Page 13 of Cabin Fever

Then I realize it’s Finn, and my pulse skips. He looks relaxed and loose. Like he just walked in from a fantastic make-out session. Why is that all I think about when I look at him? Probably because the majority of the time I spent with Finn, we were both steeped in teenage hormones. I’m like Pavlov’s dogs, salivating every time he rings the bell. Was his shirt always unbuttoned that far at the top?

“Hey, everyone. Sorry to interrupt your dinner.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I can practically hear every woman in the room ovulate. “I hear that the incredible Dreamboat staff is about to bring out a sinful chocolate cake, so I thought I’d do this before I completely lose your attention.”

Dahlia’s bridesmaids titter around their table, and my grip tightens on my fork.

“As the best man,” Finn continues, “I have the sacred responsibility of embarrassing the groom. Keeping him humble and grounded.” He laughs, making eye contact with Theo, whose cheeks are going pink. “My friend, bro love of my life, this is for you.”

Everyone claps, and the screen over the little parquet dance floor blinks to life. The lights in the room dim, and laughs erupt as a goofy picture of Theo pretending to be Spider-Man in his underwear flashes on the screen with the title, “Theo and Dahlia: No Takebacks.”

My eyes sting at the unexpected rush of emotion. That’s what we always used to say growing up. Theo was the worst. Always showing up and offering to share a toy or snack, then deciding thirty minutes later that he didn’t want us to touch it. Even in middle school, we could see the wheels turning in his head, warring between the desire to be generous and his over-analytical brain.

Finn’s looking at me again, and it only makes the lump in my throat worse. Especially because pictures of the four of us are now flashing ahead of me. Theo at nine, gap-toothed on a bike ramp made of stolen plywood. There’s Finn and me in the background. Dahlia's fifth-grade dance recital, all elbows and knees. The four of us at the creek, sunburned and blurry. One of my favorites.

There's a shot of Larkspur Street in the fall from someone's porch roof. There's Theo and Dahlia outside her eighth-grade graduation, pretending to be secret agents. Theo and Finn crashed even though they were older and not allowed to come into the dance. Finn told us that if anyone tried to touch our boobs, he’d beat them up over the weekend.

I fan the top of my shirt, heat rising so fast I start to sweat. Pictures of Theo in high school start up, then Dahlia as a freshman, and my hands start to shake.

“I’ll be right back,” I murmur, even though Garrett and Chris likely couldn’t care less whether I’m there or not.

I’m halfway to the door when there’s an audible gasp from the table I’m passing. My Aunt Mary looks like she just swallowed something sour, and as she turns to whisper something to my uncle, I look up and freeze.

A wedding photo. My mom in lace, my dad in a tux. Both of them radiant on the church steps. Then it’s Theo, in his own tux at what looks like a college formal. Champagne in one hand. His other arm around a woman who is not my sister. Dark hair, green dress, laughing up at him.

My jaw drops as I search for Dahlia and Mom. What in the world was Finn thinking putting up⁠—

Another picture of my dad. This time with my mom cutting their wedding cake, about to shove a bite into Mom’s mouth.

I spin and start toward the staff member manning the projector, but Aunt Bev’s already there. She reaches over the guy and hits the power button. When the music cuts out, my mom grabs the mic from where Finn left it on the side of Theo and Dahlia’s table.

“Well, Finn, thank you. That was lovely . . .”

I don’t hear the rest of her speech over the ringing in my ears. I search for Finn and find him half bent over his chair, saying something to Marisol before he laughs and straightens.

I’m going to kill him.

He knows how we both feel about my dad, never mind my mom’s feelings about seeing her old wedding photos. Didn’t I just tell him that I wanted everything to be perfect for Dahlia? Is this his idea of a joke? A way to needle them about his objections to their nuptials?

I can’t open my mouth here or there’s a good chance I’ll punch him in his perfect mouth, so I continue on my path to the hall. I slam through the double doors and walk, no idea where I am on this stupid ship.

“Harper!”

Finn’s voice. This time, my Pavlovian response is anything but swooning. I walk faster since the alternative is whirling and yelling at his beautiful face outside the spa entrance.

“Harper, c’mon!”

C’mon? C’mon, what? Be a good sport about him plastering our most painful family memories all over the wall at my sister’s welcome dinner?

Hot tears sting my eyes as I turn into the landing for the elevator bank. What floor am I on? I slam my palm against the fingerprint-smudged button.

Finn skids around the corner, breathing hard. “Harper⁠—”

“How dare you?” I spit. “My parents’ wedding photos? Seriously, Finn? You⁠—”

“Those weren’t my photos!” he cuts in, his face pulled into a scowl. “Harp, I’d never do that. I’ve never seen those pictures in my life.”

I blink, his words sinking through me in layers. “What?”

The elevator dings. His hands clasp mine as he leans down to my level. “I swear, Harper. Whatever that was in there, it wasn’t me.”