Chapter 3
Finn
The rain was coming down hard, and my boots were muddy when I crossed the porch to my side door. My dog, Gary, tracked his muddy prints alongside mine. I paused at the screen door and turned to look at the driveway.
Parked alongside my Mercedes in the drive was a silver minivan, gleaming cozily under the rainy sky. Alistair was here.
I opened the screen door, but before I opened the inner door, I looked down into Gary’s doggy face. He was lean and rangy and good-natured, of no particular breed. A trash dog. He had a couple of gray hairs on his nose now, and every time I looked at them I thought, I would die for this dog.
“You know what this means,” I told him calmly. “You’re muddy. I can take my boots off, but you can’t. You’ll have to use the towel.”
Gary grinned up at me. He knew exactly what I was saying. He loved the towel.
“Don’t shake first,” I told him. “Step into the towel like a gentleman.”
That grin again. Again, he knew exactly what I was saying. He was not agreeing to obey.
I sighed and opened the door. Gary rushed past me into the laundry room, then stood, waiting. When I took too long unlacing my boots, he gave an impatient bark. He wanted the towel.
“Hold on,” I said. “I?—”
Bracing himself, Gary lowered his head and shook. Water sprayed off his coat.
“Ah, Jesus.” I wasn’t even mad. It didn’t matter, since I was already wet. I kicked off the boots and grabbed one of the ragged towels, holding it open. “Come here.”
Gary jumped forward and I started the ritual of drying him off, paying special attention to his muddy feet. I kept a stack of old towels next to the door to be used only by Gary and his paws. Gary gave a happy moan in his throat as I rubbed, and gamely let me pick up his paws one by one. I was squishing the towel against the toes of his front left paw when the laundry room door opened.
“What’s going on in here?” Alistair asked. Then, as Gary licked my face in bliss, “Do you two need a moment alone?”
“Very funny,” I said, not looking up. “He’s muddy. You’ll thank me in a minute.”
“You’re not muddy,” Alistair said to Gary, mischief in his voice. “You’re a good boy who deserves a treat.”
At the sound of the T word, Gary barked, escaped my grip with a mighty squirm, and raced past Alistair into the house.
I straightened. “Well, now you’ve done it,” I said, shrugging off my fleece-lined plaid jacket and dropping it on top of the washing machine.
“Where were you?” Alistair asked.
“Out walking. It wasn’t raining when we left. Hey, I forgot to ask you. Do you want a free dog?”
“You’ll never part with him,” Alistair said. “You two are practically married.” He smiled as I approached the door. “Hello, by the way.”
“Hello.” My voice was rough. “I see you let yourself in and made yourself at home.”
He didn’t dignify that with an answer. Ever since Dad got sick five years ago and moved in with me, Alistair had had his own key.
Gary was in the kitchen, turning in an excited circle next to the cupboard that held the dog treats. Smears of mud appeared on the kitchen floor beneath his feet.
“He’s your problem,” I said to Alistair. I picked up the kettle and held it under the kitchen tap.
We were quiet for a moment, Alistair tossing treats to Gary and me heating water so I could warm myself with tea. I felt the familiar, companiable silence that was always how I felt with my brother. We hadn’t been close as kids, but as adults, even though our lives were different, we’d been through so much together that I couldn’t imagine life without him.
“How are you?” Alistair asked.
I grunted and flipped off the kettle when it started to whistle. “I’m fine.”
“You always say that. I noticed this.”
I turned to see him lift the spiral day planner I kept on the counter next to the fridge, flipped open to show an appointment. I didn’t have to read my own handwriting—slanted and sloppy—to know what it was.
I had the fleeting urge to snatch the planner out of his hand, but there was nothing in there that Alistair didn’t already know, or at least guess.
He put the day planner back down, and as I made tea, I snuck a glance at him. Alistair’s dyed hair and gelled haircut were long gone now, as was his eyebrow ring. He wasn’t the guy who worked at a restaurant, lived in his brother’s mansion, and had no plans. At thirty-four, he had a business degree, a staid haircut, and a wardrobe of short-sleeved button-down shirts. He had filled out a bit, but he was still trim.
Alistair looked like a dad now, but he was the dad who would play in the pool with all of the kids, lifting them out of the water and tossing them, making them screech with laughter. He was the dad all the kids hoped would coach baseball this year, the dad all the kids wanted to come on the field trip. He was handsome and confident and still had the swagger of a twenty-year-old. He was just cool.
Not hating him was the best decision I’d ever made.
“How’s the wedding planning going?” I asked. The treats were over, and Gary left the kitchen to go pass out in his dog bed in the living room.
