Found (Lost and Found #2, New Adult Romance) (Lost & Found)

by Nadia Simonenko

  “Do you ever feel like... like maybe it’d be better if it was all over?” he asks. His voice is low, cold and scared as he stares over the railing.

  I bite my lip and quickly quell my fears. I need to get him away from the bridge. He’s just tired and overwhelmed from the police interview. He’ll be okay if I can get him away from the bridge and back home.

  “I did once,” I answer warily, slowly and carefully choosing my words. “But then I realized that what I’d lose was too important. I’d lose more than just my worries.”

  “Like what?” he whispers.

  “Like me, Owen!” I want to scream. I want to shake him and yell at him to snap out of it, but instead I quietly tug on his hand and try to pull him away from the railing.

  “If everything was over, I’d have lost you,” I say, tugging on him again. He takes a step back from the railing but still stares off into the darkness. “I’d have left you and Tina alone.”

  “Yeah... I wouldn’t have you down there, would I?” he whispers, and I shake my head. He sighs and turns to follow me, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Sorry,” he apologizes as we cross the bridge. “I just... there’s just so much going on and I’m feeling overwhelmed. I wish I could stop for a second and figure out what’s going on. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “It’s okay, sweetie. I know how you feel.”

  I understand how he feels because I’ve felt the same thing before. That feeling must be why so many students jump—the whispers promise to take away your pain, but they never tell you about all the other things you’ll lose forever down there.

  It scares me that talking about what his father did hurt him so much that he even thought about suicide, but the mood seems to have quickly passed just as mine did. I can feel the tension ease with each step we take, but no sooner do I get him across the bridge than the sky opens up above us. Ice-cold rain pours down and soaks straight through my jacket, chilling me to the bone, and I huddle up against Owen to stay warm as we stagger down the hill.

  “You know what you need right now?” I shout to him over the downpour. The rain’s coming down so hard now that it hurts.

  “What?”

  “Cocoa,” I answer with what I hope is a contagious smile. “Let’s go back to my place for the night.”

  He smiles back at me and puts his arm around me as we slosh through the pouring rain. It’s a miserable night, but at least we’re cold and wet together.

  ––––––––

  “Next time I decide to invite Owen over on a rainy night,” I think, “I should probably let him go get a spare change of clothes first.”

  The wind howls and the rain lashes against the bedroom window as Owen and I sit together, alternating between sips of cocoa and exhausted giggling as our clothes drip all over the carpet. Tina is over at Craig’s place tonight, and she turned the heat off and dropped the apartment to near freezing before she left. Of all the nights she could decide to be frugal, it just had to be the night when Owen and I got soaked, didn’t it?

  “You feeling better now?” I ask him, trying not to laugh at how much he reminds me of a scraggly, wet puppy with his disheveled hair and sopping clothes. Right now, I don’t imagine I look any better either. My shirt clings uncomfortably to my skin every time I move, and no matter how many times I pull back my hair, it still somehow plasters itself to my face every time I lean forward.

  “Much better,” answers Owen. “Thanks for walking home with me.”

  His mouth says one thing but his expression says something completely different. He’s thanking me for being there for him at the bridge, for pulling him away when he got caught up inside himself.

  “Any time. Seriously.”

  I’d pull him away from the edge a thousand times if he needed me to, but I hope it never comes to that.

  “So why is it,” he asks, stirring his drink, “that every time I’m over here, you’re making cocoa? Is that all you drink?”

  “I switch to other things in the summer.”

  “But in the winter, it’s all cocoa all the time?”

  “No, not all the time. Just... well, mostly just when you’re over, honestly. It’s kind of a special occasion to me when you’re here,” I answer. It’s mostly the truth. Tonight, though, I’m just trying to keep his mind off his mother. I’m distracting him with cocoa and kisses.

