Chapter 8 #2
"I don't know if he'll let me."
"He already has, Scout. He told you about the blast. He showed you his scars.
He said 'not yet,' not 'never.' That's him keeping a promise he made to himself that he won't take until he's sure you want to give.
It's infuriating and honorable and so completely Holt I could scream.
" He pauses. "Also he's been sleeping on the concrete floor in the shop because the couch is killing his back but he won't take the bed from you. "
I nearly drop my slushie. "He what?"
"Yeah. Found him last week just passed out on the floor by the lift like some kind of tragic Victorian orphan.
His back is fucked, Scout. The prosthetic throws his whole spine out of alignment and sleeping on that shitty couch makes it worse but he won't say anything because god forbid Holt Ward admit he's in pain or needs something. "
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
"Welcome to loving Holt Ward. Population: us idiots." He shoots me a look that's half mischief, half challenge. "You could do something about it."
"Like what?"
"Make him share the bed. Weaponize his own protective instincts against him. Tell him you'll sleep on the floor if he doesn't agree to split the bed. He'll cave immediately because he physically cannot let you be uncomfortable."
"That's manipulative."
"That's tactical. There's a difference." He's fully grinning now, chaos engine revving back up. "Plus we both know you want to sleep next to him anyway. This is just giving you permission and a game plan."
"You're terrible."
"I'm efficient. There's a—"
"Don't say difference."
"—distinction." He pulls into the hardware store parking lot, killing the engine. "Okay. Phase one complete: emotional excavation. Phase two: I'm going to buy the most obnoxious shit I can find and you're going to be my witness."
I follow him into the store, air conditioning hitting like a blessing, and immediately regret every decision that led to this moment because Finn spots the garden section.
"Gerald," he breathes, like he's found the Holy Grail.
Gerald is a garden gnome. Two feet tall, holding a tiny fishing pole, painted in colors so bright they're borderline offensive.
"No," I say.
"He's coming home with us."
"Absolutely not."
"I'm going to put him outside Holt's bedroom window. Just his creepy little face staring in." Finn's already tucking Gerald under his arm like a football. "It's happening, Adler. Bear witness to greatness."
The next forty-five minutes are pure Finn unleashed.
He tests every doorbell in the display, making the entire store sound like a deranged church bell choir.
He tries on safety goggles and strikes poses.
He rearranges the paint sample cards into a rainbow gradient that actually looks kind of nice until he knocks the entire display over and we're both covered in paint dust, coughing and laughing like idiots while an employee glares at us.
But between the chaos, he's teaching me things. Pointing out the brands Holt prefers, explaining why he's particular about specific tools, sharing stories about their early days at the shop when they were figuring it out as they went. He picks up a wrench and weighs it in his hand.
"Holt bought me this exact one when we first opened. Said I needed my own set if I was going to be his partner." He sets it back down carefully. "I gave him shit about being sentimental and he just shrugged, like it wasn't the nicest thing anyone ever did for me."
"He's good at the quiet gestures."
"Yeah." Finn looks at me, something serious breaking through the chaos for just a second. "He's been alone a long time, Scout. By choice, mostly. He doesn't let people in. So the fact that he's letting you—that's not nothing. Don't waste it."
"I'm not planning to."
"Good." The serious moment passes and he's grinning again, grabbing Gerald. "Now let's find those bearings before I buy a leaf blower I don't need."
We find the parts Holt needs, Finn flirting outrageously with the woman at the counter while she rings up Gerald and a bag of googly eyes he somehow acquired. The whole store probably breathes easier when we leave.
Lunch is a random diner off the highway. Finn orders like he's trying to sample the entire menu—burger, fries, onion rings, a slice of pie for later—and steals half my fries the moment they arrive.
"You're a menace."
"And yet you love me anyway." He's grinning around a mouthful of burger. "It's my curse. Being this charming."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
He throws an onion ring at me. I catch it, eat it, triumphant.
The diner's air conditioning rattles overhead, fighting a losing battle against the desert heat seeping through the windows.
And then, because we've been dancing around it all day and I'm too full of slushie and honesty to care anymore, I just ask.
"Do you really think it was your fault? The IED?"
Finn stops mid-bite. Sets his burger down. "Doesn't matter what I think. I triggered it. That's just how it works."
"That's not an answer."
