Chapter Sixteen
Not Just Desserts
Finn had just put the finishing touches on the marinade and stuck the tenderloin in the fridge when the front door opened.
“Robbie?”
“Just me,” Finn told Sawyer. He grabbed the kitchen spray to sterilize the counter top and was mid-wipe-down when Sawyer entered the room.
“Where’s Robbie?”
“His agent called.” Finn shrugged. “Some last-minute opportunity, I don’t know. He was vague on the phone. He’ll be back by dinner. Did you have fun with Imogen?”
“We don’t have fun,” Sawyer said loftily. “We’re teenagers. We just chill.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Chilling sounds very un-fun. Terrible time.”
“Wait, are you making dinner? But it’s Eugene’s night to come over and cook.”
“Eugene has a date.” One that Finn suspected had been rescheduled a few times due to last-minute panicked calls from Robbie about Sawyer’s custody hearing. “We’re having pork and roast potatoes and green beans.”
Sawyer eyed him at the mention of vegetables. “Can’t we have corn on the cob instead?”
“Second crop’s not in season for two more weeks, bud.”
A gusty, long-suffering groan worthy of any teenager ensued. “Fiiiine. But I’m putting butter on mine.”
“We’re all obviously putting butter on them. What are we, heathens?”
Apparently this mollified him, because he hefted himself up to sit on the counter. “Green beans are better than Eugene’s kind anyway. Do you know how many beans are in vegan chili? You could blow a hole through your underwear.”
Jesus. “Thank you for that mental image.” Maybe Finn could find a way to be conspicuously absent if Eugene was going to cook. Oooh, he could make that his standing dinner date with Holly.
He was about to challenge Sawyer to a game of pool when the doorbell rang.
They looked at each other. “You expecting anyone?” Finn asked.
Sawyer spread his hands. “Who even knows I live here? I just came from Imogen’s.”
“Do people come door-to-door trying to sell you new windows in this neighbourhood?” Finn slung the rag he’d been wiping the counter with over his shoulder. “I mean….”
Sawyer followed him to the front door.
A tiny Hispanic woman stood on the front step, dressed in a smart pantsuit with a leather satchel slung over one shoulder. She peered up at Finn through plastic-framed glasses. “Mr. Zeiger? I’m Zulma Gutierrez-Hernandez, with the Children’s Aid Society.”
Oh shit. “Uh, I’m not Robbie—Mr. Zeiger,” Finn said. He glanced quickly over his shoulder at Sawyer, who’d gone pale. Robbie might’ve been preparing for a surprise CAS visit for weeks, but Finn hadn’t. “He’s at a business meeting.”
Zulma Gutierrez-Hernandez nodded, nonplussed. “That’s fine. I can do my inspection of the home and speak with Sawyer. I can interview Mr. Zeiger another time.”
Shit. Shit! It had been a long time since grade eleven law class. “Um,” Finn said. He could do this. He turned to Sawyer. “Sawyer, text Robbie, okay? Let him know what’s going on.”
Then he pulled his own phone from his pocket and stepped onto the front step with Zulma, closing the door behind him.
Zulma Gutierrez-Hernandez tilted her head. “Are you denying me access to the property?”
“Not yet,” Finn promised. “Do you have a business card? I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting this; I’m just a family friend. I want to make sure you are who you say you are.”
Finally she smiled. “Of course.” She not only passed over an embossed business card, but flashed her employee badge and her driver’s licence to boot, though she kept her finger over the address portion. Smart lady.
Finn checked the number on the business card against the number on the Toronto CAS website, then dialed her extension. When her voicemail picked up and confirmed her name and role, he figured that was the best he could do. He hung up.
“Okay.” He opened the door again and gestured her inside. “Sorry about that.”
“You can’t be too careful,” Zulma replied. “Especially when children are involved. Let’s begin again. I’m Zulma Gutierrez-Hernandez, and you are…?”
Right, okay, yes, handshake. Normal human interaction. Finn could do that. He shook her hand. “Finn Graham.” When she blinked at him, not letting go, he realized she was looking for more information. “I’m a friend of the family,” he reiterated.
Absolutely true even if not the whole truth.
“Good to meet you, Finn. Would you introduce me to Sawyer, please, and I’ll have him give me a tour?”
God, had they left a mess in the bedroom? Surely she wouldn’t go in there anyway, right? She only had to care about Sawyer’s room?
Finn was going to pull his hair out. Or start drinking.
But it would be fine, he reminded himself.
Robbie was a fantastic parent. Despite the loss of his mother and the benign neglect of his father, Sawyer was a smart, happy, reasonably well-adjusted kid.
