“Why are you here, Britt?”
She lowers herself onto the edge of the couch, picks up a piece of cheese, frowns at it and drops it back down. I almost snap at her not to touch anything; that’s Chess’s meal. But then Britt gives a little sigh. “I don’t know. I saw the pictures and thought of you. You’re getting on with your life.”
Is that was this was? Some guilt trip. Worse thing is I don’t know if I should feel guilty or not. “Was I not supposed to?”
“No. Yes.” She shakes her head, the simple movement stunning on her. I’d been so blindsided by this woman’s looks when we met, I’d turned stupid. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know what I’m saying half the time.”
And like that, I do feel guilty. “It’s all right, Britt.”
She utters a half-sob, half-laugh. When she looks up, her eyes are wide and a little hesitant. “Your mother has been calling me.”
She couldn’t have shocked me more if she’d slapped my face.
“What?”
The fuck?
Britt’s chin lifts a touch. “She invited me to your house for Thanksgiving…” Her nose wrinkles. “No, that wasn’t what she called it.”
“Thanksmas,” I get out through clenched teeth. Blood rushes in my ears. I am going to kill my mother. I don’t care if it’s a crime. I don’t care if my dad kills me in retaliation. The woman has gone too far.
“Right, that’s it.”
“Britt.” My voice is hard. I can’t control it. “No. I’m sorry, but no.”
Her mouth falls open, her eyes welling as if she’ll soon cry.
“My mother means well,” I press on. “But this isn’t the right thing for either of us.” It sure as shit isn’t what I want or need.
Britt staggers to her feet. I reach out to steady her but she shakes me off. “I thought…” She takes a breath. “I thought maybe she was speaking for you.”
“No,” I say, trying to soften my tone. Because she’s a victim of Mom’s meddling too. “I’m sorry.”
“It is because of the photographer?”
“Chess,” I remind her.
“Chess. Is it because of her?”
“No.” It’s the honest truth. Chess has nothing to do with why I don’t want Britt celebrating holidays with me. “I just can’t…” Fucking hell, what do I say that doesn’t make me sound like a complete dick?
“I understand,” Britt says, saving us both. She takes a breath and stands straight. “I do. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable.”
Uncomfortable? God, there’s so much uncomfortable between us, I feel like I’m choking. I rub the back of my neck. “No. I’m sorry if I was abrupt. I’m no good at this.”
Her smile is wry and bittersweet. “Well, who would be?” She moves toward the front all, and I hustle to open the door for her. Britt pauses and looks up at me. “Take care, Finn.”
I can barely look at her anymore. It’s wrong of me, I know. But feelings rarely listen to reason. “Goodbye, Britt.”
I close the door and lean against it, wanting Chess back here more than my next breath. But she’ll probably ask questions. And I don’t know if I have it in me to give her the answers.
* * *
Chess
* * *
One of my favorite things about the French Quarter is that you can always find a bar no matter what time it is. And not some dank, gloomy dive—although there are plenty of those— but ones with high, pressed tin ceilings, walls of windows, and cute mixologists like my new friend Nate here who kindly slides a perfect Sazerac in front of me.
I take a cool sip and listen to Ella Fitzgerald muss about being bewitched, bothered, and bewildered. It’s almost enough to soothe the weary soul.
“That’s an awfully big sigh,” Nate observes, as he wipes his spotless mahogany bar.
I’m no longer a fan of Nate.
“I wasn’t aware I sighed,” I say, taking another sip of my drink. Good man, Nate, despite being nosy.
“Practically blew back my hair,” he jokes.
I eye Nate’s shaved head, and he laughs.
“I need a short term place to live.” Sadness swamps my chest. I don’t want to find a new place. Which just proves I really need to find one.
“You just moved here?” Nate asks.
“No. My place burned down.”
“Man that sucks.”
I think of Finn running into the ER to find me, the way he brought me home and made me feel like it was my home too, for as long as I needed it. And then I think of Finn up there right now with Britt, and the way he looked at her. They have a history, and it clearly isn’t a simple one.
My cocktail chokes me going down, a sticky sweet burn on my tongue. “Yeah.”
Nate moves closer until he’s standing opposite of me. “I can keep an ear out for you. If you want to give me your number.”
I stare up at Nate with his shaved head, gauge in his ears, cute suspenders over his shoulders. There’s interest in his eyes.
“You want my number?”
The interest turns to heat. “I’m great at consoling.”
I bet he is.
Finn is better.
Finn is in his apartment with a supermodel.
I hand Nate my phone, and he punches in his number.
Not even a glimmer of anticipation in my belly.
“So,” he says, happier now. “You want another drink, pretty little lady?”
Pretty little lady? I’m regretting my decision more and more. “Another drink and I’ll be buzzed. Better give me a menu.”
“Let’s get you fed, then.” Nate grins. I know he thinks I’m lingering because of him, but I can’t return to Finn’s any time soon. Short of walking around, I have nowhere else to go, which utterly sucks.
I eat my dinner and chat with Nate, and a few patrons who sit down at the bar, until my butt is numb and I’m fairly certain I’m leading Nate to a very wrong conclusion.
When he’s occupied, I leave some money on the bar and slip out into the fading light. And then I do walk around, until it’s dark and I can’t stall anymore.