“Dad’s a tough act to follow,” I explain, pressing my face into her hair. Beneath the scent of her shampoo and face cream, she smells the slightest bit different—not bad, but . . . different—a result of the chemo and all the other things they’re currently doing to her body. It’s not like I go even an hour without thinking about it, but it hits me in this moment like a physical blow, this reminder that my mom is sick and my world is different than it was just two months ago. It makes me miss Finn and the strength he provided so acutely, that for a flash, I can’t breathe. “It was hard to take anyone seriously before now.”
“Before Finn, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
She rolls to face me. “What happened?”
I tell her—vaguely—about the hooking up, about my need for distraction, about how he was too distracting. I tell her about the real feelings, the I love you’s. She already knows about the potential deal with Salvatore, but apparently she doesn’t know how it unfolded.
“Sweetie,” she says, putting her warm hand on my cheek. “Your heart is always in the right place.
But a partnership always starts at the beginning. I did the commercial to help Dad, but we decided that I would do that together.”
“I understand that Finn was upset that I didn’t loop him in,” I say, “but I still don’t understand why he couldn’t have stepped back and realized it was a good thing, or at least had a discussion with me about it. It isn’t like there’s a contract with Sal that has been drafted. He’s just interested. Finn flew off the handle.”
“What do you think Dad would have done if I’d come home from the Pantene shoot and handed him a check, saying, ‘Go get your camera, babe’?”
I roll my face into the pillow and groan. “Dammit.”
“What are we ‘ dammit ing’?” Dad asks from the doorway, lifting his mug to his lips to sip his coffee.
“Your daughter is learning relationship rules,” Mom says.
He snorts. “Finally.”
“Are you two done giving me crap?” I ask, climbing out of bed in a half-feigned huff. “I am very busy and have important things to do.”
“You work today?” Dad calls to me as I stomp down the stairs. I can hear from his tone he doesn’t think I am.
I pause on the third step, shooting Dad a dirty look he can’t see. “No!” I yell back.
“Call Finn!” Dad shouts at me down the stairs. “I like him!”
THE PROBLEM IS, I don’t want to call Finn. I want to drive to Canada, kick him in the nuts, and then drive home. He’s acting like a giant baby, and leaving town the way he did showed his ass. I’m tempted to mail him a care package with a plastic halibut, a copy of Salvatore’s latest film on DVD, and a box of tampons.
I officially leave my internship at NBC, and I swear no one will even notice I’m gone, or if they do, the narrative will be Hollywood Child Can’t Hack Being Coffee Girl. Salvatore sets up an office for me in his Del Mar building, and when I promise him I’ll be the best coffee girl he’s ever had, he laughs and tells me that’s great, but I’ll probably be up at the Los Angeles offices with him at least three days a week so someone else can handle coffee duty.
This news is dropped like a bomb full of glitter and puppies in my lap: Not only has he given me a job, but he’s made me his primary assistant. I went from NBC coffee-pourer to the right-hand woman of one of Hollywood’s biggest producers. My dad doesn’t even blink when I tell him the news.
“Knew it was just a matter of time,” he tells me instead, and gives me that smile that makes me feel like I’m the brightest, most beautiful star in the entire sky.
But even with this big change on the horizon and a week full of phone calls and contracts and picking out office furniture . . . a whole week without Finn around is weird. I almost call him about a thousand times, just to tell him what I did all day, or share my excitement with him about the job with Sal.
But as soon as I pull my phone from my purse and notice the complete lack of texts, calls, or emails from him, I manage to fight the urge to let him back in.
Salvatore mentions him at lunch, just over a week after Finn split town. “Your boyfriend is quite —”
I point my fork at him. “Finn is not my boyfriend.”
Sal holds up his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine, your friend, Finn—is that better?—is a class act.
He worried the damage on his boat might cost more than the value of using it for the set and said he was unable to work with us at this time, but he did suggest some great options up in the area and agreed to be our primary consultant for Release Horizon.”
“Oh?” I can’t tell if the maniacal drumming of my heart means I’m elated that Finn will be involved in some way and has taken the professional initiative to call Salvatore, or if I’m terrified that I am going to completely lose my shit when I inevitably see him at some point.
“We’ll head up there next week to check out some boats.” Salvatore looks up when my fork clangs loudly on my plate.
“Next week? But filming doesn’t start until April.”
“You work for me now, Tulip,” Salvatore reminds me, using my family’s pet name for me to take the edge off his gentle chastisement. “I need you up there. Is coming along to Canada a problem for you?”
“Obviously what’s going on with me and Finn has nothing to do with any of this. Sorry, Sal. I just had a moment. I’m fine.”
He pushes his chin out, doing his best Godfather. “You want I should break his face?”
“No, I’d be devastated if you took the opportunity from me.”
I take a bite of sandwich, chew, and swallow. I leave out the part where I actually like Finn’s face.
