Page 56 of Hard to Love

“Can I get you anything?” Finn asks just like he has every time our paths have crossed in this house.

“No, thank you.” I hold a hand up to cover my eyes and turn my head to look at him.

Huge mistake, especially as I’m trying to concentrate on my own issues and not have them clouded by a soaking-wet Finn Sanderson. One who I might add has rivulets of water sliding down his tanned, chiseled torso, and who has been more than attentive and patient with me when I definitely haven’t deserved his compassion.

His eyes meet mine after he rubs his towel over his hair. “You sure?”

“Yes. I’m . . . sure.” I put my face up to the sun again and close my eyes—not because I want to be left alone but because the last thing I need to do is keep staring at him. The last thing I need to do is encourage my thoughts when it comes to just how he could sate that ache his presence has created.

I’m sure he’ll definitely think I’ve gone totally over the deep end if I go from five days of not speaking more than a few words at a time to telling him the idea of a quick, distracting fuck is what he can do for me.

“My mom left when I was four years old.” His unexpected confession cuts through the silence and feels like a knife to my gut. My thoughts shift immediately as I hear a pain in his voice I know all too well. “I have a blurry idea of who she was and what she was like, but I often wonder if they were from the pictures I stared at so long that I willed them into my memory.”

“Finn.” I turn to look at him but he’s staring straight ahead, finding solace in the sea like I have over the past few days.

He shrugs and it’s the kind of shrug that says it doesn’t bug him, but I know differently. “My dad said that one day she was there, laughing and happy and present, and then the next day he got a call from the babysitter asking him when she was going to pick me up.” His tone may sound stoic, but so has mine all these years. I know the turmoil I’ve felt within. “He had no clue she was unhappy.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t want you to be sorry. I just want you to know why I came back for you when you called me.” He turns and looks at me for the first time and the emotion that owns his eyes is equal parts heartbreaking and strength/determination. “I want you to know that every question you’ve asked yourself over the past few days, I’ve asked myself too. I want you to know that I understand how it feels to believe your own mother doesn’t love you enough to stick around and how much that can fuck with your head.” He rises from his seat, puts a hand on my shoulder, and squeezes. “I just wanted you to know.”

He starts to walk away, and I stare after him dumbfounded with tears in my eyes because someone understands. We may not have walked the same path to get here, but someone understands what is impossible to put into words.

“Finn.” My voice is a broken croak when I say his name, but he stops and turns back around.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you for telling me. For understanding.” I find words hard to come by all of a sudden, and I’m not sure why. “Earlier . . . earlier I contacted Kyle Katswa,” I say, and his eyebrows raise at the name of one of the most prominent anchors at ESPN. “I’m doing an interview with him tomorrow to put this all to rest.”

“You are?” He takes a step back toward me, his voice surprised.

“I am.” I nod. “I’m well aware that speaking will add fuel to her fire, but I also hope it smothers it too. You are right. It’s time I stop sticking my head in the sand and face this—her accusations, his death, everything—head-on.” I know it won’t fix the broken heart my dad’s passing left me with, but it’s one foot in front of the other and that’s more than I’ve been doing.

“It’s the only way you’re going to be able to move forward.”

“I know.”

“I’m proud of you,” he says.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves yet.” I chuckle. “No doubt I’ll still screw something up.”

He gives me a slight smile and a nod before hooking the wet towel over his neck and heading back into the house again.

STEVIE

CLEAN CLOTHES.

When I enter my room, my laundry is on my bed in stacks just tall enough so that the clothes don’t fall over and ruin their perfectly folded corners. The fresh scent of the detergent fills the space and makes me feel more settled than I’ve felt all afternoon.

If it’s possible to be in love with Finn’s housekeeper any more than I already am, then I’m there.

It’s the impending interview that has me unsettled. Sure, I’ve rehearsed what I want to say a million times, the main points I want to express, but what if I say something that opens me up to a slander lawsuit by Mary? What if I—

Wine.

I need wine.

Sure, it’s nearing midnight but one glass might help to calm me down and settle my nerves. And if Finn happens to still be awake to run through things with, then I’ll do that as well.