Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
FINLEY
Along with my penchant for hyper-focusing—where twelve hours can feel like twelve minutes—there comes the flip-side to that phenomenon.
For instance, I haven’t seen Thomas in two days, but it’s felt more like two weeks.
No exaggeration. And I’ve thought about him nearly constantly.
What is he doing right now? What is he wearing? Does he smell like oranges and cloves?
My dating history makes me nervous about my chances of attracting Thomas as a real boyfriend, but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen.
Just because other men couldn’t see what an amazing partner I’d be doesn’t mean Thomas is similarly handicapped.
Having said that, he didn’t text me after our supper out, so he might not even think of me as a friend yet.
I fluff the blanket around Tanya Jackson’s baby girl, Cherie. Then I make googly noises at her to get her to smile, which she does. “Only six weeks old, and already a pro!” I announce.
“She’s pretty special,” Tanya says. Her brown eyes are drooping like she hasn’t had much sleep lately.
“Is she your first?” I ask. Tanya is a new client, and I don’t know much about her yet.
“She’s my fourth,” she tells me. “I thought Mike and I were done, but this little girl had other plans.”
Four? No wonder she looks worn out. “How old are your other kids?”
“Eighteen, twelve, and nine,” she tells me. I try not to act surprised by the wide age gap but apparently fail. “I had my first in high school,” she explains. “His dad isn’t in the picture.”
“My good friend is adopting a baby whose birth mother is graduating this year,” I tell her. Allie and Margie have been very open with their story, so I don’t worry I’m talking out of turn.
“That’s probably a good thing,” she says. “It’s hard having a little one when you’re still a kid yourself.” She adds, “My parents helped out a lot, but I still missed being carefree like my friends.”
Tanya’s hair is styled in a high ponytail that makes her look younger than her years. According to the age of her oldest, I calculate her to be somewhere in her mid-thirties.
“I hope I get to be a mom someday,” I tell her. For some reason I feel the need to add, “But I’m not even dating anyone …”
My client says, “I know people say there’s nothing wrong with being a single parent, but take it from me, it’s a lot easier when you do it with a partner.”
“That would be the only way I’d want to do it.” I snap several quick-fire photos of Cherie before telling Tanya, “I think we’ve got it. I should have the proofs ready for you in a couple of days.”
She wraps her baby up in the fuzziest looking blanket I’ve ever seen. I can’t help myself; I reach out to touch it. “Wow,” I tell her. “If they made clothes out of that material, I’d buy a full wardrobe in it.”
She laughs. “If I could wrap myself up in a king-sized version of this I’d fall asleep and never wake up.” Picking up the baby, she adds, “Thanks, Finley. I’m excited to see what you got today.” Then she walks out of the studio.
Babies are magical and unless you get a colicky one, they’re the best models out there. Even if they have a gas bubble and make a face like they’ve just eaten bad cheese, everyone loves them. They simply can’t do wrong.
I’m cleaning up the set when my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number. “Hello?” I drop the basket full of fake pink roses next to my editing stand.
“Finley, it’s Thomas.” His voice feels like warm sunshine and causes a fluttering in the pit of my stomach.
Being that it’s been two months since I’ve heard from him (Fine! Two days), I try to act nonchalant. “I’m sorry, who?”
“Thomas Culpepper.”
Sitting on my stool, I reply, “Oh, Thomas, yes. How can I help you?”
He pauses like I’ve just been rude to him. Which is pretty much how I intended to come off. I’m not very good at pretending I’m feeling something different than I am. “Are you mad at me?” he wants to know.
“Why would I be mad at you?” Say the words, Thomas, and I might forgive you. Tell me you’re sorry you didn’t call after our dinner together last year. Even though it wasn’t a real date, and you aren’t obligated, say the words.
“I just wanted to see if you’d like to go on a drive with me.” He sounds like a man walking through an active mine field, unsure where to step.
“When did you get a car?” I ask in shock.
Who decides they want a car and gets one right away without proper consideration?
I have to think about a large purchase, and weigh the pros and cons.
I have to imagine myself using said purchase before seeing if it feels right.
Only then can I pull the trigger. It took me three months to settle on a couch before buying one.
“I bought one yesterday,” he tells me. “My neighbor Kevin knows a guy, and he took me out to see him.” He adds, “It’s not great, but it’ll do until I can decide if I’m going to stay in Elk Lake.”
“I would like to go on a drive with you,” I tell him. “But you said you’re not a very good driver.”
“I’m getting better,” he tells me. “Also, I have my license, so I’m allowed on the road.” After a beat, he adds, “What do you say? Can I pick you up?”
