Page 111 of Lost Then Found
“No, but it also doesn’t mean you’ll do it again.”
Wren watches me for a second, like she’s waiting for me to argue. I don’t.
She sighs. “Look, I get why she’s scared. But you’re not eighteen anymore, Boone. You may still be an idiot, just not an eighteen-year-old one.”
I try not to laugh, shaking my head. “Doesn’t matter. I still left.”
“Yeah. And if you had stayed, would you have been happy?”
I press my palms together, staring at the ground.
She nods like she already knows the answer. “Exactly. You would’ve been restless. Resentful. And you probably would’ve ended up leaving herlater, but for worse reasons.”
My jaw tightens. “Doesn’t make it any easier for her to forget.”
“She’s not wanting you to undo what you’ve already done.” She lifts a brow. “She needs to see if she can count on you right now.”
I drag a hand through my hair again, my head too full, too damn heavy.
She nudges my boot again. “You still want her, right?”
“More than anything.”
“Then prove it.”
I glance at her. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It’s not.” She shrugs. “But itispossible.”
I rub at my jaw, my voice quieter when I finally speak. “And what if it’s still not enough?”
“Then that’s on her. But if you don’t even try, that’s on you.” She leans back, crossing her arms. “You can’t control whether or not she forgives you. You can’t force her to trust you. But you sure as hell can prove that you’re not the same guy who left her.”
I nod, nudging her elbow with mine. “When did you get so damn smart?”
She exhales, slow and steady, like she’s got all the time in the world. “Someone had to have the brains in this family. Guess it all fell to me.”
I shake my head, smirking as she turns toward Old Faithful.
“You got the blueprints?” she asks.
I reach for the pages lying next to my chair and hand them over. “Yeah. Been messing with them for weeks. Kept waking up in the middle of the night thinking about them. Adding shit, changing things.”
Wren unrolls the blueprints with practiced ease, her fingers smoothing the edges as her eyes flick between the paper and the house. She tilts her head, scanning every inch with that sharp, detail-oriented gaze she’s always had—the one that catches things most people overlook.
She doesn’t know how many hours I’ve poured into these plans. How many nights I’ve spent tracing and retracing these lines, measuring, adjusting, making sure every element aligns perfectly.
The kitchen—Lark’s kitchen—is set for a complete overhaul. New cabinets, a larger island. A bay window in the dining room,offering the view she deserves. The master bath? A clawfoot tub, heated floors—the works. Not out of necessity, but because I want her to have the best.
Then there’s the porch. I’m rebuilding it from the ground up. A wide wraparound, perfect for morning coffees and sunset watching. A place to unwind.
A place to stay.
Wren lets out a low whistle. “Fuck, Boone. This is gonna be a project. Are you sure about this?”
She’s not asking if I can do it. She’s asking if I know exactly what I’m taking on.
I push up from my chair, stretching out my shoulders. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
