Chapter 8
Finn
My mother is struggling to understand what I’m saying. “So, you got married without me?” she asks for the third time.
I sigh, looking at my father who’s sitting in his arm chair.
If I expected him to be helpful, then I’d be wrong, and I should have known better.
He’s not much of a talker, never has been, but the man does not play about his wife.
If there’s ever a side to take, he’s going to be on hers, no matter what the situation is.
My mother could commit murder and my father would just gruffly insist that she was in the right.
My father makes gravestones for a living.
He’s not a salesman and never has been; he just relies on people needing what he makes at some point in their lives.
People show up and tell him what they want on the stone for their loved one.
He nods, writes it down, and then carves the stone before delivering it.
He’s done every gravestone in Hearthstone for the past forty-five years, and most of them for about a dozen other supernatural towns like ours.
If he can do all that without talking, then so much the better.
My mother, by contrast, is the social butterfly of the family. She talks to everyone in town. She taught art at the school for her entire career, retiring two years ago and retreating to her gardens, where she talks to the flowers, too.
Between the two of them, I have never won a single argument in my thirty-nine years of life. But I have to try anyway. “Mom, it’s not real. That’d be like asking you to come along when I run to the grocery store for a friend.”
“A marriage is not a small favor, Finley.”
Ouch. Full name. It’s been a long time since she trotted that out. She’s leaning forward in her favorite chair, slipping right into lecture mode. “Alright, sure,” I agree, because she’s not wrong. “But it’s not as serious as you’re making it out to be.”
Something about saying that feels wrong, but I can’t quite sort out why. This isn’t that serious, and it is a favor. Nothing about what we’ve done says we’re bonded forever now. Cassidy and I are, essentially, going to be roommates for a while.
Roommates with a legally binding partnership, though.
“Finley Michael Delaney,” she snaps, and I sit up straighter. “You got married.”
“You’ve wanted me to do that for ages,” I point out.
“Don’t sass your mother,” my father says, his voice like gravel.
I’m not sassing my mother, but I don’t argue.
“You like Cassidy,” I try next.
“She’s a sweet girl,” my mother agrees. “Taking on her sister like that, that’s the mark of a good person. But I like plenty of people, Finley, and I don’t see you marrying them. What’s different?”
“She needs a favor. Davies is fucking her over; she deserves to stay in her damn house.”
My mom is silent for a moment, and I have long enough to regret the cursing when she says, “You’re very invested, Finny.”
I'd rather her scold me for swearing.
“I’m just saying,” she continues, “there are a lot of people in this town. You’re a nice boy, but you have to acknowledge you don’t go out of your way for people. There are people you’ve known far longer than Cassidy. I’ve seen you in actual relationships where you’ve put in less effort.”
I think my mother is calling me a bad boyfriend in the most roundabout way possible, and I don’t know how to think about that.
I’m not a terrible partner. I’m considerate and I listen, and I’ve never expected a woman to take care of me like some giant man-baby.
But I am stubborn. I have a way I live my life and I don’t like changing things.
In my defense, my role model was a stubborn gravestone carver who took over the business from his father and planned to pass it to his son, who eats the same breakfast every day, gets to the workshop at the same time on the same four days every week, and wears the same six outfits on rotation.
I guess I figured that, if that type of man could attract a woman who’d fill the silences he left and plant flowers among his headstones, then maybe I could, too. But it hasn’t worked out that way yet.
“She’s a good girl, Finny,” my mother says, voice quieter now. “But you’re a good boy, too. I don’t want to see either of you get hurt.”
“I know what I signed up for,” I tell her, which is only partially an answer.
I do know what I signed up for. This is a favor, and it’s temporary, nothing more.
Whatever I might be feeling when she’s near—when she touches me, when she sits next to me in that little blue dress, when she holds my hands and whispers wedding vows while looking me in the eyes—that doesn’t matter. This is a favor.
“I’ll be fine, Mom.” Maybe. I guess we’ll find out.
My mother purses her lips. “Let’s have her over for dinner.”
Absolutely not. I can see the scheming in her eyes already.
She’ll trot out the baby pictures and the welcome to the family speeches before Cassidy even knows what happened.
That’s the last thing we need right now.
“Give us some time first, alright?” I plead.
“She’s trying to learn to live without Georgia around, and now she has me.
Let her settle into her new routine before you throw it all out of whack. ”
There’s a pause while she considers me, and I hold my breath. “Two weeks,” she decides. “I’ll give you two weeks without saying anything.”
That isn’t long, but I’ll take whatever I can get. “I have work to do this afternoon,” I tell them.
“On your wedding day?”
Wedding day. It sounds so serious when she says it like that, but it’s not. What else am I going to do? It’s not like we plan on participating in any normal wedding day activities.
“Yeah.” My eyes flick to my father. “You coming over?”
