Page 59

Fuck. I have to tell him, right? About rehab, about AA. If he knows, then he’ll get it. He’ll understand what I’m trying to say. He’ll see why this is such a bad idea. He’ll know that I am one giant accident waiting to happen, continually happening , and he’ll steer clear of the mess.

My pacing comes to a stop, my fingers linking behind my head, my eyes closed as I whisper another pathetic, honest admission, “This makes me really uncomfortable.”

The bed creaks. When I peek through one eye, I see Finn sitting on the edge, feet planted on the floor, palms braced against his thighs—one patting gently. “C’mere.”

I don’t move. “I don’t really like to be touched.”

His head ticks to one side, an ever-so-slight pull between his brows. “You don’t like when I touch you?”

I pause. Think about it for not very long at all. Slowly admit, “I do.”

That furrowed expression softens. He pats his leg again. “C’mere, baby.”

Baby . Goddammit. Not fucking fair.

I huff and I puff and I take my damn time, but I go. I let him pull me down onto his lap, let him settle me sideways, let him guide my gaze to his with a thumb and a forefinger gently pinching my chin. “You know, I don’t think you’re meaner to anyone than you are to yourself.”

The need to assure him that I deserve it doesn’t come as easily as it usually does. But it does come, I do insist it quietly, and he insists right back, “I don’t believe that.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you’re a terrible judge of character.”

“Don’t believe that either.”

“I slept with Carl Weber.”

There . That gets him. Clearly strikes fucking horror in his heart the same way it does in mine, and even though it’s exactly what I intended, it’s exactly what I wanted, that grimace still knocks me upside the head a little. “Recently?”

“When I was seventeen.”

Finn blinks. “He’s my age.”

“I know.”

“When you were seventeen, he was twenty-one.”

“I know that too.”

“And you think I’m gonna judge you in that situation?”

“I judge me. It’s Carl fucking Weber.”

“You were a kid.”

“I knew what I was doing.”

“I don’t care about Carl.”

“There’s been a lot of Carls.”

His expression doesn’t change. That calm tenderness doesn’t go anywhere—it spreads, infused in the fingers that tuck my hair behind my ear, in the thumb that sweeps my cheekbone. “Any Finns?”

“No,” I murmur, and God knows I’m not just talking about the name. “Definitely no Finns.”

He likes that. Yet something tells me that if I’d answered differently, he wouldn’t care.

As if I’m some delicate, fragile thing in need of ginger handling, Finn maneuvers me so I straddle him the same way I did earlier, so there’s nowhere to look but at him.

“The only thing I regret, Lottie, is not telling you how I felt a month ago. I was going to, that night at the drive-in. I was gonna explain everything. Tell you that I wanted to be more than just your friend. But then you called me your best one and I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t take that from you, I didn’t think that you would let me be that anymore if you knew how I felt, but I should’ve tried. ”

“The only thing that disappoints me,” he continues, dipping to rest his forehead against mine, “is you so clearly thinking so little of yourself. And the only fairytale I’ve imagined,” he breathes in deep before surging forward, murmuring against my lips, “is the one where you actually like me back.”

I’m so warm. Flushed and glowing. Fucking shy and flustered and proud that I manage to open my mouth and let two words quietly tumble out. “I do.”

A relieved exhale warms my face before grateful lips capture my own.

Now, I get my sweet, soft kisses. The first ever given to me. No less potent than their rougher counterpart—no less intoxicating.

The human equivalent of a bottle of wine , I once likened Finn to, and I almost can’t stand the guilt that that comparison socks me with now. Fuck, what an insult, what a disservice I did him because they couldn’t be less alike.

Alcohol made me numb. Finn does the opposite.

Alcohol is my dirty little secret—Finn, his affection, his attention is worth brandishing like a fucking prize.

Alcohol made my passive, listless life more tolerable.

Finn reminds me I’m alive.

Grace shrieks when she saunters, uninvited , into my bedroom and finds me occupied.

“ My eyes. ” Blurring with how quickly she spins around, she covers her face with both hands and howls dramatically. “I’ll never— wait .”

Just as quick, she turns back to me. To us.

Just as dramatic, she gasps and stabs an accusing finger at the man tangled in my sheets. “That’s Finn .”

I gape dumbly, eyeing the man as if I’ve just realized he’s here, as if I haven’t spent the better part of the day lounging with him, on him “Is it?”

The hand cemented to the curve of my knee squeezes.

My twin shrieks again. Triumphantly, I think.

Clearly happy with my bed partner—relieved too, I think.

That it isn’t the stranger she obviously first thought it was.

And then, as is typical with pragmatic, steady Grace, she gets over it.

