Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Alex
I wake up with a splitting headache that gets worse the second I crack my eyes open. For a couple of seconds, I don’t recognize the room. Then it hits me: I’m in my rearranged room, at my parents’ house, and Finley is here with me.
Finley.
I roll over, but the other side of the bed is empty. The covers are rumpled, but both pillows look untouched. Why isn’t she in bed and why am I sleeping in it?
Groaning, I flop on my back and close my eyes.
Oh. God. What happened last night?
I got drunk off my ass is what happened, then stumbled home like an idiot. Did I crawl into bed with her? Horror seizes me. The last thing I ever wanted was to make her uncomfortable.
But then the stinging in my knee and my palm remind me that I tripped in a pothole in the road. And that Finley patched me up.
I sit up, swing my legs off of the bed, then cradle my face in my hands as my equilibrium settles.
If she hadn’t already pegged me as a first-class asshole, then last night sealed it. Did she sleep in the bed with me? Doubtful. Which leaves the chair.
I glance over and see a blanket artfully draped over the back like it belongs there. A blanket that wasn’t there when I left last night.
My stomach sinks. Of course she took the chair.
Shame burns through me. Is she ready to bolt? Has she already left? I say a silent prayer of thanks when I see her suitcase on the floor. It’s closed, but it’s still there.
Sunlight streams through the cracks in the blinds. The clock says 10:12. I haven’t slept this late since I was in college.
As bad as I feel, I probably look worse. A shower and a toothbrush should come first, but I can’t shake the need to find Finley. I need to know if she’s upset with me and if so, how to fix it.
Against my better judgment, I head down the back stairs. Voices float up—bright, happy, and female. I pause when I hear Finley’s.
She’s telling a story about baking cookies with her mom. About sugar cookies that came out burnt on the edges, but Santa still ate them and left a note saying he preferred them that way.
“That’s so sweet,” Mallory says.
“My mom was the best. We didn’t have much money, but she always found ways to make things special. Like that note from Santa.”
My chest warms. I can picture five-year-old Finley, proud of those cookies. My parents had more money, but Mom did the same—turned Christmas into something magical.
I’m strangely proud that Mom and Mallory already adore her. That they’re going out of their way to make her feel like part of this family.
Now that I know Finley’s happy—even if she’s not happy with me—I should go back upstairs, shower, and pull myself together.
But her laugh carries through the house, light and easy, and the need to see her with my own eyes nearly drags me into the kitchen.
It’s overwhelming. It’s also concerning. Why do I want to see her so badly?
It’s only because you want to do damage control for last night.
Then let’s do some damage control.
I push out a breath of relief at the thought. Yeah, it’s damage control. That’s all. Feeling more confident, I round the corner into the kitchen, and all eyes turn to me.
“Alex,” Mom says with a warm smile. “You’re up.”
“Yeah.” I rake a hand through my hair. “Sorry I overslept.”
“You look like you needed it,” she says with a concerned look.
Mallory snorts. “You look pretty rough, dude.”
But my gaze turns to Finley. She’s lifting cut-out cookies from the counter to a baking sheet. She sneaks me a quick smile—soft, almost shy—and something in my chest flutters.
What the hell was that? I shake my head, pain spiking through my skull.
“Want me to make you some breakfast?” Mom asks.
The thought makes my stomach roil. “No, I’m good. I’ll just grab a cup of coffee then head up to shower.”
Mom cringes. “There isn’t any. Finley made me and Mallory mochas, and your father and Tyler Americanos.” She laughs. “I don’t think they’re ever going to go back to the Mr. Coffee coffeemaker after this.”
I can’t stop a smile. “Well, she is a barista.” Yesterday I might have cringed to admit it, but now I’m oddly proud.
Finley slides the last cookie onto the tray and carries it to the oven. “Do you want me to make you something?”
“You’re not here to wait on me,” I say sharper than I intended, but the thought of her waiting on me sits wrong. “And you’re not here to do your actual job.”
Finley’s eyes widen, the hurt flashing before she masks it.
“I should hope not,” Mallory snaps.
“Sorry.” I rub my forehead. “I have a killer headache and that came out wrong. I meant that she’s busy and I don’t want to get in her way.”
“Well, unfortunately,” Mom says as she sifts flour into a ceramic mixing bowl, “as I mentioned, we don’t have any brewed coffee.”
I grunt in frustration. If Finley’s already pissed, that last thing I want is to force her to make me a drink. “I don’t need coffee.”
I turn around and head toward the staircase. Better to retreat before I say something else I’ll regret.
