Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
FINLEY
When I woke up this morning there was no way I could have predicted how my day was going to turn out.
Not only did Thomas buy the car I wanted for myself, but I told him I was on the spectrum.
Then he asked me out on a real date and kissed me!
I’m more optimistic than ever that he might just be my person.
After ordering our supper—buttered noodles for me, and linguini with puttanesca sauce for Thomas—I open a box full of ostrich feathers. I sit down cross-legged on the floor and start pulling them out of the box.
“First you take them out of the plastic sleeve,” I tell him. “Then you need to ruffle them up.” I illustrate by pinching the base of the feather and then sliding my hands up to the top. Finally, I shake it in the air seven times until it flumes to full capacity.
Thomas sits down across from me and follows my instructions. When he’s successfully fluffed his first feather, he says, “These are really soft.”
“They’re my favorite,” I tell him. “The best part is that they’re humanely harvested.” I explain, “Which means the ostriches aren’t killed for their feathers.”
“How do they get them?”
“They’re sheared. This allows the feathers to regrow. Kind of like sheep.”
“I never knew that.” Thomas smiles at me sweetly before asking, “Isn’t this something you’d enjoy doing on your own? There must be dirty jobs you’d rather I help with.”
He’s so thoughtful, my heart pings. Thomas is a wonderful man, and I’d like nothing more than to date him for real.
It’s just the thought of him leaving Elk Lake is really messing with me.
Could the Universe be gunning for me so badly that it would bring someone like him into my life only to take him away?
“Why don’t we do ostrich feathers until we eat?” I suggest. “And then we can head next door and look for a harder job.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
Thomas and I get a total of forty-eight feathers fluffed before our food arrives. When we hear the bell tinkle over the front door, he jumps to his feet and meets the delivery man. When I hear him ask for the price, I yell, “I’m buying dinner!”
“Too late,” Thomas replies.
“But you’re the one doing me the favor.” I finally push myself off the floor and onto my feet before walking toward him.
As I take the bags from the delivery man, Thomas reminds me, “I bought your car out from under you. I owe you.”
I like how he thinks. “You really do,” I tell him. “But you’re going to sell it to me, so …”
“I still owe you.” He hands cash to the man from the restaurant and then leads the way toward a table that’s part of a restaurant scene I used in one of yesterday’s shots. The couple I filmed wanted to recreate their engagement. Talk about romantic.
I drop the food before walking over to the mini-fridge I keep stocked for clients. “You can have cola, diet cola, fruit punch, or sparkling orange-flavored water.”
“Fruit punch? Does anyone even drink that stuff anymore?” He sounds appalled.
“They still sell it,” I retort.
“I’ll do the water.”
I grab a bottle of water for him and a can of nice Hawaiian Punch for me.
While I don’t particularly love fruity drinks, based on the fact that not all fruits should be blended, for some reason I feel like I need to champion it.
Thomas has already unpacked our food, and he’s set the table with paper napkins and plastic silverware.
The battery-operated candles are even turned on.
“Very romantic,” I tell him softly.
“I aim to please,” he says before taking the lids off our food.
Over supper I learn an array of things about my dinner companion.
I’m surprised to find out that he’s never been to Mexico, but he’s traveled to Russia and Burma.
He doesn’t like bananas or honeydew melons, but he loves figs.
He speaks French well enough to order dinner, but not to get directions to the bathroom.
And he reads a lot of conspiracy thrillers.
I keep grilling him, so he doesn’t have a chance to ask anything more about my life. He’s already learned enough for one day.
When I only have a couple of bites left, I ask, “Would you like to try my buttered noodles?” I don’t really want to share, but I sort of feel obligated. He did pay, after all.
“No, thank you. Would you like to try mine?”
I grimace. “Not even a little bit.”
Once we’re done eating, I clear the table and throw the empty containers into the garbage. Then I lead the way through the freshly cut doorway to show Thomas my new space. Turning on the lights, I ask, “What do you think?”
