“Yeah.” He exhales, then repeats a softer, “Yeah.” The fight drains out of him, leaving him limp.
“The worst is over.” I wave my hand over the wound until it dries, then peel open the bandage. “I’ll put this on, then check for any other scrapes.”
“Are you going to kiss my boo-boo and make it better?”
I snort. “No. That only works in fairy tales.”
His right eye cracks open. “You sure this isn’t a fairy tale?”
I smooth the bandage over his knee, careful not to stick it to the gash. “I’m pretty sure it’s not. Although, I guess you could argue that it sort of is since you’re making my dream come true.”
He grunts. “A white Christmas is your dream come true? That’s just sad, Finley.”
He doesn’t mean it to be cruel, but the words scrape across something raw inside me. “Yeah, I know. You had a white Christmas every year, so it’s nothing to you. But surely there was something that you really wanted as a kid. Something that would have made you happy.”
He’s quiet for several seconds, then in surprising seriousness, he says, “Yeah, I always wanted to go to a dude ranch.”
I blink, startled by how boyish he suddenly looks. “Okay. I can see you at a dude ranch.”
His head pops off the pillow, his eyes wide open. “Really? When I told my last girlfriend, she laughed and laughed and said, ‘Yeah, right, Alex.’”
“She sounds like a pretty crappy girlfriend.”
“I was a pretty crappy boyfriend, so I guess it evened out.”
I try to imagine Alex as a boyfriend and come up short. Before I landed in Vermont, I could have easily conjured the image, but now… now I’m not sure.
“In any case,” I say, “I can see you at a dude ranch. Not the professional you who comes into Beans to Go—more the you I see with your family and house you grew up in.” I give him a soft smile. “You should go. I’ll even help you look some up if you want.”
His eyes turn glassy. “Why didn’t I meet you ten years ago, Finley?”
My heart does a stupid little flip. He’s drunk and drunk people say things they don’t mean. I shrug it off with a joke. “Ten years ago, you were at some Hollybrook high school, and I was at Marshall High School in Georgia. Not exactly fate material.”
“Yeah, I suppose so.” Sadness tugs at his voice and it makes me want to make him feel better.
“But we met now,” I say. I let the sentence hang for a second. “We can be friends, right? I thought we were friends.”
“Yeah, friends,” he slurs, his eyes closed.
I roll up his other pant leg—no injuries there. I push up his t-shirt sleeves to his elbows, relieved to find him wound free. The only other scrape is on his right palm, probably from bracing his fall. I dab it with alcohol; it stings, but it’s shallow, so no bandage needed.
“That’s it,” I say.
He’s been quiet for so long that I think he’s out. But when I move to get up, his left hand shoots out and clamps on my arm. “Where are you going?”
“I need to throw this trash away, but you should sip some water first.”
“I need to get up,” he mutters, trying to push himself off the bed. “Need to get in the chair.”
“You need to get a drink of water first.” There’s no way I’m letting him out of this bed, but one battle at a time. “Here, let me help.” I slip a hand behind his back and ease him upright, then press the glass into his hand. “Drink.”
He tilts the glass, and it spills, so I take it back and hold it to his lips. His eyes lift to mine—glassy, heavy-lidded, stubborn, but also vulnerable. It’s the vulnerability that makes my chest do a ridiculous little squeeze.
“Not too much,” I murmur.
He gulps a few sips, then flops back as I guide him down.
“No,” he says, trying again to rise. “I need to get up.”
