Page 117 of Lost Then Found
She marches across the room and drops onto the couch next to me, tucking one leg underneath her, shaking her head the entire time. “That’s bullshit.”
I type something into a field, delete it, type it again. “It’s not bullshit. I’ve been dealing with it.”
She watches me, unimpressed. “Oh, right. Dealing with it. Is that why you’re sitting in the dark, refreshing the health department website?”
“Miller, I don’t have time to do this with you right now.”
“Do what?” She gestures toward my laptop. “Have me point out that this is the worst plan ever? Because it is. This is objectively the worst plan ever.”
I snap the laptop shut, twisting toward her. “And what exactly do you suggest I do? Let the Bluebell go under? Just throw my hands up and say, ‘Oh well, guess it was a good run’?”
She rolls her eyes. “Jesus, the drama. No, I suggest you stop white-knuckling this shit like it’s your personal burden to bear. There are other people who can help.”
I shake my head, jaw tightening. “Like who, Miller? The fucking health department? Wendell Tate? Because as far as I can tell, they’re the only people involved in this little game, and I am losing. Badly.”
She stares at me for a long beat, then suddenly leans forward, snatches my laptop off my lap, and tosses it onto the coffee table.
I blink at her. “Are you serious?”
Miller shrugs, crossing her arms. “Yeah, actually. Watching you spiral is exhausting.”
A sharp, humorless laugh bubbles up in my throat. “Well, sorry for the inconvenience.”
She shakes her head. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
The irritation boils over before I can stop it. Everything is too much. The money, the Bluebell, the fucking smug look I know Wendell Tate is wearing right now.
“You don’t get it, Miller,” I say. “I don’t have the luxury of sitting around and waiting for someone to fix this for me. I can’t just sit around and do nothing.”
Miller tilts her head. “You do nothing about as well as I do subtle.”
I scoff. “I don’t have time for this.”
She gestures dramatically toward the dark room. “Yeah, you seem super busy. You’ve been sitting here in your feelings for how long now?”
I shove off the couch, pacing toward the kitchen, hands on my hips, pulse pounding. “Do you ever shut the hell up, Miller?”
“Not when I’m right, no.” She leans forward, completely unfazed,resting her elbows on her knees. “If you want to sit here and spiral, be my guest. But at some point, you’re gonna have to do something that actually helps.”
I grip the edge of the counter, pressing my fingers hard into the wood.
Her voice softens, just enough. “You know who else is really good at fixing things?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Don’t.”
“You should probably call him.”
“Jesus, Miller—”
“Just saying. Boone’s been looking for a reason to play hero since the second he got back.”
I shake my head. Not happening. Boone Wilding is thelastperson I need in my ear right now, telling me what to do, taking this out of my hands like I can’t handle it myself.
Miller sighs and rolls her eyes. “Fine. Don’t call him. Be stubborn. Keep marinating in your self-inflicted misery.”
I let out a slow breath and drop my head into my hands. My whole body feels like it’s vibrating from the inside out—too much stress, too much caffeine, not enough sleep.
“I don’t know what to do,” I mumble into my palms.