He looks around closely before deciding, “It’s nice. What are you going to do with it?”
“My realtor suggested I put the beds in here so they’re not off-putting to clientele looking for more standard pictures.”
Thomas nods his head. “I can see that.” Then he says, “The walls and floors are in good shape. Are you planning on redecorating?”
“Not for a while,” I tell him. “I need to make sure I can cover the additional expense first.”
“Makes sense.” Walking back toward the doorway leading into my main studio, he asks, “What do you say we move the beds in here tonight?”
Being that I can’t move heavy mattresses on my own, I think it’s a solid plan. In the end, we wind up relocating three beds, a chaise, and a claw-foot bathtub. By the time we’re done, I’m wiped out.
Collapsing onto one of the beds, I declare, “I’m so tired, I could fall asleep right here.”
Thomas laughs before pointing at the window. There are a couple of high school kids standing there with their faces pressed up against the glass. “If you slept here you’d have an audience,” he says.
I sit up and wave at the lookie-loos before telling him, “I bought blackout drapes for the windows. They haven’t come yet.”
“Smart thinking.” Thomas walks over to me and offers his hand. “What do you say I drive you home?”
“How about if we walk?”
He squints his eyes like he’s trying to decide why I don’t jump at the chance of getting back into my dream car. “You don’t trust my driving yet, huh?”
Feigning an expression of shock, I tell him, “What? No. It’s just such a beautiful night, and I love the fresh air.”
Thomas looks out the window and declares, “It’s pouring rain.”
“Refreshing!” I exclaim.
“Finley …”
I decide to tell him the truth. “Driving on a wet night is harder than driving during the day. You might not be ready for it yet.”
“Why is that?”
“All the reflection from the lights on the puddles.” I lead the way into my original shop and grab two umbrellas. Handing one to him, I say, “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
Thomas doesn’t give me any more trouble. Instead, he walks outside ahead of me and opens his umbrella –a white golfing number that’s probably five feet across. I sometimes use them on set to reflect light.
He immediately starts to dance around but then a gust of wind hits and nearly lifts him off his feet. He’s practically blown into the middle of the street. Letting out a shout of surprise, Thomas starts to laugh. “Open yours up and join me,” he calls out.
Instead of following orders, I lock the door of my shop before telling him, “Flying home is probably just as dangerous as driving with you.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Now he’s stomping in puddles under a streetlight.
“Your feet are going to get wet, and then you’ll get sick.” I sound like my grandmother.
“If I get sick, I won’t have to go into work.” He starts performing something of a jig.
“If you get sick, you won’t be able to take me out on a date,” I tell him.
That’s all it takes for Thomas to quit fooling around and join me on the sidewalk. “My umbrella’s big enough for both of us,” he says before I can get mine open. “Just squeeze in next to me.” He winks, letting me know he likes having me close. I like it, too.
Even though I’m currently pretty confident being myself, ever since my diagnosis, I’ve struggled with worrying about what other people think of me. My mom always said it was none of my business, but I couldn’t imagine whose business it was more than mine.
She told me that if I go through life caring about the opinions of others, I’ll give them power over me. Then she’d ask if I wanted to give Joelle Stinger power over me. Even though that’s the last thing I wanted, it was hard to stop caring cold turkey.
In retrospect, I’ve probably lost out on some nice friendships because I kept other people at arm’s length. My reasoning being that if they didn’t know I was different, they would never learn the truth and then I wouldn’t have to watch them change toward me.
I suddenly remember how I used to feel when I ran as a kid. Wild, carefree, completely believing that at any moment gravity would cease to exist and I would take flight. I have never felt anything quite that liberating. Then it hits me: that’s exactly how I feel walking down the street with Thomas.
My soul feels like it’s dancing around my body, lighter and freer than it’s been in years. I know to the depths of my being that I cannot let him leave Elk Lake. I don’t know how I’m going to keep him here, but I’m going to have to come up with a foolproof plan.
If I don’t, my heart might never heal.