  He tries to hide his smile behind his cocoa mug, and I try not to blush at the sight of his smile as I pull my hair out of my eyes again. Even when I’m worried about him and I’m only trying to keep him happy, it really is a special occasion when he’s here. Now that I’ve found someone I can love and trust, I want to be with him all the time. I feel as if I’m growing, finally, as if I’m slowly making up ground on life and catching up to where I ought to be when I’m with him.

  He gets up from the bed to put his empty mug on the desk and I smile as I notice the wet spot left on the comforter where he was sitting. I’m not sending him back out in the rain this late at night, but I really should have thought to pick up a change of clothes for him on the way home. The entire bed’s going to be soaked in no time. How on earth is he going to sleep in those?

  “Can I have that for one second?” he asks as he sits beside me again, pointing at my mug.

  I relinquish my cocoa to him, and he puts it on the nightstand and turns back to me again.

  “So... why exactly did you take my mug away?” I ask, and he responds by leaning in and kissing me. His lips brush softly against mine and my body suddenly wakes up at his touch.

  “That’s why,” he whispers, and then he kisses me again. “Want it back?”

  “I’ve had enough cocoa for the night.”

  I return Owen’s kiss with a powerful, almost desperate longing, as if I suddenly can’t get enough of him. Our tongues find each other, tasting, playing, almost dancing together as I close my eyes and hold him close. He tastes like chocolate.

  My pulse quickens in excitement as he slowly lays me down on the bed, my arms still around him and our lips locked in a glorious kiss. The sensation of his body pressed against mine brings with it a wonderful feeling I can barely describe—a strange cross between incomparable joy and comforting safety—and my mind and body ignite with desire.

  I open my eyes again and almost shiver at the love shining brightly in his beautiful gray eyes as he holds me. It’s as if I’m entrapped by his gaze, lost and wandering in his gorgeous grays. I can’t imagine it being any other way and I couldn’t be happier. I love him. I love that I can be happy with him like this.

  I peel Owen’s soaked shirt off him with an almost ravenous desire and throw it across the room. It lands in the corner next to the door with a wet squelch. He drags his hands slowly up my body, touching me, beautifully caressing me, and I feel my mind start to glaze over in delight as he kisses me so passionately that it takes my breath away. The uncomfortable sensation of my wet shirt against my skin is almost erotic now as it clings to my skin while Owen wrestles it up and over my head. My body trembles with desire as he slowly undresses me, and my longing, no... my need for him burns hotter and brighter as my clothing drops piece by piece to the floor beside the bed.

  After all my worrying, wet clothes aren’t going to be a problem at all tonight.

  Sunday, April 14 – 6:45 PM

  Owen

  “Why can’t I figure out this stupid problem?” I complain to Craig from the couch as he comes downstairs. “This shit’s ridiculous. It just doesn’t make sense!”

  “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before signing up for a master’s degree in theoretical mathematics. Just quit and get into an easy major like mine instead,” he quips, and I roll my eyes. Electrical engineering is not an easy major.

  “Thanks for the support, buddy,” I groan. He shoots me a grin before heading for the fridge.

  I have a midterm tomorrow for my statistical population modeling course—the course I’m doing worst in this semester—
and I’m not ready for it. I’m still getting mostly A’s and B’s, but all it would take is a single C- to get rejected from my doctoral program. The equations are all stupidly easy but I can’t figure out when to use each of them. It seems like each population needs a completely different approach, and rote memorization just isn’t cutting it tonight.

  Craig rummages loudly through the fridge and breaks my concentration.

  “Damn, Owen,” he complains from somewhere deep inside the refrigerator, “did you drink all the beer again?”

  “I didn’t have anything yet today,” I call over my shoulder. Now that he mentions it though, I really could use one. Maybe it’d stop me from feeling frustrated while I study.

  “Dude, I had one beer at eleven o’clock last night,” he says, slamming the fridge door in irritation. “There were four of them on the shelf. They’re all gone. Did you seriously have three beers overnight? Are you okay?”

