Chapter 2
Finn
I WILL SURVIVE BY GLORIA GAYNOR
I tell myself I’m a grown man who can go on a normal date without thinking about the beautiful witch with flowery ink winding up her arms like it was drawn just for me to trace.
About the way she moves when she’s stretching, laughing or bending over that damn yoga mat—nope, not going there. Absolutely not picturing that.
It is better than picturing her sitting across from some guy who thinks he’s good enough for her, because he won’t be.
Not even close. Some guy who won’t understand how Rowan works, how her mind spins three directions at once and somehow lands in the right place every time.
Some guy who has never sat with her on the cliff at fifteen, sharing a bag of stale marshmallows while she talked about all the things she wished she was brave enough to want.
Some guy who didn’t fall in love with her the moment he saw her marching into homeroom in eighth grade wearing combat boots and holding a stack of books almost as tall as she was.
He won’t know her the way I do. That she’s guarded because people she trusted taught her to be.
That she cares harder than anyone should have to.
That she’s my person. My constant. My home.
And I hate every part of pretending I am fine with these dates.
I say it out loud like it is my personal mantra.
“You’re fine.”
But the lie hits the shower tile and echoes back at me. Pathetic.
Date day. Sure, everything’s fine. It actually isn’t fine at all.
I shower and shave and try to convince myself this is progress and not punishment. That maybe if Rowan dates a few of these guys, she will eventually look up and see me standing right here in front of her. Available and ready to hand her the whole damn world if she’d let me.
I pull on a white T-shirt that is soft from too many washes, then grab a flannel that smells like detergent instead of sawdust for once.
My jeans creak a little because they are still too new.
I’m supposed to look date-ready, not like a man quietly losing his mind over a woman who has been part of his heartbeat for more than half his life.
But when I meet my own eyes in the mirror, all I can think about is how Rowan would give me shit for trying too hard. How she’d tug on my collar and tell me I look better in older jeans. How she’d tilt her head and look at me with those soft, knowing eyes that always see more than I want her to.
God. I wish she saw everything. I wish she saw me.
But for now, all I can do is pretend I’m okay while she goes out searching for the one.
Even though I’ve known for years that she’s the one for me.
It’s fine. Totally fine. Except it’s not. Not even close. I text Rowan.
Are you ready for your date?
My thumb hovers over send, like I’m a teenager and not a grown ass man with a massive crush on his best friend. I hit send. My phone buzzes a minute later.
Rowan: Send me a selfie. I need to approve the outfit.
I snap a selfie and send it.
Where’s my selfie?
Another buzz. She sends a link to a song for the day. I Will Survive by Gloria Gaynor.
Solid song choice. Again, where’s MY selfie?
Rowan: Looking like the poster boy for Small-Town Tinder. Don’t break too many hearts tonight, Carpenter Ken.
Rude. She didn’t send me my selfie. I send back a winky face emoji and slide my phone into my pocket.
I walk down to Marco’s and when I’m halfway there, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out and it’s a selfie of Rowan leaning over, blowing a kiss towards the camera in a black dress, and damn.
She looks absolutely gorgeous. I wish I was picking her up right now for a date.
It makes me beyond pissed some asshole will be picking her up and taking her to dinner and I hate that it’s not me.
But this is the game she wants to play, so we’re playing it.
The minute I open the door to Marco’s, it smells like garlic, tomato and cheese, and my stomach rumbles at the familiar smells.
It’s literally one of my favorite places to eat, minus my older brother Remy’s pizza nights he puts on every Friday.
Marco has him slightly beat, but I’d never tell Remy that. They’re both winners.
The dinner crowd noise hums through the room. Serena, my date, seems like a nice woman from her text messages. We probably have nothing in common based on her profile, but she asked me out, so I figured why not.
And there she is, waiting near the hostess stand, scrolling on her phone with her lips pursed.
She’s pretty with dark hair curled around her shoulders and a white blouse that looks like it probably requires dry cleaning.
She has an expensive-looking watch, and jewelry on her fingers and wrists that look like they’re worth more than my truck.
She tucks her phone away when she sees me and gives me the once-over like a manager checking over an employee.
“Hi.” I smile warmly and hold out my hand. “I’m Finn.”
