"We were very polite about it," Finn adds. "Extremely polite. Holt's 'polite no' is a thing of beauty. It's like getting rejected by a very professional wall."
"That's the nicest description of me I've ever heard," Holt says dryly.
"You're welcome. I'm full of compliments today. Must be the sun. Or the joy. Probably both."
I sit up to wring out my hair, twisting it over one shoulder, water dripping down my collarbone and between my shoulder blades, and when I glance up, Holt's watching me again. His gaze tracking the movement of my hands, the water sliding down my skin.
"Okay," Finn announces, standing and stretching, completely destroying whatever moment was forming. "I'm starving. Are we doing food on the way back or what? Because I could eat an entire pizza by myself. Maybe two pizzas. I'm thinking about three pizzas."
"That's too many pizzas," I say.
"There's no such thing as too many pizzas. That's offensive."
We pile back into the truck—same positions but the energy's different. Satisfied, quiet, sun-tired contentment. I've got my feet up on the dash, window still down, warm evening airrushing past. Finn sprawls in the middle, taking up more space than physically possible, and starts humming along to the radio.
"Today was perfect," he announces. "Best executive decision I've ever made. I should make more executive decisions."
"Please don't," Holt says.
"Too late. I'm inspired. I'm full of ideas. Tomorrow we're doing something else fun."
"Tomorrow we're working."
"Boring. Predictable. I expected more from you."
I find myself watching the landscape blur by, thinking about Holt's smile, about the way he looked at me in the water.
Finn starts snoring softly between us, head tilted back, mouth open, completely dead to the world. The sun's sinking lower, everything turning orange and purple, and we drive in silence the rest of the way back.
We pull into the garage lot just as the sun's kissing the horizon. Finn wakes up with a snort, mumbling something about pizza, and disappears into the shop still half-asleep and definitely sunburned.
"I'm ordering food!" he yells back at us. "What do you want?"
"Surprise me!" I call back.
"DANGEROUS WORDS! I'M ORDERING PINEAPPLE!"
"FINN, NO!"
"FINN, YES!"
Holt and I grab our stuff from the truck bed. I'm suddenly very aware that we're heading back to the loft together. To shared space. To close quarters where the awareness that's been simmering all day won't have the buffer of water and distance and Finn's mayhem to diffuse it.
Chapter 7
The couch is empty.
I'm standing in the kitchen with a glass of water I don't actually want, staring at the couch—still empty. Blanket folded too neat, corners sharp, pillow stacked on top. He's been gone long enough to make the bed properly. Which means he's been gone a while.
I check the window. His truck's missing. Just gone, empty parking spot under the streetlight.
The ceiling fan's been clicking for hours—stay, leave, stay, leave—or maybe I'm losing it, inventing patterns where there aren't any because I can't sleep and my brain's making up words in ceiling fan rotations which seems like the kind of thing that happens when you lie awake for two hours thinking about someone twenty feet away except now he's not twenty feet away, he's somewhere else entirely and I'm standing here in sleep shorts and a tank top at—I check the microwave clock—one thirty in the morning, drinking water I don't want because the alternative is admitting why I actually got up.
Which is him. Obviously. It's always him lately.
Finn mentioned it weeks ago—Holt has a spot. Canyon lookout, twenty minutes out, where he goes when sleep won't come. Which is most nights, Finn had added, quieter than usual, admitting something he probably shouldn't.
I set the glass down. Stare at my keys on the hook.
