Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Finn
Raya is quiet on the way back to her house.
Not that I expect her to open up to me, but I do wish I knew what she was thinking.
She helped serve the kids lunch, then sat in the stands for an epic game of dodgeball.
I took one to the side of the head and one between the legs (which the boys thought was hilarious), but thankfully the kids don’t throw that hard.
She sat. She watched. She smiled sometimes, but mostly she seemed lost in thought. Given her state a few days ago, it’s likely going to take her body—and her mind—more than a couple of days to heal.
“Thanks for playing along today. You were a good sport.” I don’t want to force conversation, but the silence is killing me. Is she okay? Does she need electrolytes? Has she eaten enough?
Is there anyone else in her life asking her these things?
“It was nice,” she says. “Thanks for distracting me.”
“Anytime, friend.” I put a bit more emphasis on that last word.
Her smile is soft, but I see it.
“You’re really great with kids, too,” she says. “They love you.”
I smile. “Kids under ten and women over sixty-five, I’m telling ya. That’s my real fan base.”
Her phone buzzes. She checks it, then tucks it in her bag without responding. I’d love to ask about it, but I don’t.
And then I do.
“Real Estate King?”
She shakes her head at me, but amusement lines her brow. “You shouldn’t call him that.”
“You’re right,” I say. “He’s probably more of a duke.”
She looks out the window, but I catch her smile.
I keep my eyes on the road but decide to test the waters a bit. “Are you guys . . . serious?”
“No, it’s new,” she says.
“Exclusive?”
She looks at me. “Why?”
I hold up a hand. “Just being a nosy friend—I know this is”—I flick a pointed finger from her to me and back again—“you know—platonic.”
She watches me for a beat. “We haven’t labeled anything. It’s all new. Like . . . a trial phase.” She goes back to staring out the window. Subject closed.
But it’s a reminder that pursuing her right now isn’t a good idea. My goal is just to be her friend. I can do that, right?
I notice she’s discreetly wringing her hands. Not sure what that’s about. “You okay?”
Her gaze falls to her folded hands, then she shakes her head. “Yeah. Yes. Just tired.”
“Tired,” I repeat.
She nods. “More than just tired—I feel drained.”
I want to talk, to get her mind off it, to joke around, lighten things up, but instead I take Gray’s advice and just listen.
“I don’t know how long I’m supposed to wait until things go back to normal. I’m so used to”—she stops, trying to find the right word—“doing, to working on things, being busy—and this whole taking it easy thing is . . . it’s just hard.”
“You ever hear the saying ‘it’s okay to not be okay’?”
She scoffs. “So cliché.”
“Being cliché doesn’t mean it’s not true,” I say.
She goes still.
I tap my thumb on the steering wheel. We’re back on the highway, driving to Loveland, and I have a feeling there’s more going on in her mind, and I really wish I knew what it was.
“Okay,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “I know you don’t like to share, so I can take the hint.”
“Just because I don’t share with you doesn’t mean I don’t share with anyone.”
“Oof, point taken.” When she turns to me, I say, “I’m just playing. I don’t expect you to spill your guts to me.” Then, after a beat, I add, “Except in the garbage can in your office.”
I’m glad when she laughs. Feels like a win. But then she says, “I think it’s pointless to talk about my feelings.”
“Probably why you’re so tightly wound.” I come to a four-way stop with a blinking red light and a semi turns in front of me, out of turn.
Raya practically growls.
“We’re not in a hurry,” I remind her. “You’ve got nowhere to be, remember?”
She rolls her eyes. “How can I forget?”
I hit the gas, but behind this truck, I’m stuck at thirty-five miles per hour. I purposely don’t pass it because the longer it takes to get back to her house, the more time I get to spend with her.
“Okay, so if you were around someone who you would talk to about your feelings, if you didn’t think it was pointless or stupid . . . what would you say?”
For a long moment, she doesn’t respond.
“Come on, Hart, you already know I can keep a secret.”
I expect her to ignore me or tell me to shut up or something dismissive like that, but instead, she says, “I was thinking about Grace.”
Oh. That’s unexpected. “What about her?”
“She reminds me of me.”
Raya
I’m not sure what it is—the quiet in the car, the fact that we’re driving at a snail’s pace, or simply that Finn cared enough to ask how I’m doing. Something most people don’t bother to do. Something Justin definitely doesn’t do.
I get it. I mean, my answer will always be the same—“Fine.”
I’m always “fine.”
And if I’m not, I make myself. It’s in my DNA.
If I had to guess, it’s in Grace’s too. But seeing her take care of her brothers—so competent, but so young—has me feeling out of sorts.
If I had to guess, her mom has no idea she’s putting all this pressure on herself. She’s probably just thankful to have the help.
I’m not a person who analyzes why I am the way I am, but watching Grace, all I could think was—What does she do for fun?
Followed by—What do I do for fun?
Stupid Finn is getting in my head.
“I can see the similarities,” Finn says. “You’re both cranky little perfectionists.”
I laugh out loud. “Yeah, that. But also—she’s just a kid. She shouldn’t have to take care of anyone.”
“I don’t think she has to,” he says. “I think she just does.”
That lands. Because the same could’ve been said of me when I was her age. Nobody asked me to help with my sisters. Nobody told me I needed to be perfect and follow the rules. The pressure I’ve put on myself to achieve—that’s mine to own.
I don’t know when it started, I only know it’s been there for as long as I can remember.
I became the person who watched out for everyone, the person on high alert in case there was a crisis. I became independent and strong. The girl who didn’t need anyone for anything ever. And once that’s who I was, I owned that identity.
And now I’m not sure how to soften it.
“She’s like an adult in a tiny body,” Finn says. “Which is probably how you were, right? You were a full-fledged adult at age ten, and my maturity peaked when I was twelve.”
I bark out a laugh.
He grins. “Someday I’ll tell you the story of how me and my brothers flipped our dad’s tractor during a midnight joyride across the creek.”
I laugh again, probably because I need to. “Do you think you’ll ever have a day where you grow up?”
“I hope not,” he says, then smiles again.
And I think, it’s a nice smile.
He goes back to watching the road.
I want to ask him how it feels to be the only person who’s seen the vulnerable side of me, but I wouldn’t dare give him the satisfaction. Instead, I let out a dramatic sigh and say, “Can you go around this truck?”
He shakes his head. “You’re so impatient.”
“And you drive like a grandma who just took a Benadryl.”
He chuckles. “Do other people know that you can be funny?”
I narrow my eyes. “Only my friends,” I say.
He holds up a fist in celebration and shouts, “Promotion! Yes!”
I look out the window and hide a smile.