Of course he’s coming over. Lunch is done, and he’ll be at the workshop, methodically working on a headstone until it’s time to make dinner with Mom. He’s a predictable man.
And if I had to pick one parent to spend the afternoon with, I’m definitely going to pick the one who doesn’t ask any questions.
I work for most of the afternoon. Not what most new husbands do hours after their wedding, but I’m on a deadline for this sculpture, and it’ll give Cassidy the space she so clearly needs.
When I’m done, I retreat to my apartment upstairs to shower and pack a bag of clothes. I look around the tiny place. It’s a perfectly fine, utilitarian apartment, and it’s been home for fifteen years. It’s weird to think I won’t live here for a while.
I shake my head. It’s not like I’m saying goodbye; I’ll literally be downstairs every single day. The beauty of fake-marrying my neighbor is that I’ll never be far.
I make my way back across our yards to Cassidy’s house. It’s my home too, I guess, at least for the next little while.
I push open her front door, noting she didn’t lock it back up. I try not to think of her reaching down her dress for the key while I let myself in, and immediately fail.
There are noises from the kitchen, so I head in that direction. She’s changed since the wedding, that blue dress replaced with another pair of cut-off jean shorts and a tank top that shows off a few inches of her midriff. She’s at the stove, flipping something and humming to herself.
I glance at the clock, confirming that it’s only five.
I thought I’d have made it over in time to help with dinner, but she’s already gotten started.
I frown at that. I have no memories of my parents ever not preparing dinner together, and while I don’t think we should exactly model ourselves off of them, that’s one thing I’m going to insist on.
We’re both going to do the work while we’re living here together.
“Oh, hey,” she says, half-turning to face me. “Welcome back.”
“Hi, Cassidy.” I step closer, looking at the table that’s already set for dinner.
“Food is almost done, maybe another five minutes? If you want to put your stuff down, it’s the room on the right upstairs.”
There are much more important things to do than put my stuff down, but I bite my tongue. Cassidy evidently has some sort of system, and I don’t want to mess with it.
So I go up the stairs. There’s a ninety degree turn in the stairs with a tight landing, made even smaller with an end table with a vase on it. I tuck my wings in tight and hope that I don’t knock it over.
There are three rooms on the left and only one on the right, and I frown, thinking through house design. If there’s only one room on this side, then it follows that it’s the biggest one.
I push open the door and sure enough, it’s Cassidy’s room.
The blue dress is draped over a chair in the corner.
There’s a picture of her and Georgia on the bedside table, both of them making silly faces for the camera.
A bottle of perfume sits on the dresser, and I know it will smell like the sugar cookie scent she always smells like.
Is she thinking we’ll share a room? I’ll have to bring this up delicately; I don’t want to offend her, but I don’t think this is the best idea.
I place my bag on the same chair her dress is draped over, then head back downstairs, where Cassidy is putting a stack of pancakes nearly a foot high on the table, which already has a giant jug of syrup, bacon, and a fruit salad.
She flushes when she catches me watching. “It’s tradition,” she mumbles, looking at the table and not me. “When we have a hard day, Georgia and I do breakfast for dinner. Honestly, I got halfway through making it before I remembered she wouldn’t be here to eat it with me.”
Shit. I know my company isn’t exactly going to make up for her missing Georgia, but I hate that look on her face. “Breakfast for dinner sounds great,” I hurry to say. I study one of her chairs; it should hold me, so I sit down. “I like pancakes. Should we talk about today?”
She groans, falling into her own chair. “It’s a lot to process, Finn. Not that being married to you made it a hard day,” she hurries to add. “Just… the concept of having to get married because Hugh wants this damn house.”
“I get it,” I try to assure her, and I do.
“How was your afternoon? Did you talk to your mother? Is she mad?” She’s clearly trying to move the attention off herself, and I let her. Whatever makes her more comfortable.
“She’s not mad, Cassidy,” I assure her. She’s maybe a little mad, but not at Cassidy. Mostly, I think she thinks I’m an idiot. She might not be wrong.
I spear a bite of pancake. It’s good, perfectly fluffy and golden brown all the way around.
“Hey, can we talk about the sleeping situation?” I ask her, watching her eat her own pancakes. “You put me in your room.”
”Oh, sorry. Should have mentioned it. There’re only two beds, and Georgia’s is smaller. It’ll fit me, but definitely not you.”
Her bed probably won’t fit me either, but it’s a nice gesture, so I’m not going to bring that up. “Thanks.”
“No problem. I figure I’m massively inconveniencing you for at least a while, so I should make sure you can at least sleep.”
I don’t like that way of putting it at all. “You’re not an inconvenience, Cassidy.”
“Not sure what you call this if it’s not an inconvenience,” she says, watching the table instead of me.
“A favor,” I say firmly.
She blinks up at me. “You’re a nice guy, Finn.”
I bite my lip so I don’t say something. She has disturbingly low expectations.
Well. I can think of a few ways to fix that.