The gate falls quietly closed behind us. Finn holds open the car door and surprises me by climbing in the back beside me.
I smile gratefully and crawl into him. He tucks me into his side. He refuses to wear cologne, so he smells of himself: the detergent his T-shirt was washed in, the sweat that dried on his skin from the heat, the unmistakable scent that is Finn. We learned about pheromones in biology, and Finn’s pheromones are other-worldly. Beyond not being able to afford good cologne, Finn simply doesn’t need it. He makes his own heady scent.
“Lennon?” Finn whispers my name.
“Hmm?” I mumble.
“Look at me.”
It’s hard to look at him from my place pressed against him, so I pull back a couple inches.
He stares into my eyes for a few moments, then he kisses me. Gently. It’s not a romantic kiss that wants more. It’s not a sexy kiss that expresses passion. His kiss is an apology. Not for him, but for Ted. For what I went through last night. His heart is telling mine that it’s sorry. I drink it in, kissing him back in a way I’ve not done the other times he’s kissed me.
The kiss ends, and he pulls back only to lean forward again, his lips falling against my temple.
We stay that way until Finn spots Brady.
“Finally,” he mutters against my head. He pulls back and I scoot into my seat, watching Brady come down the driveway with my duffle bag in his hand.
“What took so long?” Finn asks when Brady opens the door.
He tosses my bag onto the passenger seat and slides in. “Lennon’s room was a mess. And I didn’t know what she needed, so I was trying to be thoughtful.”
“I’m on my period.”
Brady turns around to the backseat, horrified. “Uh, okay. We can stop somewhere to buy your... things.”
I laugh. “Kidding. But you might want to learn not to be grossed out by something natural like a period.”
Brady faces forward and starts the car. “Maybe they teach that kind of stuff in college,” he says.
Finn snorts. “Yeah. It’s a prereq for Helping Your Partner Through Childbirth.”
Brady makes another face and Finn cracks up.
If laughter is the best medicine, then that’s what we’re all doing. Medicating.
Against the uncertainty of going our separate ways at the end of summer. Against what happened last night. Against whatever is going to happen from here on out.
Brady shifts into drive just as I catch movement at the front of my house. My mom stands in the open doorway, staring at us. Or, really, just me. Her laser-focus makes me squirm. Her expression is hard to read. She looks heavy, if that’s possible. Weighed down.
By what? Her words in the kitchen earlier?
Brady pulls away from the curb. I raise a hand and wave.
20
Then
“Shhh,”I whisper, one finger over my lips. “If you yell like that again she’s going to come in here.”
Brady waves me off. “She’s asleep.”
“I wouldn’t risk it.”
“You don’t risk anything.”
“Says the person who’s so timid it makes me look like a thrill-seeker.”
