Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Dahlia doesn't make it two steps into the room before I have her. She folds into me the way she used to when the fireworks got too loud. Face into my shoulder, arms squished between us. Over the top of her head, I look at Finn, and neither of us has to think to answer that question.
“He told me—“ Her voice is small against my collarbone. “Theo told me he lost clients last year.”
I sit her on Theo’s bed and settle next to her. Theo drops onto my mattress.
“He didn’t tell me and then ended up taking out these loans, and he hasn’t been able to cover payroll, and then—he didn’t say a word of this when we were planning! I spent so much money on the flowers and the—” She drops her head into her hands.
“Dahl, it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know.”
“I know, but it doesn’t make it better!” She sniffs. “Did you know he canceled things? Like, that’s why we ended up in the lounge. He found out there wasn’t a fee, so he started trying to make things cheaper . . .”
She goes on, but Finn and I are staring at each other. Mystery solved. Kind of.
“Wait, did he put those pictures in the slideshow?” I ask.
Dahlia frowns. “Why would he do that?”
I want to ask why he’d do any of this, but decide it’s not the right moment. “Fair.”
Dahlia groans. “He just started talking, and he couldn't stop, and then he cried, Harper. Theo doesn't cry. And I felt bad, but I was so—” She starts crying again.
“Okay,” I say, rubbing her back. “Okay.”
She pulls back to wipe her face, and her movements slow. Her eyes move from me to Finn and back. “Why aren’t you freaking out right now?”
“Hm?” My eyes go wide.
“You knew.” Not a question. Her voice doesn't even rise. “Both of you. You knew.”
“Dahlia—“
“How long?”
“A day,” I say. “Maybe two? And it wasn't—“
“You?” She points at Finn.
He blows out a breath. “Since a few months after it happened. But I told him—”
She shakes her head. “It doesn’t even matter. I just can’t believe I had no idea.”
And there it is. It was never going to be about the money.
I’m sucked back into my teenage brain when I sat in my room, hunting through every interaction with Dad, trying to figure out what I missed.
But I hadn’t missed anything. He’d purposely deceived us, and I wasn’t supposed to walk through the world waiting for someone to be a liar.
Even though now, that’s exactly what I do.
“He was wrong,” I say. “He acted like a coward, and worse, he didn’t trust you like he should’ve. You’re right to be mad.”
Dahlia nods, her face contorting. “I’m not even mad. I’m just . . .” She breaks in front of me. I hold her on my lap while she cries, and when her breathing finally slows, she says, “I’m so tired. I can't do this tonight. I just need to sleep.”
“Then that's the whole agenda,” I say. “Come on.”
I run her a washcloth while she stands at the tiny sink, and she washes her face on autopilot. Using my cleanser, then my moisturizer, the way she's been stealing my products since she was nine.
I pull back the covers on my bed and stack the pillows the way she likes them. One flat, one folded, and by the time she shuffles out of the bathroom in the T-shirt Finn dug out of his drawer for her, I’m holding the blankets up for her.
She crawls in, and I tuck the blanket around her shoulders like Mom used to.
She grabs my wrist. “You'll be here in the morning?”
“Right here.”
“Kay.” Her eyes are already closing, and my sister goes out like a pulled plug. Ten seconds, maybe less. Her breathing stretches long and even, one hand still curled loosely on the sheets where my wrist used to be.
Finn nods toward the bathroom, mouths two minutes, and slips in to change. Which leaves me staring at the other half of our room.
One twin bed. One Finn. One me.
Then I remember the bunk. These rooms fit four people, right? There's a handle folded into the wall above my bed.
I climb onto the edge of the mattress next to Dahlia's feet and examine the latch, then try to pull it out. When it doesn’t want to budge, I notice there’s a triangular socket thing that likely requires a key.
I climb down and ease the stateroom door open, scanning the hallway in both directions.
Empty. Not a steward in sight, because it's the middle of the night.
I could call guest services and make some poor soul bring a bunk key, but then I think about bringing in a staff member while Dahlia’s sleeping, flicking on the lights, and the sound of the bunk dropping open.
Fine. Floor it is.
I start scrounging. The spare blanket from the closet shelf.