"Yeah, well, I'm not good at those." He drags a fry through ketchup, not eating it. "I used to have nightmares where I could see the wire. Like my brain wanted to give me the memory back so I could fix it." He eats the fry. "Can't unfuck what's already fucked though."
"It wasn't your fault."
"Tell that to Holt's leg."
"I'm pretty sure Holt already has. Multiple times."
Finn laughs, but it's hollow. "Yeah. Doesn't make it true." He finally looks at me. "You know what the worst part is? He doesn't blame me. Not even a little. He's spent four years telling me it wasn't my fault and I'm the one who can't let it go. Real fair, right?"
"Life's not fair. Trauma's not fair. The blast wasn't fair. But Finn—" I wait until he looks at me. "You pulled him out. You saved his life. That counts for something."
"Should count for enough that he gets to sleep in a real bed."
"Then let's make sure he does."
That gets a real smile out of him, sharp and conspiratorial. "Operation Bed Share?"
"Operation Bed Share. But we're going to need a better plan than just asking nicely because he'll say no."
"Oh, I've got a plan." He leans in like we're plotting a heist. "It's going to involve Gerald, those googly eyes, and one more stop on the way back."
"Why am I scared?"
"Because you're smart, Adler. Very smart."
The "one more stop" turns out to be a pawn shop where Finn buys—I am not making this up—an accordion.
"What are you doing?"
"Buying leverage." He's testing the buttons, producing sounds that could strip paint. "I'm going to learn one song. Just one. And I'm going to play it outside his window every night until he agrees to share the bed."
"That's psychological warfare."
"That's effective." He grins at my horrified expression. "Come on, Scout. Sometimes you have to fight dirty. And Holt Ward is the king of noble suffering. He won't do it for himself but he'll do it for you. We just have to make the alternative worse than his pride."
"You're insane."
"And you're in love with my best friend, so we're both making questionable choices." He pays for the accordion, tucks it under his arm next to Gerald. "Let's go home and make that man's life complicated."
The drive back is a strategy session mixed with Finn's increasingly confident accordion playing, which is to say it sounds like a cat being murdered but with rhythm.
I'm crying laughing by the time we hit Coyote Bend, the parts list crumpled on the dash, Gerald riding shotgun, and the accordion wedged behind my seat.
"You're going to do it tonight," Finn says as we pull up to the shop. "After dinner. Corner him in the loft, tell him you know about the concrete floor, and threaten to take it yourself if he doesn't agree to share."
"And if that doesn't work?"
Finn hefts the accordion. "Then I provide musical encouragement."
Holt's in the bay when we walk in, still covered in grease, looking at us like we're tracking mud on his clean floor. Which, given the paint dust we're still wearing, isn't far from the truth.
"Did you get the parts?"
"Got the parts, got Gerald, got an accordion, got a plan." Finn sets Gerald on the workbench where the coffee mug used to be. The gnome's dead eyes stare at Holt with unsettling cheer. "Also I think we're both banned from that hardware store."
"What did you do?"
"Nothing provable." I hold up the bag of parts. "Everything you need. Plus googly eyes, but those are for a different project."
Holt looks at the gnome. At Finn's shit-eating grin. At me trying not to laugh. "I'm going to regret asking, but why do you have an accordion?"
"You'll find out tonight," Finn says, already heading for the door. "Come on, Gerald. Let's find you a nice spot by the bedroom window."
Holt watches him go, then looks at me. "Should I be worried about Gerald or the accordion?"
"Both. Definitely both."
"That's what people say right before something terrible happens."
"Or something necessary." I set the parts on his workbench. "We got everything you needed. Plus googly eyes, but those are Finn's department."
Dinner is leftover chili and Finn's running commentary about the hardware store chaos, complete with dramatic reenactment of the paint display disaster.
Holt listens with his usual “cool guy” face, but I catch him almost-smiling at least five times.
The loft feels smaller tonight, warm and full, like we've brought some of the road trip chaos home with us.
And then it's just me and Holt, Finn conveniently disappearing with Gerald and the accordion, and I'm standing in the kitchen area trying to figure out how to start this conversation.
"You've been sleeping on the floor."
He's drying dishes, doesn't even pause. "Finn talks too much"
"Finn talks exactly enough. The couch is wrecking your back."
"It's fine."