Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
THOMAS
Spending time with Finley has turned out to be the best part of living in Elk Lake. Yes, the people are nice, and the cheese curds are good, but neither can compare to her. I’ve decided that as long as I’m here, I’m going to see her as much as I can. Luckily, I’ll be doing that soon.
While I hope Armie does talk to Constance today, I don’t anticipate her changing her evil horn-dog ways immediately. In fact, I’m preparing for retaliation of some sort. Although I don’t know what else she can do to me. She’s already scheduled me for the graveyard shift.
I hurry home to shower and shave before my session with Finley.
I’m getting increasingly excited to pull this prank on my parents.
And the photos are looking so good, they might actually believe I’ve decided to become a male model.
I’m considering hiring a videographer to capture the moment for posterity. That way I can watch it on repeat.
Getting into my new car, I turn on the ignition before blasting the heat.
Then I pull out of the driveway slowly and try to convince myself I’m getting better behind the wheel.
I keep my speed a good ten mph under the limit, which results in my getting honked at twice.
I briefly consider getting a bicycle, but then remind myself I’ve offered to help Finley with her driving, so I’d best persevere.
Finley is walking into Happy Snaps at the same time I am. Not only is she soaking wet, but she looks like she just lost her best friend. Hurrying to her side, I gently drape my arm over her shoulder. “Hey you, what’s wrong?”
She looks up at me and tries to smile but instead of looking happy, she appears to be in pain. “I just failed the test to get my permit.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, knowing how much she wants this. Trying to make her feel better, I share, “I failed the actual driving part of my test twice before I finally passed.”
She nods. “I can totally see that.” Ouch.
“Should we study together?” I ask before waggling my eyebrows. “You know, after I become a cowboy?”
“A cowboy, a gladiator, and how do you feel about Tarzan?”
“Tarzan?” I think about it for a beat before deciding, “Why not?”
Once we’re in the shop, Finley turns toward me but keeps her gaze lowered to the floor. “You’re not looking at me,” I tell her.
“Duh, I’m on the spectrum.”
“Maybe so,” I say, “but I’ve noticed you only seem to have difficulty making eye contact when you’re nervous. What can you possibly have to be nervous about with me?”
She lifts her eyes slowly, coyly even, before commenting, “You kissed me last night.”
“I did.” With a self-satisfied grin, I tell her, “And I’m looking forward to doing it again.” I lean toward her thinking now is as good a time as any.
When Finley sees me advance, she puts both hands up in front of her to keep me from getting closer. “We have work to do, and I need to make sure I keep my wits about me.” Then she turns around and leads the way into the back of her shop.
As she sets the lights for the cowboy scene, I tell her, “I bet you’re one of the only photographers left who doesn’t use AI.”
“I think AI is cheating,” she says plainly. “There is enough organic intelligence on the planet without turning our autonomy over to computers.”
“Creatively speaking, it’s probably a lot cheaper though.” I know she’s worried about the expense of taking on the space next door.
“It lacks integrity,” she tells me. “If everyone uses artificial intelligence before their own talents, it won’t be long until there’s no creativity left in this world.”
She has a point. “China has already built a hospital that doesn’t staff any people.”
Her face morphs into an expression of horror. “No people? What about the doctors?”
“Robots,” I tell her. “As are the nurses, the lab techs, even the cleaning staff.”
“I don’t want to live in a world like that,” she says sadly.
Taking off my rain jacket, I commiserate, “I think it might be too late. China already has robots patrolling the border between them and Vietnam.”
Finley adamantly declares, “I’ll move home and live in my parents’ basement before I give up my humanity.”
“Me, too,” I say in solidarity. “Although my parents live on the tenth floor and their basement is the parking garage, but I’m with you in spirit.”
Shifting to a lighter subject, I ask, “Is the cowboy first?”
A faint blush crosses Finley’s features. “Yes.” She points to the costume rack. “Let me know if you need help buckling your chaps.”
That sounds like a highly suggestive offer, but I don’t tease her about it. Instead, I say, “I thought chaps snapped on.”
“Some do, but I prefer the old-school ones. They look more rugged.” She averts her gaze again which makes me think she’s envisioning me in my cowboy regalia.
In my changing corner, I take off my street clothes and start my transformation.
Faded jeans come first, along with a pair of cowboy boots.
