Page 7 of Cabin Fever

“Not the question.”

I set my laptop down on the bed. “Yeah. It’s great.” It isn’t an untruthful answer. Amplify is a media streaming app with a strong commitment to creators. Excellent company culture, paid time off and benefits, and I work 100% remotely, except for the two times a year we convene in New York as a whole group.

“Hm. Dahlia mentioned you might be looking for something different,” Finn says, and my jaw drops. There’s the answer to that question.

I turn back to find him pulling on a pair of khaki shorts. “Why did you ask, then? If you already knew the answer?”

“I wanted to hear it from you.”

My stomach flips. I muscle through my pounding pulse and narrow my eyes. “Since when do you listen to Dahlia anyway?” They hang out because Theo and Finn are still good friends, but I have a hard time believing the two of them have any real relationship. Except when he wants to weigh in on her relationship decisions.

He grins, reaching for his T-shirt. “I’ve always been a good listener.”

I open my mouth to refute that, but find I can’t. It’s true. Finn was the best listener. I always felt like I was the most important person in the world to him. Which is why it hurt so bad when I so obviously wasn’t.

I clear my throat and go in a different direction. “You’ve always thought Dahlia was a dumb blond.”

He scoffs, pulling the shirt over his head. “Is that a bad thing?”

I laugh. “Right, it’s a desirable character trait in your books. My mistake.” I sit down next to my laptop. “Why didn’t you and Dahlia ever get together, by the way? She was more your type than Theo’s in high school.”

Finn looks in the mirror, running a hand through his hair. “Didn’t want to make it weird.” His eyes meet mine through the glass.

“Why, because she was too young?”

He nods. “Isn’t weird now, but then, that was a big age gap.”

It’s true. I’m so used to Theo and Dahlia now, I forget how strange that would’ve been as kids.

He wets his lips, his hand stilling. “And she wasn’t my type.”

The air sucks from the room. When I remember to breathe, I jump up and rummage through my still unpacked bag. “Right. Well, I need to get ready because . . .” I ramble about some commitment I don’t actually have with my family. My Mom’s for sure still asleep, and Dahlia won't surface till nine. I’m praying our dad has the decency to hole up in his cabin until the actual ceremony, but there’s still the whole thing with the flowers and a couple of other problems I need to solve. Not a total lie.

I make myself presentable in the bathroom, then rush out the door with Finn relaxing on his bed, looking at something on his phone. When I’m alone in the hall, my shoulders finally drop, and I take my first full breath in twenty-four hours.

I find a quiet table in the back of the buffet area, fill a small plate with eggs, toast, and fruit, then open the vendor order for the flowers. The internet’s better up here, and it loads in seconds. I brace myself for a mistake on my end. Maybe I didn’t click a button, and there was variability in the expected delivery, or I gave the wrong port information, but when I scroll down the order form, I frown.

There's a revision stamped underneath my original selections. A change to the flower choice. Made after my order locked, from an account that isn't mine.

I didn't make this change. The only communication we had was a check-in two weeks ago to confirm my original designations.

I lean back in my chair and take a bite of watermelon. Did an employee think they were helping by lowering the price? Did the flowers go out of stock? Did Pam from guest services get involved? She’s the only one who had the delivery information, as far as I know. Well, besides Mom, Dahlia, and Theo. But why would any of them call the florist?

“Hey. Harper.” A voice sounds behind me, and I spin. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.

My dad, standing in front of me with a plate full of breakfast casserole and a glass of orange juice.

Chapter Four

My dad looks good. That's the first thing my brain serves up while my fork hovers over my plate like it's lost signal. He's tan. He's wearing a polo I don’t recognize and boat shoes I do, because they're the same brand he always wore. Even now, he knows exactly what to put on to look like a man you'd hand your savings to.

“Mind if I sit?” he asks, and doesn't wait for my answer. The chair scrapes against the floor, and he drops into it, setting his plate on the table. The smell of eggs and sausage suddenly makes me want to vomit.

“I'm actually in the middle of⁠—“

“You look great, Harper.” He settles in, putting his elbows on the table. “Your mom said you put this whole week together yourself. Must’ve been a lot of work.”

“It was.” Why am I telling him that? Why am I not throwing my water in his face and storming out of this restaurant?