Had Molly been deliberately avoiding the signs between her and Finn for the sake of her relationship with Will? Sure, she’d wanted Finn from the minute he’d walked into her backyard as a gangly teenager, and she’d grown to love him more as he’d developed into the solid, well-rounded, compassionate man on the ice in front of her.
But willingly ignoring signs of mutual attraction that went beyond surface deep ‘hey you’re hot’?
As Finn assisted on a goal on the ice and gave back-pats and high-fives to her brother, she raked back over their time together. She’d denied every romantic instinct she’d had about Finn, from day one, and she’d still managed to piss Will off by sleeping with anyone who wasn’t Finn. It was time to stop denying her instincts and make a move to get what she’d wanted for years. If Will was going to be mad, did it truly matter what he was gonna be mad about?
She untucked her phone from between her thighs, pulled open the messaging app, and sent Finn a text.
Molly: Can we talk? The diner. After the game?
He’d probably want to go to the bar after the game, he was a party creature of habit and they hadn’t been to Joe’s diner in a long time. But she hit send, ignored the shiver that rattled through her bones, and pretended to stare at the ice while tracking every second on the countdown clock as she waited for the game to end.
***
Molly’s knee knocked on the underside of the table in the booth of the diner as she waited. She’d hung around at the rink for long enough to get a reply from Finn before driving like she’d stolen the car to the place they used to go as teens. “10-4” that was all it had said.
Was 10-4 good? Was 10-4 I’ve changed my mind? Was 10-4 let’s get naked and do the pelvic tango?
“You want a shake, Molly?”
“Yes, please, Joe. Thanks.”
The white-haired man with wrinkles at the edges of his eyes smiled. “By yourself tonight?”
Her muscles tensed. Was it a mistake to go somewhere so familiar? Joe’s diner was on the outskirts of the city. It wasn’t somewhere often frequented by their friends, but Joe and Susan – the owners – had known both Molly and Finn for years.
Had she picked the diner so she wouldn’t be tempted to make a move on Finn under Joe’s watchful eye?
“I said, are you by yourself tonight, Miss Morrison?”
She giggled, but her breath caught and she coughed. “No, sir. He’s on his way.”
He nodded at the TV. “My son hooked up the TV to his laptop so we could watch the game.” He scrubbed at the counter with a rag. “Obi had a good game.”
She couldn’t disagree. Finn’s skates had been on fire for the whole three periods. He’d bagged three assists and managed to keep his ass off the naughty step – an accomplishment if ever there was one. “Great game.” She nodded in agreement, twisting the paper napkin resting on her thighs.
A blender sounded somewhere in the back as the door opened. Finn had ditched his suit jacket, he wore shiny black shoes, perfectly pressed black dress pants, a black belt with a shiny silver buckle, and a dark gray dress shirt. With Finn’s wild colored hair, bright eyes, and pale skin… Molly melted into the cheap red pleather booth seats like a popsicle on a hot summer day.
“Great game tonight, Obi!” Joe waved his rag over the counter at Finn. “Coulda been four, but great game.”
“Yes, sir.” Finn chuckled, throwing a wave in Joe’s direction before making a beeline across the black and white checkered floor tiles straight for Molly.
He slid into the booth, dumped a pile of quarters on the table between them, and turned to the mini jukebox mounted on the wall at the end of their table.
“Close your eyes, Molly.”
As teenagers, they’d spent a lot of their time scrounging up quarters in preparation for their next shake date. Unfortunately, it was never a fun date, and certainly never adatedate. Their shake dates coincided withepisodesof violence from Finn’s father. They were therapy dates. Wellness checks. A safe place for Finn to decompress after an evening with his dad’s belt, or fist.
Finn would show up at her house, or send her a text simply saying ‘shake?’ She’d collect her coin purse, ask Dad for a ride to the diner, and go.
Their routine was as predictable as a lighthouse in a storm. Strawberry shakes, and a few bucks worth of quarters between them on the table in a bid to see who could pick the worst song on the jukebox.
They’d sit in silence until Finn had consumed enough frozen strawberry deliciousness to calm down. Then they’d talk about anything and everything except what had brought them together at the diner: Finn’s father.
Joe, Susan, nor Dad had ever asked questions, it just became routine. After a while, Joe even stopped charging them for their shakes. Some nights, he and Susan even gave them a hot meal. It was funny the things grownups picked up on, the things she missed as a naïve teen that, looking back, were clear as day. So many people rallying around a child in a man’s body who needed more help than any one person could give.
Plastic clinked against plastic as Finn flicked through the song lists mounted on the wall – despite the fact they both probably had every song memorized. He punched some buttons, flicked a few more pages, and pushed a few more buttons.
“Can I look yet?”
