Page 54

His pockets are full of crumpled napkins, stained with words he’s not allowed to say.

As the brisk night air licks at my bare skin and makes sure everyone in the general vicinity knows about the twin piercings I got when I was eighteen, I stare at my phone screen. Gnawing on my bottom lip, I read the latest text in a long thread of messages.

REMEMBER WHAT WE TALKED ABOUT.

I huff. Remembering isn’t the issue. Silas isn’t the first to enthuse about the importance of healthier coping mechanisms—I’d heard that spiel long before it came up in our weekly solo meetings, when I rant and rave about my life before attending the weekly group meeting where I don’t talk at all.

It wasn’t a conscious arrangement that we made.

It just… happened. The week after that first conversation, I found myself rocking up to the diner across the street from the community center an hour ahead of schedule.

I found Silas already there. I found myself sitting with him, drinking coffee with him, talking to him too, and doing it again and again and again.

I’ve never had a sponsor before. God knows Silas hasn’t claimed to be mine. But I know that’s what he is. I know that’s why he gave me his number, why I gave him mine. And I know that’s why tonight, as everyone around me indulges in my favorite vice, it’s him I reach out to.

Tilting my head towards the sky, I huff again.

I should go back inside. Find someone. Grace, maybe, so I can pick her brain about her own coping mechanisms, about the ecotherapy that neutralizes her own anxiety, about stars and moons and fucking planets.

But the last time I saw my twin, she was having fun.

Everyone’s having fun, that’s part of my damn problem, and I don’t want to ruin it just because I’m struggling.

Just because I’m starting to realize that the reason I drank, the reason I ever started drinking, was to not feel so… exposed. So aware of myself, of how I feel in my own skin. Because apparently, as sober clarity has granted me, I really fucking hate that feeling.

I really, really hate being sober, and I think, I’m scared , that if I linger any longer, I might do something to rectify the issue.

I don’t bother letting my sisters know I’m leaving—I know Grace would just insist on coming with me, Eliza would beg me to stay, Lux would probably demand a breathalyser test before finding me an escort home.

When I peek inside the gazebo full of happy, celebratory people, I find Jackson on the dancefloor with his new mother-in-law.

I don’t know where Luna is, and that proves to be the fatal flaw in my grand plans of sneaking away unnoticed.

I don’t know where she comes from—I don’t know how I don’t see her coming, how the shimmering swath of pearl-embroidered fabric wrapped around her body doesn’t immediately catch my attention.

All I know is one second, I’m backing away from the tent’s entrance.

The next, a lithe blonde is blocking my way, her bare foot tapping against the ground, all that sun-tanned skin exposed by her second dress of the evening and covered in goosebumps

Lacing my fingers together behind my back, I dutifully wait for a reprimand.

Except one never comes.

Luna snickers as she shakes her head, long locks bouncing as she feigns disappointment. “Honestly, you lasted longer than I thought you would.”

Yeah. I can’t say that I don’t share that sentiment. “Tell my brother I said bye?”

Luna sighs dramatically like it’s some massive inconvenience, but she nods. “Take his truck, yeah? He’ll kill me if you walk home in the dark and get eaten by a coyote or something.”

“I think he’d high five you, actually.”

Luna tuts, inching closer until she can slide her palm over my cheek and pat gently. “I know you don’t believe that.”

No. I don’t. Not anymore, at least.

Patting me once more, she lets her hand drop. “Go on.” She jerks her head towards the house looming nearby, a whole cohort of vehicles parked just behind it. “Get out of here.”

I start to do just that only to pause a handful of steps away, half-turning to the woman fiddling with the short hem of a strapless mini dress that’s just as breathtaking, just as Luna , as her first gown. “It was a really beautiful wedding, Luna.”

“Course it was.” My sister-in-law grins. “It was mine, wasn’t it?”

With a low laugh, I depart.

But once again, I don’t make it very far.

I turn in the general direction of the makeshift parking lot—that’s as far as I get before my name rings across the night, loud and a little funny-sounding. Slurred , I realize, as a big body stumbles in my direction, the twinkling lights strung overhead illuminating a handsome face smiling dopily.

Even though my spine locks and my fingers start to twitch nervously at my sides, I find myself smiling back. “Looks like someone had fun.”

