Page 48 of Lost and Found

I do some quick introspection while we pass more vendors. Two little girls are picking out charms for friendship bracelets, and my heart gives a squeeze. I pluck two flowers from my bouquet and give one to each.

“I am. Okay, I mean,” I tell Wren. Though what is it about someone asking you if you’re okay that makes you question it? I laugh through a tightening throat. “It’s been surprisingly easy, staying at Silas’s.”

She tosses me a fond look. “Not surprising to me. Not at all. Unless a prank was involved, Silas was always the most fastidious of all of them, and he’s . . . he’s good at being what he thinks people need. A friend. Comedic relief. Makes sense that he’d figure out how to be a good roommate, too,” she says. “Whatissurprising to me, however, is how tight-lipped he is when it comes to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Sage and I both have prodded him on why you’re staying there and he’s been skirting details like a pro. And that man is someone who prides himself on sharing details.”

I snort. “What’s he said?”

“Well, firstly, that it’s none of our goddamn business, to which he’s right—no matter that that has never once stopped him before in his life. And secondly, just that you’re saving up for something. And I meant it, Bea, you don’t have to tell me anything. It isn’t any of my goddamn business and I’m not actually fishing.” She sighs, putting a hand on my arm and squaring her shoulders. “But if you can forgive me being a quintessential overbearing townie for a minute, I just wanted to tell you to be careful, please.”

Defensiveness rises in me like a wave. Silas has gone above and beyond, simply to be a friend to me. He’s opened his home,he’s been supportive with his words and backed it up with his actions. The man has administered me as many shots as I’ve given to myself. I’ve managed to kill two sourdough starters thus far, so yesterday, he showed up at the house with an already active one and said he went and stole it from Fisher, thereby breaking and enteringandcommitting theft on my behalf. Since our dinners that very first week together, anytime he swings by the grocery store, he’s kind enough to see if I need something. He leaves me leftovers in the fridge, just because. I’ve continued making extra helpings of my own meals so I can do the same. And now I know he’s respected my privacy, too.

I suspect he’s guarded my privacy for about eight years.

“He’s been nothing but a gentleman, Wren,” I say. “I think you should give him a little more credit.”

Her pretty face cracks into a satisfied smile before she wrestles it into something subdued.

Subdued, but smug. “I meantyou, actually. I was asking you to be careful withhim. But I’m really glad to hear it.”

Oh.

“Silas is softer and stronger than I think he knows,” she goes on. “But he also has no . . .” She circles her hands in the air and grimaces. “He doesn’t, like, protect enough of himself, I think.”

“No sense of self-preservation,” I supply. Emphasis on theself.

“Yes.Exactly.”

“Yeah, I’ve picked up on that.” I don’t try to wipe the grin off my face.

“Anyway,” says Wren. “That’s done, and my sisterly obligations are fulfilled.” She claps her palms together like she’s dusting them off. “Wanna get some cotton candy and do a lap around O’Doyle’s? See how long it takes Martha to yell at us for eating inside the store?”

“Wren. We’re in our thirties.”

“I know, right? I’ve even managed to raise a whole entire adult.” She waits patiently for my reply.

I shrug. “Why not.”

We end up shopping around the market for a little while longer. I buy a canvas bag with vintage spoons printed all over and fill it with a medley of things. Homemade Caesar dressing and a bag of naan, tomatoes, and a loaf of pesto focaccia. Wren and I only make it five minutes inside O’Doyle’s before Martha snaps at us and hustles us back out with our cotton candy. She thanks me aggrievedly when I pass her a woolly cloud of her own.

It’s not until two hours later, when we’re seated at a table in her bakery and Wren is cheers-ing her lemonade cupcake to mine, that I realize I’ve just enjoyed a friend date of sorts. In my peripheral, I see more than half the vendors packing away their E-Z UPs and tables for the day.

“Today was fun,” I tell her. I hate how tentative it sounds. How hard it is not to let any guilt flare up over it, as if I’m loving Merritt less if I make room in my friendship heart for more.

“Let’s do something again soon?” says Wren. “I have my appointment with you next month—maybe we get some lunch after if it works with your schedule?”

Unlikely. I’ve got the majority of my appointments double-booked out for the next few months. I am so rusty with this kind of social etiquette that it takes me a minute to figure out how to say no without her thinking I’m blowing her off, though.

“I’m off most Sundays and Mondays, if that’s easier?” I offer.

“Perfect. So am I.”

We make concrete plans to get lunch again a couple of Mondays from now, and the sense of accomplishment this gives me is so outsized for what it is, but I haven’t made a trulynewfriend as an adult, ever. It’s as if I’ve just ripped off a bandage too early and miraculously found healed skin—if a little pink and thin.

I say my farewells and head out of the bakery, a full tote over my shoulder and my freshly watered bouquet in hand, but just before I turn to head toward the staircase that leads back up to the trail, a banner stops me in my tracks.