  “Oh... those ones,” I mumble in embarrassment. “Yeah... I was feeling stressed out over the test and couldn’t sleep. I thought they’d help me unwind and sleep better.”

  In the end, though, they didn’t help at all. All they did was make it harder for me to control where my mind wandered off to and give me a headache when I woke up in the morning.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” asks Craig incredulously. “Three beers overnight?”

  “Sorry about that. I’ll run out tomorrow after my test and get you a...”

  “Owen, I don’t give a shit about the beer,” interrupts Craig, and then he hops over the back of the couch and plops down beside me. “What I care about is that you’re drinking all the time, dude. It’s not healthy—doesn’t matter if you’re trying to unwind or not. Hell, it might be even worse to be using it to de-stress like you have been.

  “Hey, you go out to the bars with Tina like every other night,” I fire back defensively. “Who are you to tell me what’s healthy and what isn’t?”

  “Owen, there’s a big difference. I’m sure I drink more than I should, but I’m out drinking and being happy. You’re drinking to cope, and that’s a really, really dangerous habit to get into.”

  I roll my eyes at him, shake my head and look back down at my study notes.

  “Whatever, Craig.”

  “I’m serious,” he insists. “You’ve got to stop or you’re going to hurt yourself.”

  “After the test,” I answer with a sigh. “I’ll be less stressed out once I pass this test.”

  Craig’s uncomfortable stare broadcasts loudly and clearly just how little he believes me, but I don’t care what he thinks right now. I have a lot on my mind, a lot of work to do, and nowhere near enough time to get everything done. He goes upstairs without another word, leaving me to my studies and abandoning me to my fate.

  I just can’t figure out these models, and as the minutes pile up and turned into an hour, I feel the onset of a headache. Its roots dig in and take hold in the back of my head, and a dull throbbing pain starts radiating through my skull. Maybe I should run out and get some beer now instead. It’ll help me concentrate.

  “Bullshit,” I chastise myself. “You’re just making things up now.”

  Maybe Craig’s right. Maybe I really am going overboard with the alcohol. I close my eyes, lean back on the sofa and massage the base of my skull, trying to control my growing headache. I really want a drink, but I shouldn’t have one—not while I need to study. I should know better than to believe that alcohol will help me concentrate.

  I stare intently at my notes, and no sooner do I get into a groove and start absorbing the information then my phone rings and breaks my concentration yet again. The area code is from back home on Long Island, meaning it has to be one of two people and I don’t want to talk to either of them.

  The call goes to my voicemail after five rings and then my phone immediately rings again. It must be Sheriff Marino. He pulled this crap while I was teaching once already, and somehow, I suspect that the DA would just leave nasty voice messages. I ignore his second call... and the third and fourth... but by the fifth time he calls, I’ve had enough. I snatch the phone off the table and answer it with a huff.

  “What is it? I’m trying to study, so make it fast.”

  “Owen? We need to talk and we need to do it right now,” says Bill. His voice is tight and tense over the phone, and I brace myself for whatever horrible news the DA’s sent him to deliver.

  “You there? Owen?”

  “Yes, I’m here! Just tell me already,” I snap at him.

  “Get on the next bus to down here,” he orders. “The judge granted your petition on Friday and you’ve got visitation rights again, but I just found out that the DA’s disputing it first thing when the court opens on Monday. I don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with him, but he’s still pissed off about Todd’s death and doesn’t want you having anything to do with your mother. He’s acting insane, but I can’t stop him.”

  I’m amazed. Bill actually pushed the paperwork through this quickly? I assumed it’d take weeks, at least. What about my exam, though? My population statistics midterm is tomorrow morning.

  I prop my head up in my hand and close my eyes as my head spins. This is too important to miss just because of a midterm. I have to go down and see her before the district attorney blocks me again. It might be my last chance to see her—my only chance to see her.

  “Okay,” I finally answer. “I have a midterm tomorrow, but I’ll send my professor an e-mail and let him know what’s happening. The academic leave policy will cover it.”

