Page 42 of Lost and Found

It doesn’t occur to me until I’m warm and languid with sleep that I, once again, completely forgot to give him Zoeie’s number. I’d rather not ruminate on the psychological implications of this, so I pull out my phone and share her contact with him before I can forget again.

He pulls his phone out and gives the glowing screen a frown. “Don’t like how her name is spelled,” he mutters, distaste heavy in his voice.

“That is not a real problem, Silas,” I chastise, despite the devil on my shoulder hissing,Drop it, idiot!

I see his mouth twist in the shadows. “Are you sure she wasn’t interested in Micah?”

“I double-checked again today,” I grumble. My jaw cracks through a yawn. “She saidthe smiling oneseemed interested.”

“All because I smiled?”

I manage to find his stare. “Welcome to what it’s like to be a woman. And no, it’s because you’reyou, Silas.”

This has him grinning again. A flash of white cutting through the dark. “You mean something about me calls to some primordial response in you?”

“Yes. A gag reflex.”

“C’mon, Marshall. You can’t tee me up like that. All the jokes about making you gag are low-hanging fruit. I think I really need you to explain it to me. What is it that’s somovingabout me?”

I close my eyes and burrow into my covers. “AndIthink you just want me to stroke your ego.”

“Worth a try,” he says, his shrug rustling the blankets.

“I bet Zoeie would be glad to stroke you however you’d like.”

I feel, rather than see, him stiffen.

“Why are you hung up on this?” he asks, voice dangerously gentle.

I don’t know. My mouth seems to be acting autonomously. Maybe it’s the dark that makes it feel safe to be unfiltered. Either way, the subject matter kicks up my second wind.

“I guess I just don’t know . . .why? I would love to understand,” I admit, punctuated by the far-off cry of a gull. It’s only been two weeks since he first told me he was “no good for any of it,” but it’s also been so long since I took such an active, genuine interest in someone outside my own grief dome, and now that he’s in it with me, I feel insufferably nosy. “I know whyI’mnot dating right now. Casual sex is off the table for the physical risks alone when I’m spending, at minimum, twenty-five grand on IVF. And dating seriously would be unfair to someone else. But you? You’re in your prime. You’re healthy. You’ve got a great career, a beautiful home. Correct me if I’m mistaken, but you’ve always been pro–casual sex?” I’ve run into this man on dates before, in a neighboring town. I’ve spotted him sharing morning-after pastries with women at Savvy’s, basking in the kind of afterglow that only great sex can bring.

He’s quiet for a full minute. I can’t tell if he’s contemplating or if he’s gone to sleep.

“I know you said you’re not in the headspace,” I tack on. “If I’m being invasive, I’ll drop it.”

“I haven’t slept with anyone since before the accident.”

That’s . . . going on two years. Even longer than I’ve gone. I have to keep a tight leash on my face, but my heart starts doing something unwieldy in a way I cannot and should not acknowledge. It’s illogical, anyway. Like the small piece of him that I’ve had is somehow a little more mine. Ridiculous. Asinine. Borderline problematic.

Simultaneously, it devastates me to picture him lonely.

“I don’t think I’m built for long term, but the accident took some of the fun out of the short term for me, too. Partly because getting naked in front of someone is slightly less funfor me, and . . . and because meaningless sex still sounds like a great thing for other people, and I’m happy for them, but unfortunately, to me, now it just sounds meaningless.”

“I understand that.”

“You do?” His laugh-sigh reverberates around the contained space. “That’s good. Wish I understood it a little better myself.”

“Well. When you get a sense for how fickle life is, I think it makes you want to focus on the relationships that count the most. Family, friends. Which I guess I need to make more of at some point.”

He rubs circles into a spot near his elbow. “Guess I probably should, too. Since my family are my only friends.”

We both sound so worn out by the prospect of it. So different from the gregarious, inviting people we once were.

“Hey. We’re friends, at least,” I say, voice going slippery with sleep again. “We count for something.”

He reaches over and pinches my chin like he can’t help himself, but his thumb lingers too long for it to be entirely friendly. My lips itch with the urge to turn and kiss it. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we count.”