Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
THOMAS
Even with Constance doing her best to intimidate us, Finley and I are having a wonderful evening together. In fact, my boss gave us a mutual enemy which seems to have brought us closer together.
Once our food arrives, I tell my new friend, “There’s no way you’re ever going to be able to eat all of that.” Her eyes brighten at the challenge. “Never say never.” Then she glances at the baked potato and grimaces.
“Don’t you like baked potatoes?”
She shakes her head. “It’s in foil.”
“That’s probably how they cooked it.” While this makes sense to me, it still looks like a problem for her.
“Would you mind taking the foil off for me?” Finley asks.
“Off your potato?” She nods her head, so I reach out to remove the sheet of aluminum. As I do this, she turns away and sticks her fingers in her ears. Once I’ve accomplished the task, I crumple the foil and tuck it under the side of my plate. “All done,” I tell her.
Finley turns around, looking relieved. “Thank you.” As she doesn’t say anything else, I assume she doesn’t want to explain what that was all about. “Want a bite of my taco?” I ask her.
She studies my plate before saying, “I really don’t.”
“You don’t like tacos?” I ask. Who doesn’t like tacos?
“I like all the ingredients,” she says. “I just don’t like them together.”
Finley has some definite opinions about food, but I guess we all do. For instance, I like both hot chocolate and marshmallows, but I don’t like marshmallows in my hot chocolate.
We turn our attention to our meals, and don’t talk a lot beyond the basics. Once again, the silence isn’t strange so much as it’s pleasantly unusual. I hate when people feel the need to talk just to avoid quiet. But for some reason, that seems to be the standard.
I polish off my tacos and declare them the best food I’ve eaten in Elk Lake.
Finley eats a surprising amount, but she doesn’t finish both of her meals.
Instead, the waitress brings her a to-go container.
As she drops it on the table, she says, “I don’t have a small container for the peas, but I brought you a piece of foil so you can keep them separate. ”
Finley looks panicky, so I hurry to intervene. Looking up at the waitress, I ask her, “Do you have a paper coffee cup instead?”
When she nods her head, I pick up the foil and hand it back to her. “We won’t need this.”
When the waitress is gone, Finley lowers her head to avoid eye contact. “Thank you.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. I know she feels overly observed, and not in a good way.
Once Finley packs her food, I ask, “Should we order dessert?”
“I would love to,” she replies, “but I don’t have a spare centimeter of space left in my stomach.”
“We could order it to go, and you could take it home for breakfast.”
Instead of commenting on dessert, Finley tells me, “I don’t like the sound foil makes, and I don’t like how it feels against my skin.”
“What does that have to do with dessert?” I ask her.
“Nothing, but I could tell you wanted to ask me what was going on. I figured after buying me this delicious meal, you had a right to know.”
“I don’t like plastic wrap,” I confess. Her gaze narrows like she’s trying to figure out if I’m making fun of her. So, I explain, “I can never find the seam and once I do, if I don’t pull it evenly, it rips and then I only get the tiniest sliver and then the whole roll is destroyed.”
“Huh.” I can tell she doesn’t share my annoyance with plastic wrap, but she doesn’t say anything disparaging. Instead, she jokes, “You know we’ll never be able to get married now.”
“How’s that?”
She shrugs her shoulders before saying, “I can’t stand foil and you can’t stand plastic wrap. What would we do with our leftovers?”
Pointing to the Styrofoam container on the table, I tell her, “We could order those by the gross.”
She makes a face. “Those are bad for the environment.”
“We can get those little cardboard boxes that Chinese food comes in,” I decide.
Shaking her head, she tells me, “We’d never know what was inside of them. I like to see what I have when I open the refrigerator.”
“Tupperware,” I suggest.
Finley screws up her mouth like she’s really thinking about this, but then she decrees, “You’re not supposed to microwave plastic. Chemicals leach out into the food.”
“We could transfer the food to a glass plate before microwaving it …”
With a giant sigh, Finley replies, “That would be a lot of dirty dishes.”
“It’s like you don’t even want to marry me,” I practically shout, which causes the table next to us to turn and stare. I offer a brief wave, and tell them, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to let her say no.”
