Page 37 of Lost Then Found
Doesn’t matter how much time’s gone by. Doesn’t matter how many nights I spent convincing myself I was over her. How many times I told myself to let it go. Doesn’t matter how many other women I’ve touched, how many names I’ve forgotten before the sun came up.
None of them were her.
Not one of them even came close.
I’ve had my chances. The military isn’t exactly known for fostering deep,long-lasting relationships. Everybody’s fucking everybody, looking to kill time. Trying to forget something or someone, trying to feel something they know won’t last.
But nobody’s ever been Lark. And maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe I set them all up to fail because none of them had her name. Because none of them smelled like honeysuckle and lavender. Because none of them knew how to look at me and see past all the wreckage.
They’re not the girl I used to catch fireflies with on hot summer nights, mason jars glowing between us like we’d bottled the whole damn universe.
They’re not the girl who clung to me on the back of my dirt bike, arms tight around my waist, shouting in my ear to go faster—always faster.
They’re not the girl who climbed up to the barn roof with me just to watch the storms roll in, lightning flashing across the sky, shoulders brushing, hearts hammering like we were invincible.
They’re not the girl I kissed under the bleachers, or the one I snuck out with after midnight, headlights off, hearts racing. They’re not the girl I memorized before I even knew what the hell love was supposed to feel like.
Lark Caroline Westwood.
She ruined me in the best damn way—and I’ve never found my way back since.
And maybe that’s why I’m not as angry as I should be.
Ridge’s voice crackles through the speaker, breaking the heavy quiet that’s been sitting on the room like a damn storm cloud.
“So does this officially mean I get to be the fun uncle now?”
Sage snorts. Wren shakes her head. Mom rolls her eyes. But my mouth twitches, even if everything inside me still feels off-center.
“Not in this lifetime,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “Or the next one.”
Ridge scoffs, all wounded pride. “Why the hell not?”
I exhale through my nose, push back from the table. “Because you’re a little shit.”
He laughs—sharp and full of pride. “Yeah, well, I learned from the best.”
I smirk. “Difference is, I grew out of it.”
Everyone groans. Ridge’s laugh rings through the speaker again. “Oh,fuck off, Boone. You’re still as stubborn as ever.”
“Maybe,” I mutter, already grabbing my hat. My legs are restless. Head’s too loud. “I’m going for a ride. Don’t wait on me for supper.”
I don’t wait for a response. Just head for the door and let it close behind me.
Outside, the air bites a little, sun hanging low but bright. Smells like leather, old hay, dust warming on the breeze. Same as it always has. Familiar in a way that cuts a little deeper today.
Barn’s quiet, but not still. Covey and Witt are parked near the tack room, shooting the shit between chores. Covey’s got half a glove hanging from his back pocket, Witt’s nursing a toothpick like he always does.
They don’t say much—don’t have to.
Covey lifts his chin when he sees me. “Springsteen or Red?”
I glance at the stalls.
Red’s mine. Quick, sharp, a little mean when he’s bored. Built for moving fast and cutting hard.