Then comes the denim shirt. Once again, there doesn’t seem to be enough fabric, and there are no buttons.
As I step out into the open, Finley takes one look at me and glides across the floor like she’s floating on air.
Once she’s within arms’ reach, she stops. “You look amazing!”
I happen to agree with her. “Thank you,” I tell her cockily. “Do I get my chest greased up for this one?” I ask, hoping I’m lucky enough to get to feel Finley’s hands on me.
She shakes her head slowly. “The cowboy gets a suntan and some dirt.”
I look around, and ask, “Do you keep a bucket of dirt here somewhere?”
“I use eye shadow,” she tells me. “It’s stays on better.” She tugs at my sleeve gently. “Come on over to hair and makeup.”
“Do I get windblown cowboy hair?” Maybe she’ll run her hands through my hair—a close second to the baby oil.
“You get a cowboy hat with this one.” Is it me or does she sound disappointed?
Finley spends the next ten minutes brushing my face, neck, and chest with that incredibly soft brush of hers. When she’s done, she steps back and simply stares. “Wow.”
“Thank you,” I tell her smugly. There’s nothing quite like feeling appreciated by the woman you’re interested in. And boy, am I interested in Finley.
She walks over to a shelf near the costumes and pulls down a dark brown cowboy hat. Then she grabs a rope off a hook on the wall. Leading the way to a backdrop of a field, she calls, “Over here, Cowboy Thomas.”
I practically run to her side. “I like it when you call me Cowboy Thomas,” I tell her in what I hope is a flirty manner.
“You look good in that costume.” She winks and walks over to her camera table. Picking one up, she comes back and orders, “It’s go time. I want you to flex your muscles and smolder like you’ve never smoldered before.”
So far, this is my favorite look. Probably because every little boy dreams of being a cowboy at some point in his life, even a city boy who rarely gets his hands dirty.
Giving her my best John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, and Gary Cooper all wrapped into one, makes me feel like the manliest of men. “I might have to buy an outfit like this for my days off,” I tell her. I’m only partially joking.
Finley stops snapping pictures long enough to say, “You can have this one. Wear it on our date.”
Even though the air is heavy with tension, I can’t help but laugh. “You want me to take you to the lodge looking like this?”
“Is that where we’re going?” She sounds excited.
“You said it was the nicest place in town, and I think our first date warrants that, don’t you?”
Her complexion tinges pink. “I do. And to answer your question, if you showed up looking like that, you’d ruin a lot of other dates. No woman with a pulse would be able to keep her eyes off you.”
“In that case,” I tell her, “I’ll wear something else. After all, I only have eyes for you.” Cowboys have game. I’m currently a thousand times smoother than I’ve ever been.
We spend another three hours shooting for my revenge calendar.
We even manage to fit in a fourth look—a Scottish highland warrior.
That one required having extensions added for a wilder look.
The best part was that Finley had to run her fingers through my hair when she clipped the synthetic pieces in.
It’s nearly five o’clock by the time we’re done and I am worn out from pretending to be so many different people—modeling is harder than you’d think.
Yet, I don’t want my time with Finley to end.
“I know we talked about having our first date tomorrow night, but what do you say we go out tonight, too?”
“We could, except I’m not ready to commit to two dates,” she tells me bluntly.
“Okay. Why don’t we go out tonight, and if you decide I warrant a second date, we can go out tomorrow night, too?” I cringe a little at the blatant hope in my voice.
“I’d have to go home and change,” she says. Then she turns flirty. “Are you sure you don’t want to put that cowboy costume back on?”
After assuring her I’d be more comfortable in my normal clothes, we agree that I’ll pick her up in an hour and a half.
She has decided that because it has stopped raining and the roads are dry, she’ll be safe enough with me behind the wheel, and we probably won’t die in a gruesome car accident.
I’ve decided to take this as a vote of confidence.
Once I’m back at my house, I walk inside and look around.
I’ve done nothing to make it feel like mine, yet.
And at the rate I’m going, I’m not sure I will.
The place came furnished, and as near as I can tell it was inhabited by someone’s eighty-year-old grandmother.
There are a lot of chintz and floral patterns.
The pictures on the walls are illustrations of Victorian-era calendar girls.
I briefly toy with the idea of replacing the artwork—if you can call it that—with my modeling images.
A maniacal burst of amusement fills the air when I envision my parents’ reaction to them.
