Page 32 of Lost Then Found
A beat of silence.
Boone’s eyes stay locked on the door Hudson just walked through, his chest rising and falling like he’s trying to get a grip on something that keeps slipping through his fingers.
Then, finally, his gaze swings back to me, sharp and unrelenting.
“Is that my son?”
My throat tightens.
I don’t answer right away. Not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t. Because the weight of the moment is pressing down on me so hard it’s impossible to breathe.
Boone takes a step forward, his voice low but firm. “Lark, is that myson?”
There’s no room for anything but the truth.
I swallow hard, force myself to meet his gaze. “Yes.”
Boone drags a hand down his face, over his jaw, like he’s trying to physically process what I just said.
“Twelve years.” His voice is rough. He shakes his head. “I’ve been gone twelve fucking years, and you didn’t think to tell me something like that?”
The anger rises in my chest like a tide. I lift my chin. “Of course I tried to tell you.”
His head jerks slightly. “What?”
“I tried to tell you, Boone,” I say, my voice steadier now, firmer. “I wrote you letters for months. I called every number I had for you. I left messages, reached out every way I could.” My pulse pounds in my ears. “You left me, remember? Not the other way around.Youleftme. And I didn’t know if you were ever coming back.”
Boone doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His jaw tightens, but nothing comesout.
The room has gone quiet around us.
A fork scrapes against a plate at the counter, someone clears their throat. The air feels dense—too still for this time of morning. A few of the regulars glance over from their booths, trying to look casual but not even bothering to hide their curiosity. One of them leans toward the other, murmuring something behind a coffee cup.
They can feel it, too. The tension. The truth in it. All the unsaid years pressing in.
Boone’s lips part, like he’s about to say something—but no words come. His eyes are locked on mine, wide and gutted, like the ground’s shifting under his feet and he doesn’t know where to step.
I don’t have time for this. I need to get out of here.
I exhale sharply, turn for the door. “I have to take Hudson to baseball practice.”
His entire face shifts. Brows furrowed, mouth slightly open, his expression somewhere between disbelief and something softer.
“He plays baseball?”
I pause but don’t turn around. “Yes, he plays baseball.”
I don’t mean for it to come out the way it does—like a confession. Like something I never wanted to say out loud.
Because of course Boone would react like that.
He was supposed to be the one out there with him. The one teaching him to throw a curveball, the one sitting in the stands, calling out pointers, tossing a ball back and forth in the backyard. Boone was the best damn baseball player our school had ever seen. He was scouted. He could’ve played college ball on a scholarship if he hadn’t gone off into the military and disappeared into a world I was never a part of.
I reach for the door, but Boone’s voice stops me cold.
“Lark, come on. Please.”
It’s not just my name. It’s a plea, a thread pulled too tight. It’s him—the boy I loved, the man standing in front of me now. It’s the way he said it the last time I ever saw him.
