Page 42 of Lost Then Found
She’s not in uniform. Probably has weekends off. Her hair’s still long, pulled to one side. Her eyes—blue today—meet mine when I step in, and for half a second, it hits me square in the chest.
Mom was right.
She’s even prettier now.
Lark was the girl everyone talked about in high school. The one who turned heads without trying. I remember how fast I saw red when I heard Clayton Faulkner—one of our pitchers—running his mouth in the dugout about what he’d do if he ever got the chance with her, as if he ever had a shot in hell.
I broke his nose for that. Got benched for two games.
Didn’t regret it for a second.
Now she’s sitting here, still beautiful, but there’s something different. Worn, maybe. A kind of quiet fatigue in her face she probably doesn’t even notice. It does something to me, seeing it. Knowing she’s been shouldering everything alone for twelve years.
She nods toward the kid-sized chair in the corner. “You want to sit?”
I glance at it and raise a brow. It’s barely wide enough for one of my thighs. I drop into it anyway, knees damn near to my chest. The thing creaks like it’s about to give out.
She tries not to smile.
“Laugh it up,” I mutter.
She lets out a small chuckle. “Sorry. That was Hudson’s chair. Had it in here for him when he was little.”
Something about that settles in my chest. The thought of Hudson in this office, sitting in the chair, waiting for his mom to finish up work.
I shift slightly, trying to get comfortable. “Well, he better have been a small kid.”
Lark laughs again—quiet and real—and for a second, I’m not sitting in a too-small chair across from the woman I used to love. I’m sixteen again, watching her tear through the pasture barefoot, chasing after me. Always a step behind, always catching up.
“He’s too tall now,” she says, shaking her head. “Growing out of his clothes faster than I can keep up. I buy him new jeans, and a month later, they’re hitting him above the ankles.” Her voice drops a little. “Guess he got that from you.”
I part my lips to say something, but she lifts a hand before I get the chance.
“Let me talk,” she says, her voice even. Measured. “Just…let me get it out.”
I give her a nod. Nothing more.
Her palms press flat to the desk like she’s steadying herself. “I meant what I said. I tried to reach you. I wrote letters. So many, I lost count. I called, begged the base to pass on a message. Told them it was urgent.”
She blows out a breath. Shakes her head. “But I guess it never got toyou.”
Her shoulders drop, voice lower now. “At some point, I had to stop waiting. Had to accept you weren’t coming back. That it was gonna be me and Hudson. Just us.”
My chest tightens. I shake my head. “You should’ve told someone. My mom would’ve helped. My sisters. You wouldn’t have been on your own, Lark.”
She lifts her chin, steady as hell. “I didn’t want to be an obligation, Boone.”
My frown deepens, but she doesn’t stop.
“I didn’t want to be the girl your family had to take care of. I didn’t want your mom looking at me like I was some box she had to check. Or your sisters trying to make it better when it wasn’t their mess to fix.” Her voice dips—cracks just a little on the last part. “And I…I didn’t want Hudson growing up thinking he was a burden.”
I sit back, jaw clenched.
She’s not wrong. Even if they had taken her in, even if they’d made every offer to help, she would’ve felt like a project. And Lark’s never been someone who needs saving. She’d walk through fire barefoot before letting someone carry her across.
Still burns to hear it out loud.
I let out a slow breath, eyes fixed on the desk between us. “Wasn’t easy to reach me,” I say, voice low. “That’s on me. I didn’t want distractions. Didn’t want anything tying me down.”
