At my side, Chess is still bemoaning her big mouth.
“Don’t worry, Chess,” my dad says, leaning forward to give her a gentle pat on the knee. “You’ll fit in just fine here.”
Chess lifts her head, brushing the inky strands of her hair away from her face. I miss the contact immediately.
“Somehow, I doubt you continuously stick your foot in it,” she says to my dad with a wry smile.
“No,” he agrees with a chuckle. “But Finn certainly does. And we’ve decided to keep him around.”
“That and, whenever he loses a game, I get sympathy drinks at the bar,” Glenn adds with a wink.
Absence has made me forget what a dickhead Glenn can be.
Chess takes a cool sip of her margarita before replying. “You must not get many free drinks, then.”
It’s right there, on my parents sunbaked patio, with the tart taste of margarita on my tongue and the sound of Chess’s husky voice in my ears, that my heart, brain, and body comes to one simple agreement: this woman is mine.
Dad starts telling Chess about places she should visit in San Diego, and I help my mother take in the empty chip bowl. She doesn’t need the help, but I have a few words for her.
As soon as we’re in her sunny kitchen, she rounds on me. “All right, let’s have it then.” She braces herself against the counter.
“Oh, you mean the part where you invited Britt to stay here without asking me?”
“I can hardly ask, Finnegan, when you don’t answer your phone.”
Zing.
With a sigh, I lean against the opposite counter. “I said I was sorry. I shouldn’t have avoided you. But you can be stubborn as shi… hell.”
My mom snorts and turns to put the dishes in the sink. “You can say ‘shit,’ Finn. I am a grownup.”
“Mothers aren’t grownups. They are part chaste saint and part eternal nag.”
“Ha.”
I steal a mango from the fruit bowl and go in search of a paring knife. “I’m fine now, okay? Happy even. So, please, let it go with Britt. Let the scab heal.”
“Consider me done with meddling,” my mom vows with a lift of her hand. “A wise woman knows when to say when.”
I let it go that she missed that mark by a few months. Wise men know when to back away slowly.
“So…” My mom says in a voice that is distinctly meddling. “Chess is nice.”
A smile pulls at my lips. “Nice isn’t how I’d describe her.”
“Oh? And how would you describe her? Here, use a plate.”
Perfect. Fuckable. Stunning. Funny. Mine.
Mine.
Mine.
“Great,” I say, putting the mango on the plate. “She’s great.”
Mom sighs in exasperation. “Men. None of you know how to properly describe your feelings.”
She makes me grateful for every sunrise. Because I wake up knowing she’s in the world.
I set the knife down and face my mother. “Just… be nice to her, okay?”
“Finnegan Dare Mannus, I am never rude to my guests, and you well know it.”
“That’s not what I meant. She’s had a rough time. Lost her house, her workplace. Her best friend is off in a new relationship. I don’t think her parents are in the picture.” I run a hand over my face. “She needs a little care, okay. It’s important to me.”
Mom meets my eyes. God, she’s welling up again. “Oh, Finn, you’ve gone and done it. You’ve fallen in—”
“Jesus. That’s it. No more heart-to-hearts with you for at least five years.”
“Just remember, Finnegan,” she says, ignoring my protest. “Love with your heart, not your head. Think about things too much and it all turns to shit.”
I grimace, hoping to hell Chess doesn’t hear her. Even so, I fight a smile. “Thanks Mom, and don’t say shit. It offends my delicate sensibilities.”
Before she can snap me with a towel, I grab my plate of mango and head out to find Dad. And some much needed testosterone injected conversation.
* * *
Chess
* * *
Finn’s old room is not a shrine to all things Finn as I’d expected it to be. There are a few tasteful black and white photos of him throughout his career, including a ridiculously cute pee wee football shot, where Finn is basically an oversized helmet and pads walking around on tiny legs.
Aside from that, the room is done entirely in ethereal blue and creamy white. The ocean, I know, is just beyond the massive windows that are open just a crack to let in the breeze. But it’s dark as pitch now, given that Finn and I dithered and stalled, talking around the fire pit long after dinner had ended and his family had trickled off to their beds.
Sitting huddled together under a blanket in front of a crackling fire seemed like an equally bad idea so I had announced my intent to head to bed. Unfortunately, Finn decided to come with me. Not that I can fault him for it. We are sharing a room and it is late.
Now, I dither yet again in the little en suite bathroom, rubbing coconut oil over my elbows and brushing my teeth twice. I find Finn tucked up in bed reading on his iPad, and thankfully wearing a t-shirt and whatever he has on under the covers. The bed looks dainty beneath his big frame and broad shoulders. The space left for me to lie beside him is a tiny sliver of bed real estate that promises prolonged bodily contact.
Well, fuck.
Finn looks up and studies me with a passive expression on his face. I can tell he’s examining all angles of this, trying to figure out how to put me at ease, wondering if I’m about to bolt. The idea calms me, and I lean against the bathroom doorway.
“I expected your room to be covered in plaid and gleaming with school trophies,” I tell him.
“Plaid?” He snorts. “I’m of Irish stock. We call them tartans, and you won’t be finding them on me walls.”
“That is the worst Irish accent ever.”