My backpack as a pillow-ish object. The life jackets are technically cushioned, and I’m eyeballing the under-bed clearance when someone knocks, and my heart stops.
If that’s Theo, I’m not going to be responsible for what I say to him. Or do to his face.
I open the door to a room-service guy holding a covered plate. “Grilled cheese?” he whispers.
“Yes, thank you.” I tip him with a few dollars Finn has sitting on the desk. I’ll pay him back later. “Uh—” I stop him after he hands me the plate and retreats. “Do you happen to have a key to lower the bunks?”
He smiles at me blankly. Doesn’t speak English, or I’m possibly not speaking it.
“Okay. Right, thank you.”
He nods and continues on his path. I close the door and stand there in the lamplight holding a warm silver dome like the world's saddest trophy.
And that's the tableau Finn sees when he walks out of the bathroom.
Dahlia unconscious in my bed, me holding his literal silver platter, and a nest of life jackets and beach towels on the floor.
He takes it in, his eyes stopping on the collection of objects between our beds. “Absolutely not.”
“It's fine. I've slept in worse.”
“If you talk about that yurt again—“
“Finn, it’s your bed.”
He takes the platter and sets it on the desk, lifts the dome, and the smell of butter and cheese fills the cabin. He picks up half the sandwich, hands it to me, then sits on the edge of his bed, nodding at the spot beside him.
We eat. And I can’t help but think that Carey Grant would’ve made this moment better.
“Do you think he’s okay?” I murmur. “Theo?”
Finn shrugs. “I texted him. Hasn’t responded.”
“She loves him,” I whisper. I know my sister. She’s going to forgive him, but I’m not sure if I think it’s the right thing to do.
“Do you think she should marry him?” Finn asks.
“Not really my say.”
“But you have thoughts.”
I take a bite and chew. “I always have thoughts.”
Finn huffs a breath, then taps the last quarter of his grilled cheese on the plate. “We can’t fix this for them.”
“That's easy to say when it's not your sister.”
“She's been my sister since she was seven,” he whispers. “You both—” Finn drags a hand down his face. “Sorry. I just—Larkspur meant a lot to me. And apparently I didn’t always show it, but . . .” His jaw works.
I tap my sandwich against his. “That makes sense.”
“What?”
“That you see us like your sisters.” As much as it stings, that made sense of everything. How he wanted to spend time together and why he never talked to me the same after our kiss. Why he immediately jumped in with Melanie.
“That’s not what I said.”
“Well—”
“That’s not what I said, Harp.” He looks at me, his eyes dark.
It would be so easy to lean in and kiss him. To get lost in him tonight and tomorrow, as many times as I can before we disembark. It wouldn’t even feel like a fling because every word that Dahlia said tonight was true.
I love him. I’ve always loved him. And that’s why I slide back a few inches.
Because if I do this, Finn can go back to his year-long wait list and Instagram followers and flirty bridesmaids, but I’ll go home gutted.
If I haven’t gotten over him after one stupid kiss by the creek, I’ll be ruined by more than that.
Finn clears his throat. “Okay.” He dusts his hands and stands. “Easy solution. I'll sleep in Theo's room. Guy shouldn't be alone tonight anyway, and you—“ he nods at his bed, at the empty half of the equation, “Take mine. Problem solved.”
It's the obvious answer.
Finn grabs his toiletry bag and the empty food platter, then pauses at the door, backlit by the hallway. He looks at me sitting on his bed, and his tongue flicks over his lips.
“Goodnight,” he whispers, and is gone.
I lock the door, my heart in my throat, and stand in the dark listening to my sister breathe. Since he’s gone, I strip off my clothes and don’t bother putting on the sweatpants.
I climb into Finn's bed, and with the grilled cheese gone, I’m overtaken by the smell of him. The faint scent of his shampoo and that indescribable masculine musk is soaked into the pillow, completely inescapable. I lie there rigid as a plank and turn off the lamp.
I’ve barely gotten comfortable when there’s a knock on the door. It’s soft, but definitely there.
I sit, my heart racing. Who would be at our door this late?
I hurdle the obstacles on the floor, unable to find where I threw my pants, and make it to the peephole.
My heart lodges in my throat.
Finn. Carrying his toiletry bag.