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“I’m not.”
“You’re in love with him. You’ve been in love with him for years, and that’s why you drove across the country because you’re in love with him, and you couldn’t sit still anymore. That’s what’s actually happening here.”
“I’m not in love with him.”
Even though I’m saying the words aloud for the second time, and I force myself to think them regularly, they feel wrong. But I can’t take them back, and I don’t know what to say instead.
Nina, mercifully, doesn’t push.
“You don’t have to say it to me,” she says. “But you should probably think about saying it to him. Because you didn’t drive to Vermont for a quick fuck, Foster. You know that.”
I don’t know what to say. My sister has always been very perceptive, and becoming a mother seems to have activated brand-new superpowers.
There’s a pause. Then, softer: “Are you happy? Right now, in his apartment?”
I look around the kitchen. The lasagna I’ve made. The candles I put on the table because I found them in a drawer and thought Finn might like them. The extra pillow on his side of the couch that I ordered online two days ago because his old one was too flat and I got tired of watching him complain about his back.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Yeah. I’m happy.”
“Then figure the rest out. Gotta go wake Ari from her nap. Love you, bro.”
“I love you too.”
She hangs up.
I set the phone down and stare at the lasagna.
Then I finish assembling it because thinking about what my sister just said requires a level of emotional bandwidth I do not currently have and lasagna only requires patience.
I slide it into the oven. Wipe down the counter and finish setting the table. An hour later, I’m lighting the candles when I hear the key in the door.
Finn walks in already talking.
“I swear to god, if Mrs. Peterson asks me one more time about the placement of her wreath stall, I’m going to—” He stops.
His eyes go to the table. The candles. The lasagna, now cooling on the stovetop, and the breadsticks stacked on a plate. Me standing at the counter with a dish towel over my shoulder.
“What is this?”
“Dinner. I got bored.”
He looks at me for a long moment without moving from the doorway.
“You made lasagna? And…candles?”
“I didn’t make those. Just found them in your drawer.”
His eyebrows meet in the middle for a moment before his expression morphs into a smile. “It smells incredible.”
“Come. Sit down.” I hold my hand out to him, and he comes. When he’s within reach, I pull him against my chest and kiss him.
I try really hard to forget the conversation with Nina, especially when Finn melts into the kiss like he’s been looking forward to it all day.
When we break apart, I lead him to the table and start serving the lasagna.
At first, we don’t say much while we eat. Finn’s exhaustion is obvious from the way he holds his fork, in the small pauses between bites. But eventually I see him relax and shake off the stress from work as he tells me about Emmett’s ongoing crush on the town vet.
He talks with his hands. His face is more animated than when he walked in. I watch him and don’t say anything for a while because Griffin Hall is a very good storyteller.
