Chapter 2 #2
My mind starts to wander, and I wonder what Rowan would think of Serena and her trying to change me into a corporate fella. She and I will probably joke about it tomorrow at lunch.
“Happy is what people settle for when they don’t have ambition,” she says lightly, as if this is a joke and not an insult.
“And Finnegan is so much more worldly. People will take you more seriously.” She snaps another selfie.
“Smile,” she adds, and turns her phone camera toward me without permission and takes a picture.
I blink and grit my teeth.
“I am not great at photos,” I say, as I take a sip of the water that Bart just set down with the beer.
“Anyone can be great at photos,” she says. “Angles and light. You just need to practice, and I can teach you.”
I’m thirty-two and I know my angles. They are the corners of the cabinets I mitered last week until the seam was soft as a fingertip.
I don’t care about photos for social media.
I don’t even remember the last time I even checked my social media.
I’m too busy working and living my life in real time with the people I love.
Annoyance rolls through my chest, but I smile anyway because I’m at Marco’s where the pizza will be the best and maybe if I’m lucky I’ll catch a glance of Rowan here in that black dress.
Serena takes a picture of her wine and asks to do cheers.
I pretend to clink and miss because she is busy finding the right filter and she doesn’t notice.
The pizza lands on the table with a heavy thud.
The pepperoni curls at the edges and my mouth is practically watering. The pineapple glows like little suns.
“Thanks, Bart.” I give him an appreciative nod.
He glances at Serena and gives me a smile. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“So what do you do for fun?” she asks as she ignores Bart, already holding the slice up for a photo. Cheese drips in slow motion. She’s barely put her phone down since we’ve been here.
“Sometimes I go out on my friend’s boat when the weather lets me, and I help my friends and family with their house projects. And I’m working on restoring a house I bought from a friend. It keeps me busy, and it’s good.”
“That doesn’t sound like fun,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “What about travel and fashion? Or wine tastings? I am planning a trip to Napa in the fall.”
I chew and swallow, closing my eyes. The pepperoni hits perfect as usual.
“I love this pizza,” I say, ignoring her question because I could care less about fashion.
Traveling sounds fun, but probably not the kind of travel she’d be doing.
My idea of traveling is restoring a camper van, hitting the open road, and stopping at all the cool places.
I’m guessing hers might be a little more glamorous and involve first class flights.
She shrugs as she looks down at the pizza. “It’s okay.”
Wow. Seriously? It’s the best food in town, and I’m surprised she’s not into this. It’s her loss.
She sets her slice down and wipes her fingers. Then she picks up her phone and looks at me like an evaluator again. “Where do you see yourself in ten years?”
Okay, so we’re back at this again.
“I’m living in the house I’m remodeling,” I tell her, the words coming out of me as I picture it all.
“There’s a big kitchen island with crayons and puzzles on it, a long dining table where game nights and amazing meals happen with all my family and friends.
Outside, there are rocking chairs on the back porch, facing the water, and the old shed’s a wood workshop where I tackle all my projects.
I get home before dinner every night because we cook together as a family.
There’s a dog waiting for me in the driveway, a bunch of kids running through the yard, and the most beautiful woman there who’s living her dream too.
She’s got dirt on her hands from gardening and a smile that makes the whole place feel like home. ”
She blinks, looking bored. “That sounds very domestic.”
“Yeah,” I say with a smile. It sounds like pure heaven to me. This is everything I’m working towards.
“I’m not sure I want children,” she says, examining her nails like she’s daring me to argue. Which I won’t. Anyone can do what makes them happy.
She adds, almost to herself, “I just can’t risk my career for kids.” She says, “kids” as if they’re bugs or something gross, like they’re completely repulsive.
There’s a lot of things I want to tell her.
Specifically, that statement is wildly derogatory.
I know plenty of women who have amazing careers and families.
I do work for a lot of them and even work alongside many.
And they’re killing it and seem happy. I work around a lot of fathers who are also doing great at having both a family and a career, like my brother Remy.
But I say nothing, because I truly don’t care.
She could say the sky is purple right now and I’d say of course it is. I truly don’t care.
“I get it. People want different things. Nothing wrong with that,” I say instead.
She picks up her phone again and checks her reflection in the camera. She turns the phone slightly and smiles, snapping another. I sip my beer and let my eyes wander the room. The door of the restaurant opens, and in comes a small cluster of voices. I feel her there before I see her. Rowan.
She’s in that black dress that ties at the waist. Her thick, long dark hair is up in a messy knot that looks sexy as hell, a few pieces hanging down over her cheeks.
I love it when she does her hair like that.
She’s with a much older man. A pale crown of white hair around a bald top.