“God, I hope you’re not making a mistake bringing me on for all this,” I say. “I know the business, but are you sure you wouldn’t like someone with more—”
“I’ve got enough experience for the both of us,” he says, shrugging as he spears a green bean. “You know how these things work, and I get to train you to be exactly what I need you to be. I like your backbone and I’ll get you up to speed. It’s hard to find people with your combination of loyal, smart, and ballsy.”
I take a second to stare adoringly at Sal. “I love you, you know that?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He takes a sip of his iced tea. “So what happened with Finn?”
Sighing, I drop my napkin on the table. “I didn’t exactly tell him I was talking to you about using his boats to film a huge multimillion-dollar Hollywood production. He was angry. Blah blah.”
His eyes lift back to me, half amused, half incredulous. “You’re kidding.”
“Before you say anything else, please note that I’ve heard from everyone that I’m wrong here. I feel like an idiot, actually.”
His face relaxes and he gives a little shrug before taking a bite of his salad.
“And then he just left,” I tell him. “That’s why I’m angry. It felt . . .”
He swallows, and then finishes the sentence for me: “Shitty?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you can tell him all about how you feel next week. We’re taking him out to lunch.” Sal meets my eyes and bats his lashes innocently.
Fuck.
“SERIOUSLY, ANSEL,” I say, slipping into the booth at Great Maple for Saturday breakfast with the crew. “How much are you paying to fly here practically every week?”
“A lot,” he admits with a laugh and his obscene dimple poking into his cheek. “But actually I’m here this weekend because we are house hunting.”
“Uh, pardon?” I ask, leaning forward to stare at Mia.
“Say what?” Lola adds.
“The lawsuit from hell settled this week!” Mia squeals, and she’s beaming so enormously I could count every single one of her teeth. “Ansel is officially free to look for jobs here and he already has an interview at UCSD!”
“Holy crap, that’s amazing!” I jump out of the booth and make Oliver get up so I can tackle Mia on the other side. “I am so happy for you guys!”
Lola joins the girl pile and I hear Ansel say something about getting a video camera and maple syrup.
I climb off the tangle and smack Ansel’s arm before straightening my shirt. “I can’t believe it. It’s like we’re all going to be together!”
“Well. Almost,” Lola says, making a this-is-awkward face.
“Right. Except for Finn,” I say, and everyone kind of looks over at me like I’m made of glued-together eggshells and am rolling toward the edge of the table. I laugh, too loudly, sounding completely mental. The effect is to make it even more awkward. “Obviously I realize he’s not here anymore.” And then I add for no reason other than my mouth is still moving and no one else is coming to my rescue: “He left without saying goodbye.”
Lola snorts, petting my shoulder. “Shh, crazypants.”
I bite back a laugh. “That came out a little Glenn Close, didn’t it?”
“A little,” Ansel agrees, laughing.
“I went and saw him last weekend,” Oliver says, and I swear the sound of screeching brakes tears through my head.
“You saw Finn?”
“Yeah. I flew up to see what the hell was going on with him since no one here told me anything.”
He gives me a pointed look, but then winks.
And see? This is what I mean by Oliver’s poker face. I’d never have known from his reaction nearly two weeks ago that he was so concerned over why Finn left that he would leave his new store in Not-Joe’s questionably capable hands and fly up to Canada just to check in.
I want to say something to show I’m not completely consumed with pain at the thought of someone else flying up and checking on Finn. And by the way they’re all looking at me, I can tell they expect me to make some quip and lighten the mood . . . but I can’t.
I’m done being mad. Trying to stay mad is exhausting, and I’ve never been good at it. I fucking miss Finn, I miss My Person, and I can feel my jealousy that Oliver got to see him for a weekend climbing in a hot flush up my neck.
“You okay over there?” Lola asks gently.
“Not really,” I admit. “I have to go up there next week to look at boats with Sal and we’re taking Finn to lunch to thank him for coming on as a consultant. I already know it will be awkward and hard to see him because he’s so good at being distant and professional. This whole thing is making me sad.”
God, I hate how honest I get when I’m feeling devastated. It’s like I’ve been trained under some Pavlovian trigger by my parents to talk it all out as soon as I have feelings too big to stuff into a sarcasm cannoli.
“If it helps,” Oliver says, “he looked just like you do now when I told him you stopped by the house, looking for him the day he split town.”
“Did you tell him the part about how I was mad, or the part about how I was sad?” I ask. “Because I want him to imagine me with a chain saw and ass-kicking boots.”
Oliver laughs, shaking his head and returning to his waffle.
“Did he tell you why he was mad?”
“A bit,” Oliver says around a bite.
“So it’s at least a little bit of an overreaction, right?” I can hear in my own voice that not even I am convinced.
Ansel pokes at his breakfast and asks, “Did he ever tell you why he dropped out of college?”
“Yeah, briefly. I mean we never really talked about it, but I know he left to start fishing with the family business.”
“Not exactly,” he says, putting down his fork. “He dropped out to run the family business.”
“Wait,” I say, holding up my hand. “In college he did? I thought he took over after Bike and Build?”