her eyes linger on me, and I know she's not just talking about the race. We’re saying yes to more than that. We’re saying yes to showing up for each other, and for whatever comes next.

Chapter

Thirty-Two

Rose

After Alex and Watson drop me off at the restaurant where my friends and I used to spend so many nights, I step inside and scan the room for Chelsea. I spot her immediately, looking just a little out of place in the dim, run-down tavern. She’s wearing a thick cable-knit sweater, a scarf thrown loosely around her neck in large looping circles. Although her clothing fits the season, the rest of her doesn’t. She looks rested and tan and good, like getting away to get some sun in the middle of winter always does.

I pull off my gloves, rubbing my hands together as I make my way over. She’s sitting at the bar, her attention fixed on the television above it. She’s completely absorbed in a replay of an ice hockey game. Frankly, I can see the appeal. Her eyes light up as a player slams another into the glass, knocking his helmet loose as he crumples to the ice. The speed and violence make her grin.

I slide into the seat beside her. She doesn’t look my way, but I can tell she noticed me the moment I walked in.

“Enjoying a little sports action?” I ask.

She rests her hand against her temple, finally turning her attention toward me.

Her lips turn into a sly half-smile that makes me laugh, because Chelsea is anything but sly. She’s always the one who refuses to take sides, somehow managing to stay everyone’s friend. Even now, after everything with our roommates, she’s still here, showing up for me.

“I just love watching men play such vicious contact sports, don’t you?” she teases, laughing. “Wayne Gretzky once said something I've always liked: ‘A good hockey player plays where the puck is. A great hockey player plays where the puck is going to be.’ I think that's true in everything you apply yourself to.”

“Um…I’m not really into sports, but sure,” I say, and it comes out more like a question. She chuckles, looking at me intently.

The bartender comes over, and the subject of sports changes as we both order burgers and sodas. Chelsea is similar to me in that regard. Definitely not a salad girl. She’s down-to-earth, and even though her parents have money, she doesn’t flaunt it or act like it. Sometimes I wonder if she is just as lonely, the way she talks about her dad and how he’s never around, but I can tell it’s a sore subject, so I don’t press her for information. She gives me the same courtesy.

Our food arrives, and she picks up a fry, dipping it into the aioli before wiping her fingers on a napkin. “So,” she says, taking a huge bite of her burger, “tell me what you’ve been up to over break.” A trail of barbecue sauce slips down her chin, and she squeaks, grabbing a napkin and laughing as she wipes it away. She turns back to me, smiling and waiting for me to answer.

“I went to Texas with Alex,” I start.