“I know,” she says with a small smile, looking at my hand and back at me, not taking it to shake. “I recognize you from your pictures. You look taller in person.”
“Thanks.” I don’t know what to do with that statement, so I just tuck my hands in my pockets.
Bart, a college kid with a small mustache, leads us to a booth near the window.
Marco isn’t on the floor. You can always tell when he’s here.
The volume in the room bumps up, and people laugh more.
Marco treats you like you are family when you eat at his restaurant.
I wait for Serena to choose which side she wants to sit on and wait.
“So,” she says, opening her menu as if it’s a file when Bart walks away. “What do you do exactly? Your profile said construction, but that could mean a lot of things.”
“I build and remodel houses,” I say, not even bothering to look at the menu.
I know it by heart. “Kitchens, decks, bathrooms, that sort of thing. I also do custom cabinetry out of my wood shop, and sometimes I do the less pretty stuff like gutting, framing, and electrical rough-in. It depends on the day.”
She nods as if this is satisfactory, and she’s taking notes. “And do you plan to keep doing that long term?”
Damn. This feels like a job interview. “I love it.” I shrug with a smile. “I’m good at it, and I take pride in making something that lasts. It’s art for me.”
“Sure,” she says. “But what’s the big plan? In five years, where do you see yourself?”
“Still building. Owning more equipment, taking on bigger projects, and teaching apprentices. Probably buying property to flip.”
She opens her phone while I am still talking, and the light reflects in her dark brown eyes.
She angles the camera toward herself, smoothing her hair and lifting her chin, and snaps one photo, then another, then a third, then checks them, scanning and flipping to add in filters.
I glance around nervously, not sure what to say to this.
“Sorry,” she says. “I promised my group chat I would update them. We have a thing where we rate first impressions.”
“Really? What’s the update?”
“We just talk about whether we are wasting our time,” she says. “You know, the usual girl talk.”
The usual. That’s essentially what Rowan and I do. Honestly, I don’t even care how I rate to her and her friends. I don’t even want to be here. But my mom raised me right, so I’ll be polite and nice.
“What if we split a pizza? Do you like pepperoni or are you into something else? Marco also does good garlic cheese knots.”
She tilts her head as if she’s giving me a test and waiting to see if I’ll pass it or not. “Garlic knots have too many carbs. We can do half with ham and pineapple. I know people fight about pineapple, and I don’t care. I like it.”
“Half and half works.” I don’t care about what people want on pizza. People can eat whatever make them happy.
Bart swings by with a notepad.
Serena lights up like she is on stage. “Ciao,” she says. “Possiamo avere una pizza grande, metà con peperoni e metà con ananas. E due bicchieri di vino bianco.”
Bart blinks. “Uh,” he mutters, looking back and forth between Serena and me with confusion. Then he glances toward the kitchen like he wants to make a run for it.
“Hey, Bart,” I say cheerfully. “Can we get a large half pepperoni and half pineapple with ham? A white wine for the lady, and a beer for me.”
Serena frowns with disappointment at Bart. “You don’t speak Italian?”
“No, ma’am, I’m from Ohio,” Bart admits with a sheepish laugh. “Sorry. And yes, I can get that put in.”
Serena sighs. “Nobody in this town cares about authenticity. Except Marco. Everyone else is uncultured.”
“I can go get Marco,” the kid says, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights.
She waves a hand. “Never mind.”
He leaves and I keep my mouth shut, but I can feel the edges of a headache forming. I glance at my watch discreetly to check the time.
“So,” I say, trying to make conversation. “You work at the bank?”
She perks up. “Assistant branch manager,” she says proudly. “I’ve been on a leadership track to have my own branch by next year if my numbers hold and if no one blocks me with internal politics. Which is probable because men get weird about women in leadership. You know.”
I shake my head, smirking. “Not me. But I see it all the time, and I get it. The world doesn’t exactly roll out the red carpet for women bosses, and men can be assholes sometimes.
” I was raised by a ballsy single mom who didn’t take shit from anybody, but I also saw how she was treated by some people precisely because there was no man around.
Ignorance and sexism are universal, but not in my mom’s house.
She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and leans forward. “You know, you could do more than construction if you wanted. You have presence, Finnegan. You could get into finance or real estate. There are so many options.”
“I like what I do,” I repeat. “It makes me happy. And I go by Finn.”