Finley follows me, grabbing her coat off the coat tree by the main entrance. “You can just as easily pay for my coffee across the street at that adorable little coffee shop. They have brownies there too. We can split one.”
“Your sisters make the best pastries in Honeysuckle Harbor.”
“But we’re in Charleston,” she says breezily, yanking open the door.
The cool evening air hits me in the face, and I suddenly remember my manners. I take the door and hold it open for her.
And somehow, for whatever reason, a few steps later, I’m pressing the button for the streetlight to change to walk her across the street.
I also hear myself asking her as we wait, “So what did you do after college? Before law school? There must have been a gap of a few years there.”
I’ve been curious about that. Hell, I’ve been curious about all things Finley ever since high school. Every time my friends would label something a “Finley,” I genuinely wondered what she was up to. If I had asked around town, someone would have been happy to tell me, but I never wanted it to get back to Finley that I was asking about her. Small-town gossip travels across state lines these days.
“I worked in personal entertainment.”
We start to cross the street. “You were a…” I can’t think of anything that would fit that description. Nothing that I want to picture her doing, anyway.
She shoots me an amused look. “Don’t get too excited, big guy. It was just working in the social media department of an event planning company.”
I can't decide if I’m relieved or disappointed. “Interesting,” is all I can manage. My headache is still throbbing.
“Not even remotely interesting. I thought it would be fun to be a part of live entertainment, but it was just a boring entry-level job. I didn’t see a future, and it didn’t feel meaningful.”
The sidewalks are filled with people leaving offices and shops and heading in various directions for the night, but when I openthe coffee shop door and we step inside, it’s warm and quiet inside.
“We close in twenty,” the male barista calls out. “Just so you know, Finley.”
“Thanks, Dylan, I just need a large crème brûlèe latte,” Finley says. “With a?—
“Salt rim,” he finishes. He gives her a smile. “I remember, Finley.”
“Thank you, Dylan—you’re a sweetheart to remember.” She smiles back at him.
My head is about to explode for many, many reasons. “Can I get a water?” I ask as I approach the counter. Maybe I’m dehydrated.
“Sure.” Dylan the sweetheart barely glances at me.
While I pull out my wallet to pay, he slaps down a plastic cup filled with three ice cubes and about two inches of water. I’m not about to argue. I just tap my debit card on the screen.
“Thanks,” I say and pick up the cup. I drain it in one gulp. I pop the lid off and chew a piece of ice while we wait for Finley’s latte.
Immediately my headache dulls to a minor throb. If even that little bit of water helped, it’s safe to say I was dehydrated. I try to remember the last time I ate or drank that day. No water at all. Just coffee and a fistful of peanuts around one o’clock. I should know better, but I’m lousy at listening to my body when I’m working. I just push it.
Finley takes the cup out of my hand and turns back to the counter. “Dylan, fill his water up again, please.” She gives me a smile. “Come sit down for a minute.”
As Dylan aggressively shoves my refilled cup back over to me with a glare, I realize what’s going on. He likes Finley. Therefore, he does not like me. I don’t bother telling him he’s read the roomall wrong. I just suck the straw aggressively and follow Finley to the nearest table.
“Are you wearing the same clothes as yesterday?” I ask as I sit down on the metal chair with a heavy sigh. “Just out of curiosity.”
Finley grins as she sits down across from me. “I am. I had an unplanned sleepover at Evan’s last night. I could have gotten up early and had him drive me home to change but isn’t one pencil skirt the same as another? It didn’t seem worth the effort. No one noticed but Kyle, the other paralegal. Well, Shonda might have, but she’s too polite to say anything.”
“I noticed.”
“Clearly.” Finley sits back in her chair. “Why do you think that is?”
That’s a damn good question. I don’t fully know the answer. I just know that even when she was one hundred percent out of my life, I’ve always been aware of her on a certain level. Back home, right in front of me at the law office, on my own construction site? It’s impossible not to be aware of every aspect and nuance of her physical, intellectual, and emotional presence.
To give myself time to consider my answer, I stand up and retrieve her latte from a grumpy Dylan. “Thanks,” I say. His response is a curt head nod.
