Page 231 of One Wild Wish

“Sorry, doll. The Sunshine Girl drank Long Island Iced Tea. They were always together. You’re lucky I remember that much. Those days tend to blur and I’m—” He stopped abruptly. His attention drifted up, toward the ceiling. “Actually, there was one thing. Forgot about it until now. Another girl looking for him once, asking around. Only remember ’cause she seemed pissed. On a mission to find him.”

“What did she look like? How old was she?”

He clucked his tongue. “Got me there. Sorry I can’t be more help.”

Disappointment set in, but I fought it off. I’d learned a name, at least. Ted or Tom. That another woman in his life had gone looking for him. An illicit lover, maybe? That would explain how a couple falling in love had fallen apart, but it didn’t shed light onto why a suitcase from 1990 had gone missing in 2001, only to turn up in 2018. Still, it was more than I had before.

I sensed someone behind me and turned, hopeful to spot August, eager to share what little I’d learned. It was the tall man whose seat I’d usurped.

Taking my cue, I thanked Uncle Rex and returned to the bar. Finch and August weren’t around. They were likely having their talk privately, a heart-to-heart that hopefully didn’t involve comparing their sexual encounters with yours truly. Sleeping with twin brothers was something portrayed in pornos. It was the worst kind of reality show.

It was also my life, as were these meager clues, and the upsetting conversation I’d had with August. He wouldn’t let the argument go. He was stubborn like that. He’d push and push until I admitted how far gone I was for him. As though that would solve everything.

If he’d seen me after my WTF, he’d know how fragile he made me. I’d built my body since then, reveling in ripping my muscle tissue, letting it repair, grow. Feeling strong made me feel sexy. It also made me feel in control. August made me feel weak. The second I admitted as much to him, the second I claimed him as mine, there would be no repairing that torn tissue.

No protecting my heart when he left.

Ignoring that prospect, I waved down the bartender and ordered a Long Island Iced Tea. Because my mother had loved them. Because she’d sat here and enjoyed this strong drink, underage, dancing and making strangers laugh. I only managed two sips.

I wedged my nose in her journal, had to carefully separate pages that had a tendency to stick together. She wrote about a lookout spot where she and this boy would watch the stars. She’d doodled in a few corners, a simple sun wearing sunglasses, a cigarette dangling from its sunny mouth. It was childish and silly, and kind of cute.

The next page had me pressing my hand over my racing heart:

He gave me my first drink. My first cigarette. My first taste of freedom. He couldn’t believe I had never tried a hotdog and dragged me to the stand outside the club. If my mother saw me bite into that processed meat, she would have lost her mind.

Well, FUCK YOU MOM.

I got ketchup on the corner of my mouth, and he wiped it off. So gently. We stared at each other forever. He must have known I had lain awake wishing for a kiss. Then he did it. He just leaned down…and wow. He kissed me! I didn’t know what to do. If I should open my mouth or drop the hotdog or let him slip his tongue against mine. He was so sweet. So, so, so amazing. I never knew kissing could be everything. That it could fill you up. Make you float. It was better than dancing. And nothing is better than dancing. I didn’t want it to end. I never want us to end.

It mirrored my feelings for August, that deep, searing need to reach for permanence. To make each kiss last. If he made me float the way this mystery man had sparked life into Mary Hamilton, it meant I could wind up broken and bitter like her, too.

12

11 p.m., 25 Hours…

August

Finch led me up a set of narrow stairs, into his office. He pulled a bottle of Talisker from his desk drawer, set out two tumblers, and poured us each two fingers of the ten-year-old Scotch. “I’m guessing this conversation will go down better with a little lubrication.”

I accepted my glass gratefully and took a healthy sip. The burn streaked through my chest, loosened my neck. “You guessed right.”

We stared at each other. We glanced at our drinks. There were no answers in the amber liquid, no easy way to broach this conversation we’d danced around for nine years.

Finch chose avoidance. “So—you and Gwen, huh?”

“If I have anything to say about it, yes.” I winced at the edge to my voice. Always challenging with him. Always waiting for him to snark back.

He kept his tone even. “She being her usual cagey self?”

“She is.” Finch understood Gwen’s history, how hard it was for her to trust and let go. It was nice not having to explain it, but it wasn’t the reason we were standing here, making eye contact and glancing away, drinking instead of saying what mattered. I swallowed a measure of Scotch, let the heat of it mellow in my chest, and finally found my voice. “I’m tired of being pissed off at you.”

His shoulders lowered as a heavy breath pushed through his nose. “I’m tired of being pissed at myself, too. I’ve spent a lot of time hating myself, looking for relief here.” He swirled his glass. A sad, defeated movement. “But I can’t change what I did. Can’t give you those years back with Gwen. All I can do is apologize and hope it’s enough. But it never has been, has it? Which I get, in a way. Then I see you with Gwen tonight, that you’ve forgiven her, and…” The pain on his face cut me down at my knees. “Why can’t you forgive me?”

“But that’s the thing. You and me”—I gestured aggressively between us, my voice still biting, always biting—“what you did wasn’t simple. It was calculated. I was desperate back then, worried about Gwen. You saw my weakness and pounced. You used me to get into college, something I still regret to this day. You used me to get close to Gwen, knowing how I felt about her. So I guess I need to know why. If I’m going to move on, I need to understand.”

Hip resting on his messy desk, he stared into his tumbler again. Dark paneled walls accentuated our tension, the expanse broken up by pictures of Finch with famous musicians. The one of him arm-and-arm with Eric Clapton caught my eye. Warmth pressed against my ribs. There was that pride again, hovering below my frustration. Subtle, but still there.

Finch swigged the rest of his Scotch and grimaced. “I’d like to tell you I had some kind of altruistic motivation. I thought I liked Gwen. I actually thought I loved her. In reality, I wanted something you couldn’t have, to come first in something for once.”