They smile awkwardly before turning back to their own conversation. Meanwhile, Finley jokes, “You’d better not propose for real in the diner. I want something more memorable.”
Finley Harper is nothing short of delightful. She’s witty, clever, and she knows how to enjoy a good meal.
Picking up her to-go container, I scoot out of the booth and stand up. Then I reach out to help her. “Even though I’m sorely tempted,” I tell her, “I’m probably going to wait until after we’ve gone on more than one fake date to propose to you.”
Taking my hand, she slides across the booth seat and stands up so that we’re practically eye-to-eye. Actually, we’re more chin to eye. Finley’s probably around five ten. She looks up slightly and holds my gaze before saying, “Chicken.”
I want to wrap my arms around her and kiss her with every ounce of emotion she’s making me feel. But that would probably scare her away. Instead of acting on impulse, I tell her, “I usually wait until the twentieth fake date to propose.”
“I’m sorry,” she says with pity.
“For what?”
“That all those women said no to you. That had to be rough.”
Looking down, I realize I’m still holding Finley’s hand. Instead of letting it go, I gently pull her toward the door. Once we’re out on the street, I lean down and tell her, “I’ve never made it to the twentieth fake date. I suppose we’ll just have to see if we last that long.”
Finley’s face flushes red but she maintains eye contact. “I suppose we will.” Then she adds, “But if I say yes, we’re either going to have to get divorced before our ten-year anniversary or we’ll have to skip the tenth year and go straight to the eleventh.”
This woman completely baffles me, and I’m thoroughly enjoying it. “Are you going to tell me why?”
Finley is standing so close to me I could easily lean down and kiss her.
But before I can decide if that would be prudent, she takes a big step backward.
Then she turns around and runs across the street before calling out, “The tenth year is the aluminum year!” Pointing to the building behind her, she adds, “I live here. Thanks for supper!” Then she turns and walks through the door to the left of the yarn shop.
I walk home seven blocks in the rain, barely registering the discomfort. I’ve had a great night, and I owe that to one slightly left of center, eccentric photographer. From the moment I met Finley, I knew she was something special, and every interaction has cemented that belief.
By the time I turn up my street, I’m soaking wet. When I get to my house, I notice Kevin is getting out of his car. “Hey, neighbor,” I call out to him. I still can’t bring myself to call him Pickles.
“Tommy,” he returns my greeting. “What are you doing walking on a night like tonight?”
“I still haven’t gotten a car,” I say while striding toward the property line, so we don’t have to keep shouting.
Kevin is covered from head to toe in a bright yellow raincoat, full-on with matching pants and hat. He looks like a duck. “What kind of car are you looking for? I’ll keep my eyes open for you.”
“Something basic and used,” I tell him before explaining, “I’m not sure how long I’ll be living in Elk Lake, and I don’t want to invest in anything else until I know for sure.
” Even though Finley and I had a fun night together, that’s not enough reason to relocate permanently.
Especially, as I still work for Constance.
“I have a friend selling an old Mustang,” he tells me. “It’s a convertible. It’ll be fun in the summer.”
“Hard top or soft top?” I ask.
“Soft top,” he says. “The ’90 Stang didn’t have a hardtop option. But don’t worry, he recently replaced it, so it’s in good shape.”
I suppose that would be fine. If I do decide to put down roots here, I’ll simply get another car and save the Mustang for summers. “When do you think I can go look at it?” I ask.
“I’ll call him tomorrow and tell him I have a live one,” he says with a smile. “Text me and I’ll drive you over sometime in the afternoon.”
“I’d hate to put you out,” I tell him.
“He lives ten miles outside of town,” Kevin says with a grin.
“In that case, how about if I hire you to drive me?”
My neighbor shakes his head. “You can take me to the pub for a beer if you decide to buy.”
I extend my hand for a shake. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Kevin.”
“Pickles,” he reminds me.
“Pickles.” I nod my head. My neighbor is a character, and I’m lucky to have him in my life. Not only does he offer food recommendations, but he’s helping me find a car before giving me lessons on how to drive better.
Now, if only I can settle things with Constance, maybe Elk Lake stands a chance of becoming my long-term home.