“You’re late,” I say. Because I don’t know how I feel right now, so I might as well fall back on feeling annoyed with Finn.
“I texted,” he says, low. As if our friends could hear us over the synthpop coming from a floor below.
“You didn’t.”
He laughs, a quiet,annoyed, huff. “Okay, Nor.”
It rankles, the shortening of my already shortened name. Not because I don’t like it. Because I do.Nor. He says it softly, casually, frustratingly affectionate. And that rankles, or at the very least it dislodges something in my chest. Something I would very much like to put back.
I stomp across the room to my phone. “You didn’t,” I insist. I turn, staring at the screen, jabbing at it with my index finger like my grandma.
I feel his heat at my back.
“Oh,” I say. He’s right there, stepped into my room.
It feels smaller with him in it. Smaller and yet no less comforting.
I show him my screen, open to our group chat. “See,” I say, ignoring our closeness, like I can’t remember exactly the last time I let him be this close. “No text.”
He takes the phone from my hand, leans in so I can still see the screen. “No.” He scrolls down the list of texts from co-workers and family, wishing me a Happy New Year’s that I’ll get to eventually. “Text,” he says, the word almost smug.
FINN COLLINS, DECEMBER 31, 2023
7:27 p.m.: Finn: Just got out of work. Running late. I’m sorry.
7:27 p.m.: Finn: See you soon x
“Oh.”
He shuts down the screen and hands me back my phone without a word. Now would be the time to rub it in.
But he doesn’t do any rubbing. Instead, he adjusts the gold chain under the collar of a soft-looking black button-down, one he probably wore to work all day and then drove all the way here in. “My favorite time of year.”
Finn is doinga funnel when we get downstairs. Because of course he is. He pulls off sooner than he normally would, golden liquid frothing up like a geyser before he can get his thumb over the hole. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and he winks at me. Hewinks. His long hair and his gold chain and that grin he flashes me from the side of his mouth, his teeth a slice of white, all combine to make me believe, to assure me, that once upon a time, he would’ve been called a scoundrel.
A cad.
One of those men who ruins women for sport.
Although, I guess that’s not totally fair. Finn has never been one to boast about sexual conquests…but still. I’d be a fool for letting him ruin me. Twice. And for planning on it again.
For looking forward to it.
“Wanna play beer pong?” Deepti asks. “Please,” she adds before I can say no. Because she knows that is my usual answer.
I sigh in mock frustration. “Fine, only because you asked nicely.”
She bounces away before I can even finish talking. “Nora’s playing.”
And Brendan screams that deep-throated frat boy scream like he’s just scored the game-winning goal in the Stanley Cup finals.
In the game room, they’ve covered the pool table with the topper and used one of the plastic New Year’s Eve themed tablecloths Bea brought from the dollar store to protect it.
“This isn’t regulation size,” I complain, testing the sturdiness of the topper.
“As if you need regulations to beat them,” Finn says, coming up behind me, a low rumble, like an affectionate laugh, filling his words. I shiver, goose bumps running down my spine, and I know he sees them. There’s no way he can’t.
“You’re a beer pong sniper, Nora.”