I almost think Finn isn’t going to stop—that he’s just going to barrel right through me. But at the very last moment, he pulls up short, looking every bit his six-foot, something-inch frame and smelling like a goddamn brewery.

“Yasmin,” he slurs his friend’s name, “is a very bad influence.”

“Oh, I know.” I reckon if my sobriety can survive a single night spent refusing her, it can survive anything. “She got you good, huh?”

Finn bobs his head solemnly before cracking another grin. “Whatcha doin’?”

I gesture in the general direction of the A-frame. “Heading home.”

“Oh.” He… Jesus, he pouts . That plump bottom lip juts out, as adorable as it is thoroughly distracting, and he fucking whines , “Really?”

“Uh-huh.” I rip my gaze away from his mouth, clearing my throat as I once again try for a swift exit. “See ya later.”

Later , as in the next morning, I meant.

Not later as in one single second later, when Finn clumsily lopes after me, catching up swifter than he should be capable of. It’s my turn to ask, “What’re you doing?”

And it’s his turn to say, “Heading home.”

I open my mouth to protest, and then I just… don’t.

I let Finn lead me to his truck, and I tell myself it’s because I don’t want to go home to an empty house. I let graceless fingers open the driver’s side door for me, and it’s that action that starts me cataloguing the differences between my drunk self, and a drunk Finn. The difference between…

Well, the difference between someone who doesn’t know how to stop, and someone who does.

Wasted out of his mind, he doesn’t even think about driving.

There’s no discussion before he gestures for me to get behind the wheel.

As he settles on the passenger seat, he clicks his seatbelt into place, and he makes sure I do the same.

I start the car and I drive and he doesn’t do anything, he’s not angry or abrasive or gropy, and I don’t think I’ve ever been around a really drunk person who wasn’t at least one of those three.

I’ve had all kinds of inebriated experiences, been around all kinds of drunks, been all kinds of drunk, but not a single iteration has ever been… quiet. Gentle.

Fucking sweet .

Slouched against the soft leather, Finn watches me. Fingers tapping against his thighs, he hums to a tune I can’t hear. And he says my name every so often, murmurs it quietly, but every time I look over expectantly, he just smiles.

Until eventually, he blurts, “It’s your fault I’m drunk.”

Despite the nature of the accusation, I can’t help but be amused. “Oh, really?”

He hums. “Too many compliments.”

My amusement ebbs, confusion replacing it. “What?”

“Wanted to tell you. Drank tequila instead.” He shifts to face me more, his cheek pressed against the headrest. His fingers, curled around the edge of my seat. His eyes, steadfastly locked on me. “Didn’t work. Still wanna tell you.”

My grip on the steering wheel tightens. God, how badly I want to hear these illustrious compliments. But it’s just like the other night. He’s drunk. Anything he says, I don’t have the heart to believe. “Tell me when you’re sober.”

The picture of determination, Finn nods.

“ If ,” I quip, I try to lighten the mood. “You remember.”

“I’ll remember,” Finn insists, still nodding, still so serious, but suddenly also amused. Like he thinks it’s hilarious that I would even suggest such a thing, and I feel like a block of ice faced with a Finn-shaped chisel that won’t stop tap, tap, tapping away at my defenses.

When I pull up outside the A-frame, I practically throw myself out of the car.

Finn does too except he doesn’t throw so much as he falls , he’s all loose limbs and intoxication as he stumbles to the house.

I hustle after him, catching up right as he trips on the porch steps, swearing beneath my breath while he laughs, palms braced against the wood, forearms straining as he pushes himself upright again.

Or tries to, at least.

“Alright, big guy.” Grabbing one big bicep with both hands, I shift my weight backwards and heave . By some miracle, Finn rises, wobbling his way to the front door while I try not to buckle under his weight. “Lean on me, yeah?”

Out pops that pout again, and now I have to keep myself from hitting the deck too. “But you’re little.”

“I am not little .”

The fucker pats the top of my head. “Littler than me.”

Like that’s hard . “Yeah, well, so is fuckin’ Clyde. Move it.”

In his defense, Finn makes it up the stairs mostly by himself.

Really, I’m not convinced he actually needs my help. Like, at all. I kind of think he’s only leaning on me because I’m there. Because I offered.

Because he wants to.

Whatever the case, he stumbles into his bedroom and drags me across the threshold too with the heavy arm still slung across my shoulders.