Chapter 20
twenty
Finn
There’s a short game of musical chairs when it’s time for us to sit at the table.
Izzy begs for a seat beside Rosie, and Rosie stands by her promise to save the chair on her other side for Daisy.
I’m bumped to the seat directly opposite, and while at first I’m disappointed that I’m not close enough to slip a sneaky palm on Rosie’s thigh or wipe the spot of sauce from the corner of her mouth before she gets it with her napkin, there’s the small consolation that from this vantage point, I can keep my eyes on her for the hour we’re sitting down to dinner.
It’s a lesson in all the ways Rosie shines.
I’ve thought before that even stripped of professional makeup, designer clothes, and a celebrity spotlight, Rosie is the brightest star in any room.
If I had any doubt about how right I was, this dinner with my family puts it to rest. She’s dazzling, yes, and it takes me a little study to figure out why.
Finally, in a moment that hits me like a blow to the stomach, I realize she’s a reflection of people lighting up around her.
Rosie steers the discussion away from herself by asking the people I love about their lives, their passions, their dreams. You’d think they’d be too starstruck to respond with anything real, but there’s no mistaking how curious Rosie is or her genuine interest in other people’s stories.
In a surprisingly short span of time, everyone’s opening up and relaxing and sharing stories that make her laugh and cry and reach across the table to clink her glass, exchange a tortilla chip, or offer a hug.
Rosie is perfect in a way I didn’t know a person could be perfect, and it makes me forget all the reasons she shouldn’t belong here.
Sometime after the last round of tacos, while Dylan’s dishing up slices of caramel flan, I catch Rosie’s eye across the table.
Her face is framed with wild tendrils of curls that have escaped her ponytail, and her creamy cheeks are flushed from one and a half margaritas and the rush of laughter and conversation.
When she notices me staring, her smile falters, and she drops her head to one side. I can read her unspoken question.
What’s that you’re hiding behind your eyes?
And the answer. I don’t know how to let you go.
When our plates are stacked in the sink and Poppy has washed Izzy’s face to remove the last traces of caramel, my buzzing six-year-old niece herds us into the living room.
“Boys?” Izzy points to the sofas. “Move these back a little so there’s more room for the stage. Oh! And the coffee table too.”
“Bossy little thing, isn’t she?” I mutter as Dylan and Chord lift the larger couch while I carry Dad’s old armchair to the far corner.
Dylan snorts and shakes his head, but he doesn’t disagree.
While my brothers and I clear an open space in the middle of the room, Poppy and Charles hook up the karaoke system, which includes a display screen, a sound system, and some kind of strobe light.
Next to them, Daisy sets up two microphone stands, and in the kitchen, Violet and her dad make coffee.
Rosie’s helping Izzy set a book of sheet music on her music stand, and I’m about to cross the room to steal a moment with her when a strong hand lands on my shoulder and yanks me into the hallway.
I stumble as Chord drags me farther from the living room, only spotting Dylan loitering down the corridor once I’ve got my feet underneath me again.
He’s got a goofy grin on his face, which, come to think of it, isn’t so unusual these days.
Ever since he hooked up with our sister’s best friend, and worse, since he married her, my younger brother has been happier than I’ve seen him since we were kids.
“When you said you were bringing a girl, you didn’t tell me she was the girl.” Dylan lands a playful punch on my shoulder. “How the hell did you meet Rosalie Thorne?”
I glance back down the hallway to make sure we’re alone.
“Long story short: I was her bodyguard for a couple months last year before I came home. I got the job through a friend. It didn’t work out, but things with Rosie…
Well…” I’m too ashamed to confess that I fucked up the single most important rule of protecting a client. Don’t get involved.
But I don’t have to say it. The implication is clear enough that Chord nods, amusement on his lips. “Things got complicated.”
“You could say that.”
Chord gets it. Violet was his personal assistant before they started dating, and when news of their relationship went public, there was viral backlash accusing Violet of being a gold digger.