She gets on with what she came in here for—she tells us that she’s here to gather us all for lunch with the rest of the family, minus the couple already set off on their honeymoon, and the rest of the bridal party too before they head home later.

I almost argue before I realize that I’m arguing because I’d rather stay in bed with Finn all day, and that disconcerting want scares me all the way into town.

Contrary to what my sisters believe, if the way they all eyeball me skeptically is anything to go by, I am not overcome with alcoholic lust the second I step foot in Bishop’s. I do not throw myself at the bartender or at the wall of booze behind him, nor do I drop to my knees and weep at the sight.

Nevertheless, a firm hand remains on my back and guides me past the bar. As the rest of our party squeeze into a booth, I glance over my shoulder at the woman trying her best to crawl beneath my fucking skin. “Should I sit on your lap or…?”

Unsurprisingly, Lux is not amused. “Sit down, chaos.”

“Y’know, I was thinking I might order a drink first.”

Lux doesn’t ask again; she just shoves me down onto the worn leather.

I land with a huff, sticking my tongue out at my big sister as she settles across from me and snags her son from Eliza’s grip. When Alex copies my expression, I can’t help but crack a smile. I cross my eyes and he giggles, and I laugh too.

I jolt when a chuckle brushes my temple.

Twisting to the side, my nose brushes a bicep. Craning my neck, I squint at the face hovering an inch too close to mine. “Remember what I said earlier about not being affectionate?”

An arm snakes across the top of the booth behind me, a hand hanging lazily beside my shoulder. “Remember when you said you like when I touch you?”

I huff. I hiss at him to shut up. I do not, however, command him to back up, nor do I move an inch myself.

A smug little quirk to the mouth dangerously close to mine, Finn drums his fingers against my arm. “Like it a lot, y’know.”

I wonder how he stands it—the weight of everyone’s gazes on the hand he absentmindedly glides through my hair. “Invading my personal space?”

“Your laugh. Don’t hear it enough.”

“Be funnier, then.”

“I’ll try harder.”

My scowl evaporates.

Great . Now I’m thinking about last night. About a sweet man who’s even sweeter when he’s drunk. About the things he said and the things he didn’t, things he promised he would, but hasn’t quite followed through yet.

I look away before he reads my damn mind and starts spouting niceties, and really gives our audience something to gawk at.

“Mama?”

Across the table, Lux palms the back of her son’s head. “Yeah, babe?”

“Is Finn Auntie Lottie’s boyfriend?”

I choke on fucking air.

“Finn?” Oh-so-composed, Lux raises her brows at the man who’s much more than just her employee. “Are you Auntie Lottie’s boyfriend?”

“I wish.”

Something in my brain pops in unison with a muscle in my neck as my head whips back towards Finn.

In his sweet, toddler voice, Alex sings, “You like her.”

“How could I not, kid?”

“Did I miss something?”

Grace snorts, elbowing our little sister. “I’ll say.”

“What the hell?” Eliza whines. “Why am I always out of the loop?”

Grace retorts something quippy that I don’t quite hear over the ringing in my ears—ringing that sounds suspiciously like how could I not, kid?

As a slew of sisterly bickering begins, I sit back, letting them squawk, glad to have the attention shifted off of me and the man at my side, who I pointedly try to ignore lest someone accuses us of being in love next.

Internally scoffing at the ridiculous notion, I let my gaze wander.

It lands on the bar, and I stiffen.

Not because the guy behind it is pouring what I easily recognize as my favorite red wine into a long-stemmed glass. It’s the person opposite him that catches my attention. The back of a head I swear I recognize, but that’s ridiculous. That’s impossible. That’s—

Over the bustle of the crowd, I hear, “I’m looking for my girlfriend.”

And my stomach just about falls out of my ass.

There is no fucking way.

“Lottie Higa?” The familiar voice, as loud as a goddamn bullhorn, presses. “Fuck, no, wait. Jackson . Charlotte Jackson.”

This is a joke.

This has to be a joke.

Or a hallucination, maybe. A dream—a waking fucking nightmare. This can’t be happening. There’s no way that’s who I think it is, it can’t be .

When I clumsily shoot to my feet, rattling the table, the group around me abruptly falls silent. I step away from the booth and someone catches my hand. “You okay?”

No. I’m not okay. I am so far from okay.

But I don’t know how to explain that to Finn, not without explaining everything, and I can’t do that right now.

I shake him off, stumble a step forward, and it’s as if he senses me coming.

He turns around.

And a pair of lips I know well, lips I’ve felt against my own, lips that make me feel sick now lift at the corners. Triumphant and slick.

“Hey, babe,” Ricky says, and I sway on my feet. “Miss me?”