Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
The pool deck at ten flashes with tanning oil and smells like pizza and synthetic coconut.
Priya waves me over to a saved lounger where Dahlia's spread out, wearing her white brIDE baseball cap.
When I sit down next to her, she hands me half her muffin, and I take it without thinking, even though I just ate a full plate at the buffet.
Two loungers over, Marisol and Sadie are leaning in over one of their phones, giggling like school girls.
Perfect. So glad they’re here.
“We were just doing the dinner post-mortem.” Priya lowers her sunglasses, book tented on her stomach. “I gave it an 8.5. Points off for the slideshow jump-scare, points back for Bev tackling the projector like a ninja.”
Dahlia laughs. “She moved so fast. Seventy-one years old!”
“The salmon was a ten,” Priya continues. “The band was a seven.”
“What.” I give her a look. “At least an eight.”
“The song choices, though.” She reaches over and takes a sip from her frozen drink.
Dahlia chortles and throws her head back. “When they played Endless Love—”
“EXACTLY!” Priya points with fire in her eyes.
Despite the late night, Dahlia looks at peace this morning. Sun-warmed, shoulders loose. Which is exactly why I decide to cast my line now.
I keep my eyes on the pool and my voice in full logistics-neutral. “Speaking of comparisons, you saw the rehearsal moved, right? We're in the aft lounge at four now. The one with the big windows.”
Dahlia’s head snaps up. “Wait, what?”
“Yeah, I guess someone canceled the ballroom, but I think it's an upgrade—“
“Wait, who?”
I watch her face, and there’s nothing but shock under the surface. So. Definitely not her.
“That,” I say, “is an excellent question.”
She just frowns at me in her sunglasses and says, “Okay, that's so weird. Did the ship mess up? Should I ask Theo to call?”
“Don't bug him with it,” I say. “It's handled, and seriously, the lounge is great. Pam’s taking care of the changes with the staff.”
“See, this is why I don't check my phone,” Dahlia tells Priya, resettling.
Priya snorts. “Mine’s in my safe. My brother once racked up a $500 cell phone bill on a cruise because he didn’t have WiFi.”
“Okay, have you guys seen these photos?”Marisol leans over, holding out her phone.
I lift my sunglasses and blink. “Is that—”
“Finn. Yeah.” Dahlia doesn’t give it a second look. “He does those videos for his business. I think he had a few go viral.
I try not to gawk.
No. No, I had not seen those photos.
I didn’t think Finn had any sort of social media presence. At least, he didn’t when I went down a rabbit hole years ago. I'm not on the apps much anyway, and what algorithm I do have has been trained like a show dog. Only rabbit and duckling videos or cooking tutorials. Oh, and the bee lady.
But here he is with tens of thousands of followers.
The reel autoplays. It's a before-and-after.
Some sagging Denver bungalow with good bones, and there's Finn walking backward through the gutted living room, talking to the camera, sleeves rolled, explaining load-bearing walls to an audience of people who I promise are not there for the walls.
The girls narrate over it like sportscasters.
“Wait for it—there. The way he catches the tape measure??” Marisol leans back, eyes rolling into her head.
The pencil behind his ear is a flat carpenter's pencil, chewed at the end, tucked at that lazy angle. It reminds me of Finn’s dad on a Saturday fixing the gate between our yards while Finn handed him nails.
And there's a scar on his left forearm that flashes when he braces a beam, a thin white seam, and I was there when that happened. Bike ramp. The plywood with the nail sticking out. I'm the one who ran for his mom. I got blood on the shorts my mom got me for my birthday.
“That's it,” Sadie announces. “I'm buying a fixer-upper in Denver.”
“You live in Tampa.” Marisol laughs.
“Oh, I’m aware. But I do work remote . . .” She waggles her eyebrows, and they all laugh. “I'll buy a condemned Victorian and say, 'Finn, it all has to go, take your tiiiiime.'”
“Theo told me he’s got almost a year-long wait list,” Dahlia says.
I hide behind my sunglasses as they chatter on, memorizing the handle at the top of the screen.
@builtbygallagher.
I don’t reach for my own phone. That’s going to be burned into my brain for eternity, ready to pop up the next time I’m alone in my bedroom at night.
Damn it. I have it bad. I’m still so far gone for Finn Gallagher that I can’t see straight.
How did this happen? How was I so unwilling to see it? Looking back, the signs were obvious. How I bristled every time Dahlia or Theo brought him up. How my body reacted anytime I saw him.
I’m shoving muffin in my face when Sadie swivels. “Wait. WAIT. You guys grew up with him. I want stories.”
Dahlia shrugs, adjusting her cap. “Ask Harper. She knew him best.”
“Well, we both—“
“What was teenage Finn like?” Marisol abandons her phone. “Tell me he peaked late. Tell me he had an awkward year.”
“Did you ever kiss him?” Priya asks.
“Uh, no.” I clear my throat. “He cried at the end of Homeward Bound?” I say it like a question, hoping that detail will satiate them.
Dahlia laughs. “We all cried. Ooh!” She straightens, criss-crossing her legs. “He used to mow his lawn shirtless.”
Sadie faux faints.
Even though Dahlia sent them my way, she can’t help herself now. She regales them with stories of Finn, and each of them is like a fondue fork straight to my heart.
“ . . . No! That’s exactly it! Finn flirts with everyone so you can't tell who he actually likes,” Dahlia says. She reaches for her spray mist as Priya's book comes down one more inch. Her eyes find mine over the top of it, and I scour the pool like I’m being paid to lifeguard.