A crisp brown button-down shirt tucked into pleated pants.
He looks like he is old enough to be her grandfather and reminds me of a professor.
Rowan and Professor Midlife Crisis get a high-top table near the center.
He sits with his back to the kitchen and Rowan sits across from him, setting her bag on the seat beside her.
She gives the host a kind smile. The man keeps staring at her while she talks.
It makes my jaw go tight. Don’t even look at her, you crypt keeper.
“Hello,” Serena says, waving to me.
“Sorry,” I say. “Someone I know just walked in.”
She twists and follows my gaze. “The woman? Do you like her?”
“She’s a friend.”
“That guy she’s with looks really old,” Serena says wrinkling her nose, watching them. “Is that her grandfather?”
I don’t answer. Serena makes a small sound that could be a laugh and takes a bite of pizza.
“She’s pretty.” She lowers her voice and adds. “He’s okay, but looks kind of boring.”
I choke. “Harsh.”
“I’m not wrong,” she says. “Also, she could do better.”
She’s damn right, Rowan can do better. She’s mine.
The human retirement plan lifts his glass and leans in.
He says something that makes Rowan tip her head and look at her menu again.
She gives a polite smile, and her fingers tap the table, three soft taps, the way she does when she’s trying to be patient.
I have the urge to walk over, take her by the hand, and march her out of here.
It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve sprung her from a bad date.
Serena watches me watch Rowan and then sighs. “I knew it. You have it bad for her.”
“Hey, I’m on a date with you,” I object with a grin.
“You’re on a date physically,” she says. “The rest of you is over there. Which is fine. I’m not offended.”
I sit back and hate that this is true.
“Look,” Serena says. “You seem nice. You also seem like you want a wife, kids on a porch, and a dog. I want a bonus and a penthouse with a wine fridge. We’d hate each other. Also, your friend owns Salt & Root, right? The witch store?”
“It isn’t a witch store,” I say out of habit. “It’s an apothecary.”
“See,” Serena says softly, and it’s the first time her voice doesn’t sound like it came from a boardroom. “You talk about her like I want someone to talk about wine and traveling with me.”
I rub the back of my neck, unsure what to say to that. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she says. “You’re honest, and that’s admirable. We can wrap this up.”
“Let me get the check and walk you out.”
She nods and reaches for her phone again. She takes one last selfie, checks it, and then drops the phone in her bag with a little sigh. “For what it’s worth,” she says. “You and her would make a beautiful couple.”
“Thanks.” I glance back at Rowan again. She looks over at me and gives me a small smile, then turns back to Mr. AARP.
We’ll discuss him tomorrow.
Serena stands and I toss cash on the table before flagging down Bart to box up the pizza. I want to leave it, but Rowan loves cold pizza for breakfast, so I’m going to take it for her.
We walk toward the door. I keep my eyes forward. I fail and glance left. Vintage Ken leans even closer and tells a joke while wiggling his eyebrows. They dance like thick caterpillars. I cringe as Rowan laughs out of politeness and lifts her water to take a sip.
We could be having fun.
I turn and hold the door for Serena, and she gently touches my arm. “Thanks for dinner, Finnegan.”
“No problem. I hope you have a great time on your Napa trip. Stay safe.”
Outside, the air is bright, and I walk her to her car around the corner. At her door, she pauses and looks me over again, but softer now.
“You really are handsome,” she says, giving me a small smile. “I hope your apothecary friend sees it.”
“Thanks.” I grin. But Rowan doesn’t see it. She’s made it clear that I am in the permanent friend zone. Meanwhile I want to bulldoze that friend zone.
Serena unlocks her car and slides in. “And hey, tell your friend that her shop is amazing. My friend and I were there a few weeks ago and bought tea blends from her. We had a lot of fun.”
I smile. “I’ll tell her.”
She pulls away with a wave. I stand there for a beat and my phone buzzes. A new text from Rowan.
Rowan: How’s it going? Do I need to send an extraction team?
I look through the glass of Marco’s window. The older man is talking with his hands and leaning in again. Rowan is nodding but isn’t smiling with her eyes, and keeps glancing at her lap where she’s trying secretly to text me. I type back.
You look like you need the extraction team more than I do with Sugar Pension.
Rowan: Haha, very funny. He’s very nice. He’s telling me about all his grandkids.
I’m heading out. My date was fine. I saved my leftover pizza for you. Don’t keep Grandpa out too late.
She replies with a skull emoji, then a heart.
I put my phone in my pocket and step off the curb. I tell myself to be good and leave her to her date with Sir Wrinkleton. She’ll never choose him anyway. He’s not her type. It’s me. I’m her type.