Chapter 19
Nineteen
Finn
I’m washing the dishes when he comes downstairs and stands beside me, picking up the casserole dish I just washed, and drying it.
“Thanks,” I say softly.
“Thank you for cooking.” A blip of quiet. “Even though I keep telling you that you don’t have to do it, and that you definitely don’t have to cook for me.”
“I like cooking.” I shrug. “And it’s no different cooking for three versus two.”
“Hmm,” he says. “Well, thank you all the same.”
My mouth tips up. “You’re welcome.”
He falls quiet as I finish up with the rest of the dirty dishes, but he doesn’t leave, just keeps drying the pots and pans, loading the plates and silverware in the dishwasher.
It’s efficient.
And nice.
If I wasn’t riddled with guilt, I would be soaking it in, committing every moment to memory, holding it close for when I go away.
“Is she asleep?” I ask quietly.
He nods. “Yeah.”
“I’m so—”
He cups my jaw. “It’s not your fault.” I shake my head—or try to. Because he stops me, using his other hand to hold my face steady. “It’s not your fault.” He sighs. “I didn’t think she was ready. I should have shown her the box sooner, should have known better.”
“I…it is my fault. Of course my leaving is a trigger.” I close my eyes, my throat going tight, the words hurting even to just think them. “Maybe I should— Maybe it would be better if you found someone else—”
“No,” he rasps.
“But, Rhodes,” I begin. “I don’t want to hurt—”
“You love Chloe,” he says, and I feel a tear slide free.
He uses his thumb to brush it away.
“You love her and she needs people who love her.”
“But—”
“No buts.” He wipes away another tear. “My job could take me to another team tomorrow. The location isn’t important. It’s the people who are.”
I want that so much to be true, so much so that I stop fighting it, that I give in to have them a little longer. “Are you sure?”
He nods. “Yeah, Stitch. I’m sure.”
Relief sliding through me. Then, “Why do you keep calling me that?”
“Because I’m pretty sure you have magical sewing powers.”
My brows drag together in confusion.
He presses his lips to my forehead, whispers, “You’re stitching our lives back together, Finn. One day at a time.”
I almost do it then.
Almost lift on my tiptoes and close the distance between our mouths.
Instead, I blurt out, “How did she die?”
He blinks.
Then again.
Part of me expects him to step back, to pull away. I know the wound of his loss has to be raw, especially after that time talking with Chloe. But he doesn’t release me, doesn’t throw up roadblocks.
Instead, he settles his forehead against mine and whispers, “Car accident.”
I swallow. “Oh God. I’m sorry.”
He closes his eyes. “I was on the road. They were driving back from visiting her sister.” His voice is heavy with grief. “Black ice and…they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
My heart aches.
Not just for him.
For Chloe.
For Anna.
For the life they were all supposed to have.
“I still don’t know what to say when Chloe asks questions about the accident,” he admits quietly. “It seems cruel to not tell her everything. But also cruel for her to know she survived when her mother didn’t.”
“Maybe when she’s older,” I whisper. “She’s too young to understand how it all works now.”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “I just…I guess I just don’t know if I’m doing it right.”
“You love her. That’s the most important part.”
His mouth hitches, but his smile is sad more than amused. “Maybe.”
“No maybe about it.”
That has his eyes peeling open and he gives me a look I can’t read.
“What?” I whisper.
“What about you?” he asks. “I’ve been waiting for you to talk to me.”
I frown. “About what?”
“About the phone call that upset you.”
My frown deepens. “What?”
“Chrissy told me, Stitch. And I guess…I was wondering when you’d talk to me.”
“I— But why?”
A flicker of hurt drifting across his face. “You’d ask that? After tonight? After knowing—”
He pulls back and I snake out a hand, grab his wrist, staying him. “I didn’t mean it like that. I…” I sigh. “I’m sorry. I just don’t like talking about them—” Shame claws at the back of my throat. “Or admitting that it still hurts so much that they don’t love me for me.”
Quiet falls for a long moment.
Then he steps close again. “Why do you think that?”
“Besides the fact that they’ve made it clear I’m a disappointment in every single way?” I laugh bitterly. “Hell, I’m not even sure they love me at all.”
God, that sounds pathetic.
And I feel even more so when his eyes go gentle. “I’m sure they—”
“Maybe,” I say quickly. “But the truth is that their love is transactional. They like practical things. Stable things. Things with resumes and retirement accounts and simple answers when people ask what I do.”
“And you,” he says slowly, “don’t fit in that box.”
I snort. “No. Definitely not.”
“What did they want you to do for a career?”
“They wanted me to go to college and get a business degree. Or one in accounting was acceptable too, I guess.” I make a face. “Can you imagine me as an accountant?”
His eyes flick over mine, amusement clinging to the edges of the deep brown depths. “Nope.”
“Exactly.” I toss up my hands. “I barely passed my math classes in high school and the idea of sitting at a desk, doing the same thing day in and out makes me want to scream.”
“Is that why you want to take your trip?” he asks. “To do something different every day for a while?”
I sigh. Pause and consider that.
“No,” I eventually whisper. “I don’t think it’s that. I… God, I’ve been planning this for so long. Dreaming about it, researching every detail, but sometimes…” I shake my head. “Sometimes I wonder if I truly want to go—or if it’s just an excuse for me to run away.”
Quiet, heavy and raw, sits between us.
But I don’t see any judgment in his eyes.
He just asks, “What are you running away from, Stitch?”
My heart skips a beat. “From their expectations,” I whisper.
“From the reality that I might really fail like they say I will. From the fear that I might have made a mistake in choosing this path. From…” My voice drops.
“Waking up one day and discovering that I actually am that disappointment they think I am.”
His face softens.
Then he gently tucks back my hair, even more gently says, “The only way to know sometimes, is to do the thing you’re most scared of.”
I look up at him.
And wonder if he’s talking about me.
Or himself.
Because he sure as shit isn’t talking about travel.