This is seriously the most devious and entertaining prank I’ve ever played.
And I owe it all to Finley. I could have never concocted such an outlandish concept without her misinterpretation of why Constance hired her.
With a smile on my face, I pick up my phone and call my sister. She answers around the twentieth ring, as is her norm. Vivie rarely keeps her phone on her and often loses it altogether. “Thomas.” Her voice is breathy like she’s just run a marathon.
“Hey, Viv,” I say. “How are you doing?”
“I’m doing fine. How are you?”
“I’m great,” I tell her. “Really good.” I sound suspicious even to myself.
My sister immediately guesses, “So, there is a woman! I knew it.”
“Her name is Finley,” I tell her. “But don’t tell Mom and Dad yet. I want to surprise them.”
“Is she surprising?” Vivie is very literal, which I know goes hand-in-hand with being on the spectrum.
Sitting down on the living room couch, I tell her, “She’s unlike anyone I’ve dated before.”
“That must be refreshing,” my sister says, sounding relieved. “Your regular type left a lot to be desired.” She’s not wrong.
“Finley isn’t a slick city woman,” I tell her. “She’s from a small town in Illinois and she’s a photographer.”
“I love that she’s artistic. That’s definitely a step up for you.”
“She’s also on the spectrum,” I tell her. “But you can’t act like you know. I think she’s a little sensitive about it.”
“Why?” I’m not surprised my sister asks this question. She’s very comfortable with who she is and she apologizes to no one.
“She found out in high school,” I tell her. “I think it created an identity crisis for her.”
“Bullies,” my sister surmises the problem in one word. “I’m looking forward to meeting her.”
“Also …” I decide to share part of my scheme with her. Jokes sometimes confuse Vivie, and I don’t want her to think I’m really giving up being a doctor. But I do want her to enjoy the reveal, so I tell her, “I’m finally getting even with Mom and Dad for that trip to Cleveland.”
“Really?” She sounds positively delighted. “What are you going to do? Kidnap them and drop them off on a deserted island to fend for themselves? Tell them you bought them tickets to swim with dolphins, but it’s really sharks?”
“Nothing that extreme,” I assure her.
“You should tell them you got three women pregnant at the same time. Mom will lose her mind.”
“Yeah, not going to do that, either.” Is it me or is my sister a bit more Machiavellian than I’ve ever noticed?
“You should …”
Instead of hearing her out, I say, “I’m not going to tell you what I’m doing, but I wanted to give you some advance notice that it isn’t real.”
“Thank you, Tommy. I appreciate that.” Vivie is not a huge fan of surprises.
My parents knew that when they took us to Ohio instead of Hawaii, but my sister’s therapist at the time thought it was a good idea to expand her boundaries.
Our parents didn’t seem to realize switching vacation destinations went beyond gentle pushing and bordered on childhood trauma.
Having said that, I was more negatively affected than Vivie. Hence my desire for revenge.
“I’m already packed to come see you next weekend,” my sister says. “I hope the weather is nice.”
“Bring a raincoat,” I tell her. “A heavy one.” While she does some traveling, she doesn’t do a lot, and she never does it alone. “Are you ready for the flight?” I ask.
“I have a tranquilizer, my headphones, and a new eye mask,” she says. “I’m also bringing that scratchy wool blanket for the plane. I should be fine.”
This has been Vivie’s way of coping since we were kids, and she’s gotten good at it over the years. “You’re a real trooper,” I tell her.
“That’s nice of you to say.” She pauses before adding, “I miss you, Tommy. And while I’d like for you to move back home, I’m happy you’re living your life for you.”
I don’t want to get her hopes up by telling her I’m not totally happy here. Instead, I say, “I appreciate your support, Viv. It means the world to me.”
“That’s what family is for. You’ve always had my back, and I will always have yours.”
I hang up with my sister feeling the warmth of being genuinely loved. Vivienne is a person completely without artifice. Once she loves you, she will do anything for you. No questions asked. I’m guessing she and Finley are a lot alike in that way.
Speaking of Finley, I can’t wait to see her tonight. I pick up the phone and call the lodge in hopes they can execute tomorrow night’s plan tonight. Then I hurry to shower off all the body makeup I’m currently wearing. Once I’m all dried, I go to my closet and pick out my softest sweater.
I’m hoping Finley won’t be able to keep her hands off me.