Page 22 of Lost and Found

“It’s going fine,” I say, combing through a section of his hair and giving it a snip. “Is it still okay if I start to move in this weekend?”

He nods, and I readjust his head with an admonishing look. “I’ll be working tomorrow, but I can help with whatever boxes after that,” he says.

“I’ll be fine. Thank you, though,” I tell him. “I promise it’ll just be until I find a different rental.”

He shrugs. “Or don’t find one. I already told you you could stay through the rest of the year.”

He did tell me this. I’ve spoken with him multiple times over the last week to work out the details of our arrangement. Learned that, despite the majority of our interactions taking place over text the last few years, when it comes to this new phase of our friendship, he definitely prefers talking on the phone, no matter how often I’ve explained wanting these things in writing.

A few moments pass, the snick of my scissors the only sound between us, little clippings of his hair falling around my feet.

“Can I be nosy?” he asks.

I cease cutting and give him an alarmed look. “Is that the first time you’ve ever askedpermissionto be?”

He grins at his lap. “Yeah, probably.”

“Well. Since you’re using your manners,” I say. Andwhydid I say it like that? Why’d I choose that particular phrasing, and why’d it have to come out all sultry that way?

“When are you doing it? The baby.”

I dart another look at him and then around. My defensiveness about the situation feels heightened, now, after everything with Mom, and everyone knows the salon is the watercooler for gossip. I don’t want to tell anyone else yet. Don’t want anyone else’s feelings to have an influence over mine. “If I stay on my current schedule, the transfer would be late June.”

“Why wouldn’t you stay on schedule?” he asks, then lets out a rueful, knowing sound when I don’t immediately answer. “My motivational speech was that terrible, huh?”

“No,” I breathe out, landing a playful flick to his ear. “If anything, it confirmed things for me. Made me . . . made mewant it more, really. But it also made me want to do it right. Even more than I already did.”

Isabel returns with the sparkling waters and hands both his way. He thanks her and uncaps them smoothly, then passes the spare to me. We clink them together and each take a gulp before I set mine aside and get back to work. I pick up where I left off on his cut, and he waits patiently for me to continue with the rest.

“I like to think I know the weight of this decision I’m making,” I say. “I know that the financial part of it is only one small aspect.” I snip some more and absentmindedly card my fingers through his hair as I move to his front. “I know how to save up enough money. How to read books and do research and prepare in that way. But I’m not sure how to know that I’m okay enough when it comes to everything else, I guess, and I want to be the best I can for a baby.

“Obviously, after Merritt died,everythingwas excruciating. But then time passed and I just had to find ways to cope. Staying busy helped. Having something I wanted, something to work toward, has helped. Or I thought it did, at least. Like some kind of grief inertia, I suppose.

“But then, since the wedding, I’ve wondered what I’ve avoided, too, all in the name of being okay. Because actually feeling all my shit that night? Felt better. And it got me thinking . . . maybe I’m a little stuck because—because I haven’t let myself grieveactively. Oron purpose, or something.” I’m struck by a sudden wave of self-consciousness when I realize how long I’ve been yammering on. “Does that even make sense?” My gaze dips, and I find his eyes shut. “Gee, Byrd, am I boring you?”

He laughs through his nose, and his mouth tugs into a devastating half smile. “No, but you’re practically straddling my lap and your chest is inches from my face, and I’m trying my verybest to listenandbe polite.” A blush spreads up his throat, the end of a scar turning a furious pink.

He’s oddly vulnerable like this. I note the semicircles under his eyes and stubble that looks like a few days’ growth. Silas always seemed like he’d be perpetually young, but right now he looks every bit of his thirty-one years.

“But, yeah, Bea,” he says solemnly, lids still clenched tight. “It makes sense. Sounds like numbing.”

I don’t like the way that sounds. Numbing sounds more dysfunctional than what I’ve been doing, like drinking heavily or taking up recreational drugs to forget. Forgetting is the last thing I want to do.

But I suppose he’s still right, in a way. I’ve filled my time with work as much as possible and then shut down my own emotions under the guise of “I don’t have time.” I’m not trying to forget, exactly, but I have mastered some impressive mental gymnastics toavoidthe minefield of my memories and feelings.

“No more numbing,” I vow to myself. “I don’t want to do that anymore.”

One turquoise eye squints open. “No more numbing,” he agrees.

The moment stretches like taffy, both of his eyes searching mine now. I swallow around the hummingbird in my throat and remember how I felt after my sunrise stop. Opening up to Martha and Joelle even when it hurt. I think of the letter I’ve been carrying around like a talisman.

“I . . . want to show you something.”

He doesn’t crack a grin. Just tips his head and says, “Show me anything you want to, Red.”

I pull Merritt’s folded-up letter out of my back pocket and hand it over.

A deep laugh punches out of him at the very first line. I flush with pride on Merritt’s behalf. She would have loved that he laughed at that.