“Do you have a gentleman friend?” I ask with more than a tinge of jealousy. I don’t know why I assumed Finley was single, because she might not be.
“I want to buy one for myself,” she eventually says.
“I could loan you mine,” I tell her, “but it would be big on you.” The thought of Finley wearing my sweater fills me with a feeling of protectiveness. I like the sensation so much I’m about to take it off and hand it to her.
“I want to fill it with quilt batting and turn it into a pillow.”
“A pillow?”
Her chin lifts and falls. “I’d keep it in bed with me and cuddle it.”
That is probably the sexiest thing any woman has ever said to me. The vision of cuddling with Finley fills me with such contentment, it’s all I can do not to turn to her and beg her to date me for real. The problem is that while I want to get closer to her, that would complicate my life more than it already is.
I’ve got to figure out my work situation before I let myself form personal connections, like having a girlfriend. If I can’t have a happy working environment, there’s no way I can stay in this town. I’m afraid that as long as Constance is my boss, I can’t see myself being fully happy here.
I crack my window, hoping a blast of cold air will help me regain my senses. Putting the car into drive, I creep out of theparallel parking space I currently inhabit. “Where would you like to drive?” I ask Finley.
“How about around the lake?”
Heading in that direction, I ask, “Do you spend a lot of time there in the summer?”
“No.”
I wonder why we’re going there then. I tell her, “I spend as much time on the beach as I can,”
“In New York?”
“The Hamptons. My parents have a summer place there that we all use as an escape from the city.”
“Oh.” She doesn’t sound pleased.
Looking for a little more insight, I ask, “Why don’t you spend time at the lake?”
Finley waits so long to answer, it’s clear she doesn’t want to. She finally tells me, “I don’t like sand.”
“Really?” I don’t know why that surprises me, but it does.
“Not everyone likes sand, Thomas.” She sounds like a stern schoolteacher.
“Of course not,” I tell her. “I just happen to love it. I love the feeling of it between my toes when I walk on the beach. I like how it holds both heat and cold. I like how crabs dig under it and make their homes.” I could go on and on, but I don’t.
In my periphery, I notice Finley’s posture straighten into a stiff line. “How nice for you.”
For some reason that causes me to laugh.
“Are you making fun of me?” She sounds mad.
“Not at all,” I tell her. “Like you said, not everyone likes the same things.”
“Then why are you laughing at me?”
“I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughingwithyou.”
“I’m not laughing, Thomas.” She says this so seriously, I know I’ve hurt her feelings. I just don’t know how.
“I’m laughing at the fact that I pre-judged you,” I tell her. “I guess I assumed you liked the same things I do.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” She inexplicably asks, “Do you like applesauce?”