It nearly destroyed their relationship, and it occurs to me now that if word got out about me and Rosie, criticism would fly the other way.
I’d be the one taking advantage of her, and while that’s garbage, even I can admit that from the outside, I don’t add anything of value to our relationship.
“She’s cool,” Dylan says. “And I say that in spite of the celebrity factor, you know? Not because of it. It’s easy to forget she is who she is to the rest of the world.”
“Yeah.” I tip my head toward our high-profile and higher-paid hockey player brother. “Living with this asshole for a big brother kind of desensitizes a guy to all that fame and fortune. You learn quick that it’s total bullshit.”
Chord rolls his eyes. “Insults aside, I agree with you. The status and the money are all smoke and mirrors, but that woman in there? She’s the real deal.”
I didn’t know I cared about my brothers’ approval until they gave it so easily, and the weirdness I feel having it takes me off guard. I love that they like her, but it carves a pit in my stomach that I don’t quite understand. All I know is it’s got something to do with her leaving.
“You’ve got no idea,” I say with a reflective sigh.
“She’s smart and feisty, funny and determined.
She’s been through a lot and hasn’t given up.
And she’s talented. You wouldn’t believe how talented.
The music she’s been writing while she’s been here?
Like nothing you’ve heard before. Rosie is a force of nature. ”
My brothers stare at me with near identical amusement dancing in their eyes.
“What?” I demand.
“Never knew you could put that many words together at one time,” Chord deadpans.
I give him an elbow in the ribs. “Shut up.”
“You like her,” Dylan says.
“What’s your point?”
Chord and Dylan exchange a glance, the kind that says they know more than I do but whatever the secret is, I’m going to learn it soon.
“His point,” Chord says, “is if you’ve found someone who has the power to get through to you, you might want to find a way to hang on to her.”
I huff out a laugh. The irony of my brothers saying the exact thing I’ve been thinking all night. “If only it were that easy.”
By the time we return to the living room, Izzy and Poppy are ready to kick things off with their rendition of “Bye Bye Bye” by *NSYNC.
I slip around the edge of the room to capture Rosie’s hand, pulling her with me as I find us a seat, and she curls up against me on the end of one sofa.
She’s warm, soft, and close, just the way I need her.
Thanks to an extra-large pitcher of Poppy’s margarita mix, prepared using a recipe made infamous at her mom’s local dive bar, the girls have loosened up enough to give the karaoke machine a real go.
Once Izzy and Poppy graciously accept their round of applause, Daisy drags Violet to the microphones, and they bless us with an off-key cover of “This Is Me” from The Greatest Showman.
Well, Daisy does. Violet sways in the background as backup, and when the song’s finished, she returns to her place beside Chord on the opposite sofa, her cheeks pink and a shy smile on her mouth.
Dylan and Luke do a decent version of “Livin’ on a Prayer,” followed by Daisy, Charles, and Izzy with a take on “Shotgun” that involves a coordinated dance they’ve obviously rehearsed.
Next to me, Rosie laughs and cheers and demands encores. It takes my family time to work up enough nerve to ask her to perform, but thirty minutes in, Izzy takes her hand and tugs her up onto the makeshift stage. Rosie graciously obliges, giving me a swift kiss before she rises.
It’s that one small gesture that tips me past the point of rationality.
One passing kiss after dozens and dozens before it.
She did it so naturally. I responded so easily.
It’s like there’s never been a time in my life or a place in my world where Rosie wasn’t kissing me, reaching in and dragging out the parts of me I’ve always kept to myself.
After tonight, there isn’t a reason I want my world to be any different.
Izzy and Rosie step behind the microphones, and from her position as unofficial emcee, Poppy cues up the next song.
From the first few bars, we recognize it as one of Rosie’s most popular tracks, and probably the one that catapulted her stratospheric rise to success.
It’s an upbeat dance number, popular with kids, about self-love and self-esteem, friendships and freedom, and Izzy’s a frantic mess at the idea that she’s about to sing her favorite song with the real-life Rosalie.
