2. Finn
TWO
FINN
“Next round is on me.” Holden Spears, my best friend since middle school, stumbles out of the booth at the decked-out Christmas bar we’ve found ourselves in. He heads for the line of people waiting for drinks and doesn’t give us a second glance. “I’ll be back.”
“He’s not subtle at all.” Rhett, my other buddy, shakes his head. “You know he’s only going up there so he can flirt with the bartender, right?”
“Obviously. But being that we’re such good friends, we’re going to pretend like he’s offering because he’s a nice guy, not because he hasn’t gotten laid in five years.”
“Has it really been that long? Feels like I should pay someone to lend him a hand.”
“Pretty sure that toes the line of being illegal, man.” I tip my beer back and finish my drink.
“Bummer you’re not running the half marathon this year,” he says. “You probably could’ve won the damn thing now that you’ve upped your mileage.”
“I needed a weekend off, and you know I like being helpful.”
“That’s our Finn. Good Samaritan and paramedic extraordinaire.”
“Stop flirting with me. You’re married to someone infinitely hotter than you.” I grin at Holden approaching the table. “There he is. How did it go?”
“She asked for my name.” There’s an honest to god blush on his cheeks, and he sets the beers down. “I had to scream at her over the music so she could hear me. I hope she doesn’t think I was being rude.”
“Nah.” I pat his shoulder. “There’s a difference between raising your voice and yelling at her. And she was probably grateful you were looking at her face, not her chest.”
“She has a nice chest,” Rhett adds, and Holden punches his arm. “Fucking hell. What was that for?”
“Looking at her. You’re married, douchebag.”
“And my wife gives me permission to look.”
“Children,” I interrupt. “Knock it off. We’re not here to have a dick measuring contest.”
“Probably for the best. Mine is bigger,” Rhett says.
“Sure it is. Whatever helps you sleep at night, bud.”
I switch my empty beer with the fresh bottle and scan the bar. College kids are home for the holidays, so the place is packed tonight.
This time of year is always chaotic. The emergency calls almost triple in the two weeks leading up to Christmas. People are dumb and act like fucking idiots who think they’re invincible.
We got a call yesterday about a bunch of nineteen-year-olds who set off a round of fireworks. One of them exploded in someone’s face, and he’s spending the next few days in the ER with second-degree burns.
My own dumbass son landed in the emergency room last year because he thought he’d try to sled down the road on a goddamn trash can lid.
He was twenty-three.
It didn’t end well for him. He ran into a post and knocked himself out with a gnarly concussion.
So, yeah.
Fucking idiots.
I used to be reckless when I was a teenager, but when you become a parent at sixteen, you’re forced to grow up. There’s no underage drinking or partying until the sun comes up when you have a four-month-old at home who screams for hours on end.
It feels like I’m going in reverse, having the same kind of fun at forty that my friends had at eighteen and twenty-one.
I’m not married.
No other kids besides the one I’ve managed to keep alive this long, despite Darwinism trying to come into play.
I have the freedom to let loose. To do what I want, when I want, and it’s really fucking fun.
The people I work with who are my age still have children in middle school. They’re dealing with puberty and growth spurts while I’m out watching my friend pathetically try to flirt with a bartender who’s ten years younger than him.
“One more round, and I’m out,” Rhett says. “If you expect my ass to get up at six to watch four thousand people run around Chicago, I need some sleep.”
“Wouldn’t want to hold you down, old man,” I tease.
“You’re older than me. Look at those grays coming in.” He reaches for my hair, and I shove him away. “Are you forty or four hundred?”
“Fuck you.” I laugh and swallow a sip of my drink. “I should head out too. I have some work I need to finish, and tomorrow is going to be an early alarm.”
“What are you recording tonight?” Holden asks. “Please tell me it’s something good.”
“Masked men. Chasing in the woods. Fun stuff.”
My buddies are the only ones who know about my secret side gig moonlighting as an audiobook narrator.
I stumbled into it after the social media manager for our hospital recorded a video of me talking about the importance of knowing CPR. The clip went viral, earning three million views in twenty-four hours. The comment section was flooded with remarks like daddy and I’d let him pump my chest as many times as he needed and, a personal favorite, suddenly I need to be resuscitated .
