Page 65 of Lost and Found

“Well done, Byrd,” I tell him when I rediscover my voice. The crowd is still going, but it feels like we’re alone, like the volume has been turned down around us.

He shocks me by reaching out and grabbing at the shorter hair growing in on the side of my head, looping it around a finger and letting it slip through. It must’ve escaped my ponytail in the wind.

“You, too, Red,” he says.

And then a woman blows past me and leaps into his arms, wrapping her legs around his bare torso like a koala to a eucalyptus tree. She puts her mouth on his. His eyes hold on to mine only briefly, before he kisses her back in earnest.

CHAPTER 25

Now

Bea

Spirits seem to be high everywhere I go over the following week. I think all this sun we’re getting is going to everyone’s heads. On Tuesday, Yana has the salon blocked for a few hours so all the stylists can touch up each other’s hair. It’s a quarterly tradition that usually ends up being a nice bonding experience for a group of women with highly individual careers who share a building space. Yana herself is a statuesque, ice-blond Ukrainian whom I’ve never seen in anything less put-together than lip gloss and three-inch heels. She’s walking around with a head full of foils and an open bottle of Veuve, topping off everyone partaking. I’m a little less than two weeks out from transfer at this point, so I’m being extra cautious and abstaining.

It hasn’t happened in a while—not since living with Silas, in fact—but for the first time in a long time, I’m fighting off a surge of something mean, looking around. Zoeie and Rachelle are laughing and talking about their recent floating trip down the Deschutes. Molly is giving Shelby fresh bangs, pausing to share their daughters’ photos with each other; a high school graduation and a wedding album between them. And Ivy and Zarin make joint family plans for the Fourth and recount jokes from the latest Farley Jones special. So much life in this room,so many experiences . . . Meanwhile, my friend doesn’t even get to live.

“Bea,” Yana says, thickly accented. I jump in my seat. “Why don’t you walk with me to pick up lunch?”

I leap at the chance to reroute and follow her out the door to the Greek café around the corner, the salon’s unanimous favorite.

“How are you doing, Bea? You are taking care of yourself, yes?” says Yana.

“I am,” I tell her. “Doing my best at least.” I smile at her stony, severe face.

“Good. Your mother asked to switch her appointment to me, so I worry.”

Irritation flares. “Did you take her off my books?”

“Yes, but I did not move her to mine. That is between you two. Too messy. I don’t like messy, you know.”

I nod and sigh. I’m not going to be the first to cave, not if Mom’s feeling petty enough to actually switch stylists. I would never go so far as to wish ill upon someone’s hair . . . but there is a little demon in me that hopes she doesn’tlikeit, at least, wherever she goes.

Thinking of Mom also makes me think of Kurt and his call this past Sunday while I was at the Byrds’. He was quick to assure me nothing was wrong with Mom, but asked if I’d meet him for lunch this week. I was able to fit him into my time slot tomorrow and feel equal parts curious and anxious about it.

We’re approaching Petra’s now, a few yards away from our destination, when I notice the fire truck in the parking lot. My hand flies up to the foils on my head.

“Um. Yana? Why don’t I wait out here for you so I can . . . hold the door for you to carry the food outside?”

Her nose scrunches in mild disgust. “No.”

“I actually need to go to the bathroom really bad!” I try. “It’s an emergency!”

Her face grows even more bored, one perfectly manicured eyebrow lifting. “Perhaps the firemen can assist you with that. Let us go.” She swings open the door and sends the bell above it twinkling.

“Ruby?” I hear Silas say, the word coming out of him in an arch like his smile. Like running into the person he’s living with around town isn’t a shock whatsoever and is simply a welcome delight. Which, I might also find delightful if I didn’t currently look like I was about to host a conspiracy theorist meeting in my basement. I spin toward his voice, and the corner of some tinfoil pokes into my forehead.

My jaw drops before I snap it shut so fast I bite the tip of my tongue.

He’s in full gear, everything but the jacket and helmet. Suspenders over a tight long-sleeved shirt, and a cap he’s spun around backward. He’s up and coming for me, the rest of his crew staying put in their seats. He’s completely oblivious to the crisis going on in my nervous system and unfazed by my foils, reaching over to flick one with a fingertip before smiling brightly into my face. “You get my message?”

I shake my head. “Uh-uh.”

“Look what I got to do today.” He pulls out his phone to show me a video of him using a tool to break through the windows of a car so they could run a hose through. They’re not kidding about not parking next to a fire hydrant, apparently. He’s got a smudge of dirt on his cheek, and I stuff my hands into my back pockets so I don’t wipe it off him.

Yana comes over, and I introduce them, then to the remaining crew. They offer to carry our trays and bags of food back to the salon for us, and Yana accepts before I can turn them down. The whole place is charmed, of course, I among them. Mycheeks and ears burn when Silas hugs me goodbye, pinches my chin, and says, “See you at home, Red.”

Every woman in the salon is staring at me when the door shuts behind him.