Page 37 of Finding Gideon

Something about the way he said it—calm, certain—made it harder to leave than it should’ve been. But I stepped back, giving him the space he clearly wanted.

I went inside.

Sleep didn’t come any easier.

Chapter 12

Gideon

I barely slept—two, maybe three hours at most. I’d given up checking the time sometime after four, when the numbers on my phone screen started to feel like they were staring back at me.

The sky was soft with early light when I stepped outside. Malcolm’s back door clicking shut behind me seemed too loud in a world holding its breath.

I’d heard movement from the kitchen, but I had avoided it—Malcolm humming under his breath, something clinking on the stove. The thought of sitting at the table, pretending I wanted food, pretending I could swallow around the knot in my chest… no thanks.

Instead, I started a slow lap around the property. The dew hadn’t burned off yet, soaking into the hem of my jeans until they clung cold against my skin. My boots left soft, fading prints in the grass. I checked the same fence posts I’d already checked yesterday, stopping at one as if something might have changed overnight. Nothing had. Still, I moved on to the next.

Halfway along the west side, near the stack of lumber Malcolm swore he’d turn into shelves one day, movement caught my eye. Dennis trotted toward me out of nowhere, tail wagging like we were old friends.

“Hey, buddy.” My voice cracked from disuse. I cleared my throat, crouched to ruffle the fur behind his ears. “You don’t even know what day it is, do you?”

He pressed his head against my leg, like he could sense something. Maybe he could. Or maybe I just wanted to believe it. I scratched under his chin before standing again. He followed.

By the time I circled back to the side of the house, Malcolm had stepped outside—mug in hand, low fade catching the morning light, a shadow of stubble along his jaw. He had on a worn T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, bare feet planted in the cool grass. His eyes landed on me, then Dennis, and a small smile flickered. I didn’t return it.

“Do you want help with anything?” he asked, cautious, like he already knew the answer.

“I got it.” My voice came out flat, almost bored.

He didn’t push. He just nodded, leaned on the railing, and sipped his coffee. I kept walking because stopping felt dangerous.

At noon, Malcolm asked if I wanted lunch—but I shook my head. He let it go. Whether he understood or not, I was grateful.

Dennis stayed close, flopping at my feet, ears twitching every time I shifted. My hand kept finding him—stroking his head, smoothing the fur on his back. He reminded me of simpler things. Of before.

The ache behind my ribs grew heavier with each hour. I thought I could ride it out, ignore the sharp edges, the weight pressing on my lungs. But grief doesn’t care about timing.

It wasn’t just that it was the anniversary. It was that I’d convinced myself it wouldn’t hit as hard this year—that maybe distance, distraction, and Malcolm’s stupid smirks would help me outrun it.

I’d been wrong.

Around three, I stood inside the shed, phone in hand, thumb hovering over a contact. I locked the screen. Unlocked it again. I must have done it a dozen times.

I hated that I still wanted to hear their voices. That even now, part of me thought they might be different. That maybe this time they’d say?—

No.

The phone went back in my pocket. I slammed the shed door. Dennis startled but didn’t stray far. I pressed my back to the wall and stared at the thin beams of light bleeding through the roof.

The sky didn’t care. No one in town cared. Okay—Malcolm probably did, but he was giving me space.

The sun slid through a break in the clouds, too bright for this day, for this hour, for this ache.

I pulled my phone out again. My thumb hovered.

Three years. No calls. No birthdays. No Merry Christmases. Not even when I’d tried once—just once—to reach out on the first anniversary.

But I needed to hear their voices. Needed to make sure they hadn’t forgotten completely.