“I think you know exactly how it’s going.” Alistair’s tone was dry and amused. “I know you’re copied on all the emails.”
“Seattle next weekend for the fitting.” I nodded. “I’m in.”
When Alistair and Vicki had decided to finally get married, it was supposed to be a small affair. They had talked about a ceremony with ten people there at most, followed by dinner. No dresses, no tuxes. The kids would be in bed by ten.
Alistair had asked me to be his best man, and I’d agreed. I had figured I’d hang out with the family for the day, pose for a few pictures, and go home. I also assumed that Juliet would be there. Despite our orbits being so close, our paths hadn’t crossed since that long-ago night, and I wondered what it would be like to see her. If she would even want to talk to me.
But somehow, the wedding had expanded beyond what the bride and groom had planned. Vicki had asked Juliet to be her maid of honor, but she had also asked her best friend to be a second bridesmaid so she wasn’t excluded. That led to other bridesmaids, and their dates, and then more guests who had plus ones, and then Vicki’s mom had invited her boss, which meant that the venue had to be upgraded to make a good impression. The food had to be upgraded. There needed to be flowers. That led to dresses and, finally, tuxes for Alistair and me.
Alistair shook his head. “I know it’s crazy. And I know you hate public appearances. I swear, it wasn’t a circus when I asked you to come. I don’t blame you if you want to bail.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “I’m not bailing. And I don’t like public appearances, but I’m not that bad.”
My brother gave me a skeptical look.
“What?” I asked.
“Finn, you never leave this house. You don’t answer the phone. Since Dad died, the only being you see every day is Gary. You don’t even have friends.”
“I have friends,” I protested.
“Name one.”
“Travis.” Travis White was a fellow musician who had risen to fame at the same time as me. The difference was that Travis and his band, Seven Dog Down, had become one of the world’s biggest musical successes, topping the charts and selling out tours. Travis and I had kept in touch, even as I sank and he took off.
Alistair rolled his eyes. “Travis lives in L.A. Also, he’s a dumpster fire.”
“Dumpster fires are people, too.” Travis had stayed with me for a month last year after Seven Dog Down broke up in spectacular fashion. He’d claimed that the isolation and country air were exactly what he needed; then, in Travis style, he’d gotten bored and driven off in his vintage Camaro, pedal to the metal.
“Not counting Travis, then. Do you know what I saw when I googled you this morning?”
I shook my head. “You know you shouldn’t do that.”
“I can’t help it if my brother is famous. I want to know what people are saying.” Before I could protest, he waved me silent and kept talking. “Someone asked about you on a ‘Where are they now’ subreddit. One reply said you were in Montana, another said you joined a religious cult. The final reply said, ‘I thought Finn Wiley was dead.’”
I scowled. “That’s just rude.”
“It wouldn’t be the worst thing for you to be seen,” he argued. “You know—alive.”
After the night I met Juliet Barstow, my life had continued its nosedive. The tour had flopped. There were no more setups with model girlfriends. I was exhausted. I started having relentless headaches and stomach problems. The money began to shrink with alarming speed. I could see my future withering away before my eyes. I could feel the cracks in myself, almost like they were physical things. I could imagine my limbs detaching, my chest creaking open like an old vault. I was coming apart, disintegrating.
So I had done something everyone said was crazy: I had quit.
I had sold the big house, fired everyone, shut it all down. There were no more PR people or managers or stylists. I had cut ties with my record company, who wanted nothing more to do with me anyway. I didn’t go to the Grammys anymore, I didn’t write music, and I didn’t get photographed. I simply…stopped.
It took a long time to shut down a career like mine, even one that was failing. One day I had been in New York, going from meeting to meeting about finances and contracts. When I got back to my hotel, I had found Alistair sitting in the lobby, sprawled easily in a chair, a backpack at his feet as he waited for me.
I had stopped in front of him, surprised. “What are you doing here?” I asked him.
My brother, who I barely knew anymore, had looked up at me and shrugged. “I figured I would come and keep you company. Is there a sofa in your room?”
I had put my hands in my pockets. The headache that had kept its grip on my skull all day loosened a little. “No, but there are two beds.”
“Good, because I wouldn’t want to sleep with you,” he said. “Let’s go get drunk.” He picked up his bag and stood.
“Aren’t you mad about the house?” I asked. When I sold the big house, he had had to move out. He hadn’t argued about it, but I figured it must have made him angry to be homeless.
Alistair pressed his lips together briefly. “I miss the pool,” he confessed. “It was a fucking nice pool. But that house was too big. And I needed a kick in the ass.”