“So long as we stay in town and don’t go on any busy streets,” I tell him, still unsure of his ability to keep us safe.
“You have a deal,” he says.
“How about in an hour?” I ask. That should give me enough time to get everything straightened up and ready for tomorrow’s shoots—which include three more looks for Thomas’s revenge calendar that we’re making for his parents.
“I can do that,” he says. “But if you get done early, come on out. I’m parked in front of your store.”
I practically run to the front room and look out the window. Once I see him, I release a hellish scream. Thomas is standing by my dream car with a huge smile on his face. His expression shifts to one of concern when he witnesses my distress.
Running to the door of my shop, he opens it and asks, “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“That’s your car?” Tears well up in my eyes before I can stop them.
“Do you hate it?” he asks, sounding confused.
That’s when I burst out crying like my grandmother just died. “Hate it? Hate it?” I repeat between sobs. “I don’t hate it, I love it!”
The look on Thomas’s face makes it clear he will never love me. Honestly, I can’t blame him. I’m acting like a real fool here.
“If you love it, why are you crying?” He says the words slowly like he’s trying to keep me calm so I don’t do anything rash. Like hit him over the head with my baseball bat before stealing his car. That I would have to push because I don’t know how to drive.
“I was going to buy that car! I saw it listed on social media, and I thought it was my sign to get my license. That’s my car,” I tell him forcefully. I can tell Thomas feels bad, but I don’t care.
“I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I needed a car and this one seemed like a good place to start.”
My face is dripping with sadness. “I don’t want to go on a ride with you anymore,” I tell him.
“Really?” He sounds disappointed enough that I briefly consider he might be starting to care for me.
But even if that’s the case, he bought my car, and now I can’t learn how to drive. Instead of assuring him I’m serious, I turn and practically run into the back room. My whole day is ruined.
Rather than taking the hint and leaving, Thomas follows me.
Once I’m sitting on my stool, I turn it around and stare at him.
His jeans fit him like a second skin, but instead of looking like a rockstar wannabe, he looks like a rugged manly man.
His sweater is a super-soft looking navy sweater—I wonder if it’s cashmere—and he’s wearing a dark leather bomber jacket.
His wavy brown hair is practically screaming for me to run my hands through it. But I’m mad at him so I’m not going to.
Neither one of us says anything for several moments, and it’s super awkward.
Thomas finally announces, “If I knew you planned on buying the car, I never would have. You should have told me.”
“Why would I tell you?” I demand.
“Then how was I to know?” Darn it, he’s right. I’m punishing him for something he couldn’t have knowledge of. I really hate it when I’m wrong.
“How does it drive?” I ask him.
“Okay, I guess. I mean, it’s old. It’s not as smooth as a newer car.”
“That shouldn’t matter,” I tell him. His questioning look has me explaining, “Harlow Gibson drove a car like that in that old movie, Rocky Love Falls.”
Again with the confused look. “And that’s why you want it?”
With a snort, I tell him, “Of course that’s why.”
“I’m not tracking here, Finley.” Thomas shoves his hands in his coat pockets and steps toward me.
“Harlow Gibson played a character who wanted to get even with the girls who bullied her in high school. She drove back to her hometown in that kind of car.” See? It all makes sense now …
“Did they all want a car like that?” He’s clearly not on my wavelength.
“No.” I explain, “She won the title of Miss Nevada and went home wearing her tiara. That’s how she got her revenge.”
“What did the car have to do with it?”
“She was riding in that car, Thomas! How aren’t you getting this?” I know I’m not explaining it well, and maybe this isn’t even something that makes sense to a neurotypical. I mean, how would I know? I’m not one.
Thomas inhales deeply before asking, “How about if I sell you the car when I leave town?”
“What do you mean when you leave town? Are you leaving because of Constance?”
“She’s putting me on the nightshift as a payback for my not being interested in her romantically. I can’t work with a person like her.”
“So, you’re giving up on Elk Lake, just like that?”
He tips his head from side to side like he’s going back and forth on his own pros and cons list. Which I respect. The pros and cons list really is the only way to make big life decisions.
“I need to gather evidence against Constance to break my contract,” he says. “But if I can’t do that, then I’ll probably go back to New York when my current agreement ends.”
While I really want to buy his car, I suddenly realize I want Thomas more. That must be why I blurt out, “You can’t leave Elk Lake. I won’t let you!”
He looks amused. “I’m not sure you can stop me.”
I narrow my eyes and stare at him like I’m performing a Vulcan mind meld. I don’t say the words out loud, but I still send the message, Oh, yeah? Let’s just see, shall we?