“Anyway.” I need a subject change, so I go for two birds. “Hey, did you and Theo land on a honeymoon? Since the mini-moon debate.”
“Mini-moon won.” Dahlia mists herself like a houseplant. “Three days in Miami when we get back. We're not even flying anywhere. Theo's got so much work.”
“Right.” I inspect the last bite of my muffin. “Work's good, though? The firm's busy?”
“Harp.” She tips her sunglasses down and looks at me over them. “You’re as bad as Theo. It's wedding week. If you start talking work right now, I will push you into this pool with all the love in my heart.” Sunglasses back up. “Now be useful and rate Sadie's chances with Finn.”
“What!?” Sadie laughs out loud.
“Zero chance,” Marisol crosses her legs and leans in. “Because I’ve got dibs.”
The conversation revs back up, and I sink into the background.
Theo and Dahlia aren’t going on a honeymoon? That’s the least Dahlia thing I’ve ever heard. When I asked her about it at home, she said they couldn’t book anything because of Theo’s work, which could be true.
Or maybe Finn knows something that I don’t.
* * *
By 3:55, I’m cleaned up and on the top deck. Golden hour is warming up early, and the lounge looks like the inside of a champagne bottle.
Mom walks in and gasps. “Oh, Harper. The windows. Oh, it's like rehearsing inside the sunset. How did you get this room?”
Okay, if Mom had anything to do with this, she’s gained acting chops over the past ten years. Her reaction seems more than genuine.
“Somebody canceled our other one. Happy accident.” I watch her, but she only laughs.
“Well, God bless them.” She sighs and floats off to usher people.
The officiant is a soft-spoken ship's chaplain named Father Aldo, whom Dahlia adopted within minutes, and after welcoming everyone, he says, “And I'm told the couple has a house rule?” and checks his notes. “'No takebacks'?”
The whole group laughs, feeling like they’re in on the joke since Finn’s slideshow. Aunt Bev is already reaching into her purse for the travel pack of tissues.
I'm laughing too until Dad leaves his seat and steps into the aisle spot when the officiant asks for places.
The plan that Dahlia built was for Denny and Rose, our godparents.
Denny, who plowed our driveway every snow for four winters without once ringing the bell, and Rose, who showed up with casseroles she said were “extras” for two years, back when half of Maple Glen crossed the street to avoid catching what the Quinns had.
Dahlia is supposed to be escorted by both of them. They flew here to do this. And now my father is standing at the head of the aisle, straightening his cuffs, saying, “So I'll have her on my right arm. Dolly, right arm okay?”
Father Aldo, who has no idea, nods along. Rose, three rows back, folds her hands in her lap. Denny studies the carpet.
And Dahlia doesn't say a damn word.
Her eyes flick toward Mom, then to me, looking for our feelings instead of getting in touch with her own. Then she smiles and says, “Sure, yes. Right arm.”
My vision goes white at the edges.
I'm halfway out of my chair when a hand slips around my waist and brings me back down. Finn, in the row behind me, leans forward like he's stretching. His hand spreads over my middle, warm and soft. “Wait,” he says. One word, and I’m able to take a breath.
I want to argue. To stand up and flip the table. But this isn’t about me.
Finn moves. He slides his hand past my hip and reaches for mine, pulling it back behind my chair and wrapping it with his fingers.
He holds on until we move to groomsman and bridesmaid placement, then he gives a squeeze and walks up to take his spot next to the others.
We move through the rehearsal, and at first it feels like I’m breathing through a drinking straw.
Once Dad is back in his seat, it at least turns into a straw used for boba.
Then the vows blocking starts, and every thought clears.
Because Theo, steady, over-analytical Theo, looks like he’s going to either throw up or have a stroke.
Father Aldo walks him through placeholder words, not even the real vows, and Theo says them like someone reading a deposition. Dahlia's holding both his hands, but her smile is slipping.
Finn dives in like a rescue swimmer. “Sorry, Father, he's peaking too early. Theo, save something for Saturday. This is a table read.”
Laughter rumbles through the room, and the tension drops. A minute later, Theo flubs the ring handoff, and Finn's there again, saying, “In his defense, he has fingers like sausages.”
His comments deploy like airbags, but between saves, I catch Finn's face in profile. His jaw’s tight. He’s tapping his hip with his finger.
Something’s wrong with Theo. And Finn already knows what it is.
The run-through ends in applause and golden light. It's beautiful, and I stand in the middle of it wondering if I’m one of two people who can see the crack running up the two-story glass.
We're all filtering out toward dinner when I realize my tablet's still on the seat in row two. I double back alone. The lounge is empty and dim now, the light now gray-blue. I'm halfway across the parquet when I hear voices from the service corridor behind the pillar.
I freeze.
“—running out of runway, man.” Finn’s voice. Low and urgent.
“You think I don't know that?”
At first I can’t tell who owns the second voice. It’s tight and barely more than a whisper. But then he growls in frustration, and I place it instantly. Theo. He made that sound once while trying to change the oil in Dahlia’s car.
“Then tell her.” There’s a pause, then the sound of Finn exhaling like he just set down something heavy. “Hey. Look at me. I will stand next to you for every minute of it, whatever she says. But you have to tell her before Saturday. Before the vows, Theo. Not after. You’re better than that.”
The service door thunks—a crew member with a cart—and I'm already retreating with my tablet.