So he’d stayed in my hotel room, and we had indeed gone out in New York and gotten drunk. It wasn’t all bad, not being famous anymore. It gave me my brother back, and we’d been close ever since.
“You’re not completely forgotten, dumbass,” Alistair said to me now as he opened my fridge and stared into it, scoping out my food. “I get asked about you all the time. Everyone I meet wants to know about you, especially the women.”
“Do not set me up,” I nearly barked.
“I know, I know,” Alistair said. “I wouldn’t be tempted if you would start dating.”
“I don’t want to date.”
“You can’t live like a monk forever. Your virginity has practically regenerated at this point.”
“I’m not trying to be a monk,” I argued. “It’s hard for me to date. Women have a weird reaction when they meet me. It messes with my head.”
Some women wanted money, which I still had a lot of, especially in the years since I had cut my expenses. “Ice Cream Girlfriend” still paid me huge royalties, and it had been used in three movie and TV soundtracks to date. Also, thanks to Dad’s guidance, I was a careful investor.
Some women wanted to use me for clout or to access my contacts in the business. The women I met who didn’t know who I was knew nothing about music, which meant we had nothing in common. Music was the driving force of my life, even if I wasn’t recording anymore. I couldn’t date a woman who didn’t love music.
That left me in an impossible dating quandary. I had never had the chance to date normally as a teenager—or ever. Instead, I’d been introduced to women who were contracted to date me and told that we should kiss, hold hands, and sleep together for reasons that made everyone more money. To say that’s a screwed-up introduction to sex is an understatement.
“When was the last time you had a girlfriend who wasn’t a public relations project?” Alistair asked, because I had told him about the models a long time ago. “Be honest.”
“A while,” I admitted. “Dad was sick. And I don’t like hookups.”
“No hookups,” Alistair agreed as he took out a bottle of soda and opened it. “Take it from me, man. Find a nice woman and settle down. Have babies. Plenty of women would like to have your babies.”
I coughed.
“I know, I know. But you could find The One, Finn. You’re handsome as fuck. You just need a shave, a haircut, and a reason to get out of the house. Are you bringing anyone to the wedding?”
“You know I’m not,” I said. “Being a monk and all.”
Alistair shrugged, putting his bottle on the counter. “Then I’ll have to pair you with Jules, since she’s the maid of honor. But I warn you, she might not show.”
My brother knew me well, but he missed how my body tensed when he said that name, how my gaze fixed on him more avidly than usual, how I went still. “What do you mean, she might not show?”
“She doesn’t like that the wedding has turned into a big affair. She’s busy with her music. She’s got cold feet about the whole thing, and in a way I don’t blame her, because this isn’t what she signed up for, like you. But she’s unpredictable. Irresponsible.”
I kept my voice casual. Juliet, not at the wedding? I had been looking forward to seeing her for months. “You think she’ll back out?”
Alistair shook his head. “Who knows? She won’t commit to the whole fitting weekend—only one day. Josie is having daily anxiety attacks.” Josie was Vicki and Juliet’s mother. “Josie suggested to Vicki that she replace Juliet as maid of honor with someone else, and Vicki said no. They argued about it. Vicki really wants her sister there. She’s… Well, those two fought a long time ago, and I think Vicki believes that this wedding will turn a corner for them. She’s got her hopes tied up in it. If Jules cancels, Vicki will be crushed.”
She wouldn’t be the only one. I wanted to see Juliet Barstow again. I wanted to see the girl with the Gatorade hair, the girl who was funny and snarky, honest and raw. The girl who had said See you never, Finn when we parted ways.
So the words came out of my mouth before I thought them through. “I’ll talk to her.”
Alistair blinked, his eyebrows rising. “To Jules?”
My heart was stuttering in my chest, but I kept control of my expression. “Yes, to Juliet. Give me her contact info. I’ll talk to her about next weekend. I’ll make sure she shows.”
“You don’t even know her,” Alistair said.
“I don’t.” I had told him that Juliet and I met briefly that night of the party, but that was all. “If we’re going to be at the wedding together, I’ll have to introduce myself. I may as well start now.”
Alistair’s eyes went wide for a second. He looked fascinated, then amused, and finally skeptical. “You really mean to talk to her. You think it will work.”
“I know it will work.” I knew no such thing, but I would figure it out. It had to work.
“I don’t think you know what you’re getting into,” my brother warned. “Jules is a force of nature. She doesn’t like to be told what to do.”
“I won’t be telling her to do anything,” I replied calmly. “I’ll convince her, and she’ll agree.”
“I almost want to see that,” he said. “Almost. But I don’t enjoy violence, so I’ll stay away. Good luck to you, man. And Godspeed.”