Oliver crosses the room, turning down the stove before walking to the sink to wash his hands. “You all right, mate?” he says, watching me with concern.
“Yeah. Just ruining dinner.” The next words are just sitting on my tongue: I’m fucked. My future and the future of my entire family has just gone up in smoke—and oh, by the way, how’s the store?
I can’t do that. But I know I need to talk, to hear myself say what’s going on and hear someone else tell me it’s not as bad as it seems, that everything will work out eventually.
Basically, I need someone to lie to me.
Normally, Ansel would be the best person for this job. He’s stupidly optimistic, and has this way of making every doom-and-gloom situation sound like a perfectly timed stroke of luck. Unfortunately, he’s not even in the same country right now, and there’s no way I’m calling him and taking up what little free time he has to burden him with my problems. He’s out.
Perry would be the next obvious choice, because she’s bored and has historically been a good listener. But, Jesus Christ, I can’t. I know I shouldn’t take sides but even I’m mad at her for what she did to Ansel and Mia, and none of us are really talking to her right now anyway. She’s out, too.
Oliver has enough going on, with the store opening and his long days on his feet. The last thing he needs is for me to unload how my business is ending just as his is taking off.
And if I’m honest, I don’t really want to tell any of them. It’s not that I don’t think they’d be concerned, it’s that I don’t want them to worry. I don’t want them to know how dire it all is.
Oblivious to my mental breakdown, Oliver crosses the kitchen and pulls a cutting board out of a drawer. “So you and Harlow,” he says, reaching for a knife.
“Harlow?” I say, distracted, her name coming out a bit sharper than I intend. “There’s nothing between me and Harlow.”
“Course there’s not. Just noticed how cozy the two of you seemed today.”
Even with everything going on, I still manage to roll my eyes. “She’s a pain in the ass,” I tell him, and it’s such a lie. With most women, the novelty of a pretty face would have worn off and I’d be ready to move on. But with Harlow, I find myself liking her more and more with each conversation.
“You sure you’re okay?”
I turn to see Oliver watching me closely. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”
He shrugs, looks like he wants to throttle me, but then he blinks and the expression has vanished, and I wonder if it was ever there. “Don’t know, really. Just . . . you never did tell me what you were doing out here. Everything good at home?”
“Great. Just here to meet with a few investors. Thinking about making some improvements during the off-season.”
I can see a flash of relief on his face. “Finn, that’s great. Look at us, look at our lives. Everything fucking coming up roses, mate.”
Right.
I blink away, looking out the window. There’s really only one person I want to talk to right now.
“Listen,” I say, shutting off the stove. “I just remembered I promised my dad I’d give him a call tonight. You’re okay eating without me?”
If Oliver is suspicious, he’s a good enough friend to not call me on my bullshit. “Yeah, of course.
Think I’ll call Lola and see if she wants to hang out. You think you’ll be back?”
I reach for my wallet on the kitchen table and push it into my back pocket. “Not sure. Just save me a plate and I’ll heat it up when I get back. I just really need to make this call.”
Oliver is already nodding, dishing up his plate before he waves me off.
My hand is wrapped around my phone before I’m even out the door.
Chapter SEVEN
Harlow
I’M MOPPING THE floor. Why, when the house cleaner was at my parents’ house today, am I mopping their floor?
Because I can’t seem to focus on even the smallest task, and dropped an entire casserole dish of enchiladas on the tile.
Dad walks in, looks at me in my ripped jeans and his old flannel shirt, and then at the stained-red mop and the smear of sauce on the white tile, and doesn’t even say anything. He just walks to the fridge, opens it, grabs a yogurt for Mom, and kisses my head on the way back out.
I make a couple of decisions in the next twenty seconds. First, I need another job.
There’s a tiny chance I’ll be offered a full-time, paid internship at NBC starting in January, but just talking about my current situation with Finn briefly made me realize I’m just spinning my wheels. I’m useless there and no self-respecting woman of the twenty-first century with no other earthly responsibilities works twelve hours a week.
Second, I can’t bang Finn, but I also can’t spend every free second at my parents’ house. The reality of illness is it’s a fairly miserable? isolating business. Mom doesn’t want us hovering, and if she wants anyone, it’s Dad. It’s time to cut the apron strings.
Third, and maybe most important, I need to figure out what I’m doing for dinner now that I’ve shattered Plan A all over the kitchen.
When I’m on my hands and knees, scrubbing the last of the stain from the grout between the tiles, my phone dings on the counter with a number I don’t recognize.
You up for getting a beer or two?
I squint at the screen in the darkening kitchen, typing back, Who is this?
The guy you were just fantasizing about.
Colonel Sanders?
The reply comes immediately. Try again.
I giggle as I type, Ethan? I hit send and quickly type, No! Jake, I’m so sorry!
Finn’s reply comes up after about a minute: Funny.
Finn and I exchanged numbers in Vegas nearly three months ago and I’m strangely tickled that we’ve never used them until now. Are we going to a lumberjack bar? I ask.
I think the word you want is fisherman.
Whatever, I’m just impressed you’re doing the texting. I type back. I look down at my outfit and cringe, before deciding— fuck it. And this is perfect, I’m dressed like you.
I’ll be there in twenty.
I run upstairs, kiss my parents goodbye, and head out of the house, diving into my car and hoping to beat Finn back to my place. I don’t want him to know I wasn’t home. I don’t know why, but maybe it’s because right now—and shockingly—Finn Roberts is my happy place; just being around him makes me feel better, and part of it has to be that he never asks me, “How are you feeling? How is your mom? Hanging in there?”
She’s such a fighter.
She’s so beautiful.
So young.
I can’t imagine how this must be for you.
Strangely, Finn is the one who probably could imagine how this is for us, and it’s a relief to not have to face it when I’m with him.
I get home in record time; the traffic light gods were smiling upon me. I could change out of my grungy clothes, but don’t bother. If we aren’t banging, I’m not primping.
He’s such a gentleman that he texts from the curb that he’s here, and I meet him at his truck and jump in.
“I forget how to get to Fred’s,” he says by way of greeting.
“Hello.” After buckling my seat belt, I tell him, “Hang a right on Prospect and then a left on Draper.”
“Oh, yeah.” He maneuvers out of the spot and then follows my direction. “I think I’ll remember from there.”
“Especially given that it’s on Draper,” I say with a cheeky grin.
But he doesn’t smile back. In fact, Finn seems lost in thought. He fiddles with the radio and settles on NPR, so instead of conversation, we have a rerun of Terry Gross interviewing Joaquin Phoenix to keep us company. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel at a red light, looking out his window away from me.
“This not-having-sex thing sure is way more stimulating! I’m super glad we’re still cool just hanging out.” I lean forward to get a better look at his face, but I don’t even get a flicker of a grin.
“Just wanted to get out for a bit,” he mumbles cryptically. Oliver lives a block from the beach. Finn could easily “get out” and do about a hundred different things other than taking me to Fred’s, where we just went just a few nights ago.