The house was safe. The smoke detectors worked—Robbie had been testing them once a week since Vince got arrested, which was probably giving him flashbacks to the burned-pizza incident, but better safe or whatever.
There was a security system. Sawyer’s bedroom was no more a biohazard zone than any other teenage boy’s.
The fridge and cupboards had food in them.
There might be a little bit of mold in the shower. That was okay, right? Everyone had shower mold.
Everyone had shower mold, right?
Finn strained his ears, but try as he might, he couldn’t make out more than indistinct murmurs from Sawyer’s room. A good sign, he hoped—Sawyer had a set of lungs on him. If Zulma said something to upset him, Finn would know about it pretty quickly.
Should he text Robbie? What would he even say? It wasn’t like he could give a play-by-play; Finn wasn’t even in the room. Anyway, if Robbie got bombarded with texts, he would panic even more than he probably was already.
When the doorbell rang a second time, Finn was so relieved to have a distraction that he didn’t stop to wonder who might be at the door.
The couple on the front steps looked vaguely familiar, in the way people did where maybe they were a cashier at the local grocery store or a regular at your favourite bar: an older couple, white, her with long, silvering brown hair, him with sharp, angular features and caterpillar eyebrows. They looked taken aback to see Finn.
“Hi,” Finn said when neither of them said anything. “Can I help you?”
“Who are you?” the man demanded.
Finn blinked. “Who are you?” He might not own the house, but he was the one in it by invitation, and these folks just showed up on the doorstep. If they’d told Robbie they were coming, he would have told Finn.
The woman scoffed and clutched her purse. “We’re family.”
It was at that point that Finn finally realized where he recognized these people from—Robbie and Sawyer. Shit.
Without thinking, Finn swung the door shut. Or tried to, but the man—Robbie’s father—was large enough to block it open. Finn grimaced and said through his teeth, “Robbie’s not home right now, sorry. Please come again another time.” Like after hell freezes over.
“We’re here for our granddaughter,” the man formerly known as Sawyer’s grandfather said.
“You can’t see your grandson right now.” Finn tried to stop him from pushing the door open, but the man had physics on his side. The door swung inward, right into Finn’s face. “Shit!” He clasped a hand to his left eye. He’d be lucky if it didn’t bruise.
Dickhead just sneered like Finn should have been manly enough to avoid getting battered.
Then Mr. and Mrs. Dickhead let themselves right into Robbie’s house and demanded to know where Sawyer was.
Finn had to get them the fuck out of here before Sawyer saw them—or worse, heard them.
“What are you doing in our son’s home?” Dickhead glared, arms crossed. Finn saw where Robbie had gotten his height from, if not his good looks. Finn suddenly wished he’d inherited some of his own father’s size. Sure, he would never have made it as a professional skater, but—
“Being a wanted guest,” Finn snapped.
Robbie’s other genetic donor stepped around her husband and eyed Finn from head to toe. It made Finn want to take a shower.
It also made him suddenly uncomfortably aware of a few facts. 1. Finn’s T-shirt barely hid the hickey on his collarbone. 2. Said shirt was pink and said Princess in shimmery script. And 3. His engagement ring had slipped from under his collar when he stumbled back from the door.
Mrs. Dickhead curled her lip. “You must be the reason our son has been ignoring us.”
“Pardon?” If Robbie was ignoring them, it was pretty obviously because they sucked.
“Clearly some sort of midlife crisis,” she added with a wrinkled nose. Her gaze dipped to his shirt and soured further. Jesus, these gender-essentialist assholes were giving him a headache. Well, if she insisted, Finn was happy to call her a cunt instead.
“Did no one tell the man he’s supposed to buy a car, not a slut?” Dickhead said.
“Excuse me?” Did Finn really just get called a sex worker? Not that he was offended by the charge on the surface, but who the fuck barged into their son’s home, saw evidence of a fiancé, and assumed he must be paying for it? Like Robbie didn’t deserve all the love and devotion in the world.
Also, he was pretty sure Robbie wasn’t even out to his parents, so—unless they’d known this whole time?
“And stupid too,” Cunt said.
Dickhead stepped forward and attempted to go around Finn. “Where’s our granddaughter?”
The demand shook Finn out of his stupor, and he stepped sideways in front of them. “No.”
Dickhead put a hand on Finn’s chest in an attempt to push him out of the way, but Finn dug in his heels. “Don’t touch me. You are not invited into this house. You are trespassing. Get out or I’ll call the police.”
He didn’t love the idea, but he couldn’t let these people near Sawyer. If he could just get them on the other side of the door—
Cunt tried to sidestep in the other direction and shrieked Sawyer’s deadname.
Finn’s stomach curdled. No way Sawyer hadn’t heard that, and Robbie wasn’t here for reassurance.