I catch Rosie’s eye and mouth a question. Is this okay? She gives me a wink and removes the microphone from its stand, and it takes less than three and half minutes for her to wrap us around her little finger.
Rosie keeps her voice controlled and low, giving Izzy space to belt out her share of the lyrics, but there’s no question that Rosie is a natural performer.
Her voice is as strong as it is soft. Her charisma is magnetic.
You can’t help but look at her, and with a quick scan of the room, I can see her effect isn’t limited to me. Every person in the room is enthralled.
The song ends and Izzy throws her arms around Rosie, her laughter large and infectious. I share a grin with Rosie, who wraps her arms around the little girl hanging off her waist until Izzy gives her shirt a tug and asks Rosie to lean down to hear a whisper.
I know that whisper is about me when they both turn their eyes on me.
“Uncle Finn!” Izzy says. “Where’s your guitar? It’s time for ‘Mary Had A Little Lamb.’”
Izzy dashes to the side of the room to collect her trumpet, and while Dylan helps her set up, Rosie shoots me a satisfied look as I retrieve my guitar.
I also pick up two counter stools from the kitchen and set them behind the mics.
If I’m going to play, I’m going to need something to sit on, and Rosie might want somewhere to perch too.
I settle myself on the stool and strum to check the tension in the strings.
Something that isn’t quite nerves yet isn’t exactly impatience makes my chest tighten.
I’ve played a few times for my family, and although Charles is the only one who knows how much music means to me, it’s unspoken knowledge that of the five of us, I’m the one who inherited Mom’s affinity for music and art.
Unspoken because I don’t like to talk about it.
I never thought it mattered. Now, with “Mary Had A Little Lamb” on the horizon, I feel like I’ve got something to prove.
I risk a glance at Rosie, sitting on the opposite stool, and catch her watching me with blue eyes so deep I could fall into them and never meet the bottom. That’s when I get it. I do have something to prove. To me and to her.
Izzy counts us in with the tap of her toes, and the three of us manage a recognizable performance of the classic nursery rhyme.
It’s next to impossible to make out the gentle accompaniment of my guitar or Rosie’s voice underneath the ear-piercing blast of Izzy’s trumpet, but when we’ve rounded out the final note, Izzy beams at me, then Rosie, and I’m grateful I could make a dream come true for her today.
Poppy jumps up to help Izzy with her instrument, and Rosie stands, too, but I stop her with the first chords of the song we wrote together. With a flash of surprise followed by a smile only for me, she settles back on her stool, shifting until she’s found a position that’s comfortable.
I raise my eyebrows slightly in question, she answers me with the drop of her chin, and I start to play.
I remember every note and word of the song we wrote on my porch because I’ve replayed every layer of it a thousand times in my head.
I’m peripherally aware of the hush that falls over the room and the energetic thrum that tells me that, one by one, my family is catching on that we’re playing a Rosalie Thorne original.
Her voice dances with the music from my guitar, balancing every inflection and note with expert control and instinct.
Rosie gives an understated and emotional delivery of the first chorus, and as I fill the next space with my fingers, I don’t think anyone expects me to open my mouth and sing. Least of all me.
I almost chicken out, but I want Rosie to know how much this song changed me.
Writing it with her and for her. I want her to know I take her art seriously and that whatever is happening between us means something.
And I have to believe, by the way she watches me croon the words she wrote, she understands what I’m trying to say.
She watches me like she always knew I could do this.
The song draws to a close and we transition into silence with my fingers light on my strings.
There’s a sense of a collective held breath as I set my guitar down against my chair and Rosie slowly comes to a stand.
She closes the few steps between us and stops between my open knees.
In front of everyone, she loops her arms around my neck, pulls my mouth to hers, and kisses me.
There may be applause. There may be cheers. There might even be a few sniffles. I don’t know and I don’t care. I’m too busy kissing the woman I love.