  “You’re bringing down the other paperwork with you too, right?” asks Bill.

  “I’ll have it. Just... just in case,” I tell him, and I clear my throat nervously.

  He’s talking about the other document in that envelope, the one I hid from Maria the second I realized what it was. It’s been weighing on my mind since the moment I read it and I’ve been scared that I might have to use it. Now that my father is dead and the reinstatement petition is official, my mother’s health care proxy lists me as the one to make decisions. All the decisions.

  That one last, terrifying document is a removal of life support affidavit.

  “Good. I... well, I hope you never have to use it,” stammers Bill, “but you should have it here, just in case. I’ll pick you up at the Southampton train station and take you to the hospital.”

  “Is it okay if I bring Maria with me?”

  “She’s really important to you, huh?”

  “Yes, she is,” I answer. He has no idea, does he? She’s the most important person in the world to me.

  The line goes silent for what feels like an eternity before Bill finally coughs awkwardly and answers.

  “Sure. Go ahead and bring her.”

  Another long silence. My conversations seem to be full of these lately.

  “Bill... why are you helping me like this?”

  “Because I should have done more seven years ago,” he answers bitterly. “It’s about time I actually help out you for once. You’re long overdue for it.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I tell him, and then before hanging up, I add, “Thanks for everything, Bill.”

  “I owe you it. I really do.”

  Bill disconnects the call and I hang up and immediately call Maria. I’m sure she has class tomorrow, but I still hope that she can come with me. I want her to be there for support—to be strong and stable for me while everything else falls apart—but even more, I know that I can’t keep blocking her out like this. I have to stop showing her only the parts of my life that don’t hurt as much.

  If we’re going to be together, I need to show her where the nightmares all started.

  Monday, April 15 – 11:00 AM

  Maria

  I wake up groggy and disoriented as Owen nudges me with my elbow. Around us, people are climbing out of their seats, filing down the center aisle and exiting the train. We’re in Southampton.

  What a horrible t
rip. We had to catch a midnight bus to New York City, hurry through the streets to Penn Station and then catch a train out to Southampton. It took almost twelve hours of traveling to get out here.

  Owen helps me out of my seat and I wobble along behind him and out the door.

  “Good morning, you two,” Bill greets us. “How’d the trip go?”

  “I need sleep,” I groan in only slightly exaggerated misery. I feel disgustingly greasy without my morning shower.

  The sheriff laughs and then shakes Owen’s hand. “Good to see you, kid.”

  “Thanks for picking us up,” says Owen with a tired smile. He looks as exhausted as I feel right now.

  “No problem. Let’s go—we can talk more in the car.”

  We hurry behind the sheriff out to his car—a shiny, white sedan with a blue stripe painted down the side—and he offers me the front passenger seat. I decline and give it to Owen instead. He and Bill have a lot more to talk about—I can listen well enough from the back seat.

  I climb into the back seat—the first time I’ve ever been in a police car—and Bill heads for the hospital.

  “So the paperwork’s all in now?” asks Owen.

  “Yep. Now that it’s all sorted out, I can tell you a bit more of what’s been going on,” answers Bill. “The doctor can give you the latest when we get there, of course. My information’s all from yesterday.”

  “Gotcha. How’s Mom doing?”

  Bill clears his throat uncomfortably before answering.

  “As of last night... well, they’ve got her on forced hydration, a feeding tube and a mechanical respirator. They ain’t seen a sign of brain activity since they got her in there, Owen.”

  Owen swallows hard and nods as he listens.

  “You brought the paperwork with you, right?” asks Bill. “They can talk through Sharon’s condition with you when we get there, and you can decide what to do from that.”

  My jaw drops in horror as I realize what he’s implying. He wants Owen to pull the plug on his own mother! How dare he bring Owen down here like this and force him to make a decision like that? He isn’t trying to help him; he’s trying put the decision in someone else’s hands so he doesn’t have to be the one to do it.