An email landed in my inbox asking if I had ever considered voicing audiobooks. After a deep internet search told me the company was legitimate and not a creepy dude in his basement, I signed on to bring some of the top selling romance books to life.
Cowboys. Stalkers. Billionaires.
I’ve done it all.
It’s been enjoyable. A hobby I never thought I’d get into, and a change of pace from the gruesome shit I see in my day job.
I’ve become desensitized to severed limbs and the smell of death, but sometimes, the weight of it all creeps up on you. It makes you realize how fucking short life is, and to not take any day for granted.
Narrating wicked hot sex scenes helps take the edge off the whole we’re all going to die one day reality looming in the distance.
“I’ve run out of reasons why Jada can’t listen to the books she loves. I sound like a controlling husband.” Rhett scowls at me. “I don’t know how to tell my wife I don’t want her to hear my best friend tell her to take it like a good girl .”
“Been listening to my work, have you?” I grin and jump off my stool, throwing down two twenties to cover my part of the tab. “Maybe you’re afraid for her to listen because deep down, you know I’m much better at praise than you are.”
“Fuck off.” Rhett hurls a napkin at me, and I dodge his attack. “You want me to ruin your secret? She’d want you in bed with us every night, reading her to sleep.”
“Hey. If you want to add a third, you know I’m down. I offered years ago.”
“Nope. Stay the fuck away from her ears and our bedroom.”
“Already been there. You could do some redecorating,” I say, heading for the door and slipping outside before he can retaliate.
I know he’s just giving me shit.
The three of us have been friends for years, and we’ve gone through everything together—the ups and downs of getting older. Careers and kids and the messes that come with life. I couldn’t imagine doing it with anyone else by my side.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out. My son’s mom’s name pops up on the screen, and I smile when I answer.
“Layla. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Hi, Finny,” she says. “Quick question for you.”
“What’s up?”
“The twins have fevers. A hundred and one point five. Do I need to take them to the hospital? They seem okay, but this is the first time they’ve?—”
“Remind me how old they are?” I ask, cutting her off so she doesn’t start to panic. “Six months, right?”
“Yeah. And two weeks.”
“They’re getting big. Okay. My medical opinion is if the fever gets over a hundred and two, you’ll need to call their pediatrician. With where they are right now, I’d say monitor them and make sure they’re getting fluids. No aspirin, only ibuprofen. And don’t put them in heavy clothing.”
“I gave them some ibuprofen thirty minutes ago.”
“Good. My opinion as a parent is that you do what you think is best. If you want to head to the ER, no one is going to judge you.”
“Thank you. Ian is freaking out and it made me freak out. He told me to call you.”
“You’re lucky I like your husband. Did you tell him about the time you panicked when Jer was two?”
“Oh, god. Please don’t bring that up,” Layla begs.
“You took him to a neurologist when he had an ear infection.” I burst out laughing. “The look on the doctor’s face when he told us the kid just needed some antibiotics was priceless.”
“All the parenting books said it’s better to be safe than sorry! I went the safe route.”
“And you’re a great mother because of it. I’m sure the twins are okay, but if the fevers get worse, take them in. Please.”
“Thank you, Finn. I hope I didn’t interrupt your wild and crazy Friday night.”
“Nothing wild and crazy about walking home from the bar at nine o’clock.” I tuck my left hand in my pocket and shiver. “I’m working the half marathon tomorrow, so I’m behaving tonight.”
“Good. You’re stopping by on Christmas, right? Jer is coming over for dinner, and we’d love it if you were here too.”
“I’ll be there. I’m almost back to my place, but call again if you need anything else, okay?”
“I will. I promise.” There’s a chuckle on her end of the line. “Look at us. Co-parenting and staying friends after a teenage pregnancy? High five.”
“We’re the best in the business, Lay. I’ll see you in two weeks.”
I hang up and smile as I climb the steps to my brownstone. I switch on the Christmas lights wrapped around the banisters and slip inside, happy, healthy, and the jolliest asshole this side of the nuthouse.