“Alex wait,” Finley calls after me.
I turn as she shuts the oven door and sets a timer. “I haven’t minded making your family drinks. It’s the least I can do after all the hospitality they’ve shown me.” She wrinkles her nose. “Besides, the drinks weren’t perfect since I don’t have an espresso machine.”
“We can get one,” Mallory says, her eyes lighting up. “And Finley can teach us before she goes home.”
I know what good espresso machines cost, so I doubt Dad will spring for one, but I’m not going to be the one to tell her.
“If you’re just wanting a plain cup of coffee,” Finley says, still standing in front of the oven. “I can use the French press.”
I gape at my mother. “Where did you get a French press?”
She waves a hand dismissively. “My friend Jennifer gave it to me a couple of years ago. It’s been gathering dust in the cabinet, but Finley showed me how to use it. Isn’t she resourceful?”
“Yep. She sure is.”
The words feel stiff in my mouth. I don’t like the idea of her waiting on me. Especially after she took care of me last night. She already thinks I look down on her—having her serve me like a customer at Beans to Go only reinforces that.
Finley scoops grounds into the press’s glass carafe.
“Are you sure you’re not hungry?” Mom asks. “I could warm up a muffin.”
“No.” The thought of food still makes my stomach churn. “Coffee’s fine.”
I slump onto a stool while Finley works her magic. Mallory is mixing something in a bowl, and she shoots me a sly look. “Where’d you sneak off to last night? I heard you come home pretty late.”
Mom’s mouth drops open. “How late? Did something happen on your run?” Her voice rises. “I knew you shouldn’t have gone out running in the dark.”
“Nothing happened,” I say, adding a light laugh to calm her down. The last thing she needs to know is that I got plastered. “I ran into Curtis, and we had a drink at St. Nick’s.”
Her face brightens instantly. Curtis practically lived here growing up. She even called him her fourth son. “How is Curtis? I haven’t seen him in at least a year.”
“He’s good,” I say, propping my chin on my hand at the counter. “He’s teaching at the high school.”
The words taste dry, like gravel. Because I know what she doesn’t: Curtis doesn’t think much of me anymore. Not after last night.
“I’d heard that.” She dusts off her hands as she reaches for a measuring spoon. “What’s he teaching? Science?”
I realize I never asked. Then again, the whole conversation had gone downhill pretty fast. “I don’t know. He just said he’s well equipped to handle teenage boys and any tricks they try to pull, since we tried them first.”
She rolls her eyes. “You two got into more than your fair share of mischief, so I guess he’d know.
” She adds a teaspoon of something to the bowl.
“I’m pretty sure I heard he’s an assistant coach on the middle-school basketball team.
” She looks up and sees the surprise on my face. “He didn’t tell you?”
“No,” I say, feeling like a shitty friend. The more questions she asks, the more obvious it will be that we didn’t spend hours catching up. “He was too busy telling me about his boyfriend.”
A frown creases her forehead. “His last boyfriend was so awful to him. I hope this new one’s better.”
“Curtis seems pretty happy,” I say. “In fact, this isn’t public information, but there might be a wedding in their future.”
She claps her hands in delight. “Oh! That’s wonderful news. His mother will be thrilled.”
“I wonder what kind of wedding he’ll have,” Mallory says.
“I didn’t think to ask.” Six years ago, he would have asked me to stand up with him at his wedding. Now I’ll be lucky to get an invite. Something sharp and heavy knots in my chest.
“Are you two getting together again before you head back to Atlanta?” Mom asks.
That’s highly doubtful, but I’m not going to admit to it. “Probably not. I told him I’m here with Finley, so I won’t have much free time.”
“Maybe you and Finley could meet up with Curtis and his boyfriend,” Mom suggests.
Finley swivels her head and gives me an earnest look as she pushes the plunger into the press. “Alex, you know I don’t mind if you meet your friends. You probably want to catch up more.”
“We caught up last night,” I say, then add, “Besides, if I saw him again, I’d bring you with me.”
She looks surprised and her cheeks flush before she turns back to her task.
A knot forms in my stomach.
I still need to know where she slept last night.
What does she think after I barged into the room, drunk off my ass?
She doesn’t look mad, but maybe she’s keeping up appearances for Mom and Mallory.
I want to pull her away and ask, but if she is mad, barging in on her baking won’t win me any points.
“I don’t know how you take your regular coffee,” Finley says, pouring steaming liquid into a red mug with a snowman grinning on the side. I’d prefer plain white porcelain, but I’ll deal with it.