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“Shower.”
“What?”
“We need a shower. Come on.”
She grabs my hand and hauls me through her house and up to the bathroom. When we’re in there, she starts the shower, and then she turns back to me and starts pulling off my clothes.
“What are you doing?”
“Neil, we’re both dirty, tired, sweaty, and covered in who-knows-what. It’s time for a shower. Besides, a shower is the best way to clear your head.”
“I can think of some other ways that are better than a shower,” I point out, but she only laughs and shakes her head.
“Trust me,” she says. “I would love to fuck you in the shower, but have you seen the size of that thing?” She jerks her head toward the tub. It’s just your standard, run-of-the-mill tub with a hanging shower curtain. “It’s the world’s smallest shower. We’ll both fit, but only barely. I mean, if you bend me over and fuck me from behind, my head will pop out from behind the shower curtain. That’s not sexy.”
Maybe not, but the visual makes me smile.
Why is Finley so much fun?
Today is basically the worst day ever, but it doesn’t feel like it when I’m with her. When we’re talking, I don’t feel like everything is going to hell or like things are truly terrible. In fact, the opposite is true. When I’m with Finley, I feel like I can fly, and I feel like no matter what I might have to face, I’m going to be able to get through it with her by my side.
Once she’s satisfied that the shower is just the right temperature, she pulls the curtain back and gestures for me to climb inside.
“What about you?” I ask.
“I’ll sit here,” she says. “And I’ll wait for you.”
“We can both fit.”
“There’s no way.”
I’m not convinced, but I’m too tired and emotionally wrung-out to argue, so I step into the tub and sit down. Then I let the water pour over me. While I sit there, Finley starts to sing. I have no idea what the hell she’s singing, but I know it’s the most wonderful song I’ve ever heard in my life. Somehow, when she’s singing to me, I don’t feel like the world’s dumbest supervillain.
I don’t feel like the guy who let his best friend die.
I don’t feel like the guy who was just ten minutes too late to save his closest buddy.
Right now, I feel different than all of that. I feel like everything’s going to be okay and I feel like somehow, I’m going to make it through this.
She sings until the water starts to run cold, and then I realize that she’s missing her chance to shower.
“Finley,” I say, suddenly anxious, but she just keeps singing. I climb out and I’m ready to tell her to hurry up and rinse off before she’s taking an ice-cold shower, but she’s ready with a towel. She wraps it around me, silences me with a kiss, and points me toward the bedroom.
“I’m going to rinse and then I’ll come over to you,” she says. She strips down and I barely have time to look at how ridiculously cute she is before she’s the one inside the shower.
Maybe I should stay and sing to her.
I don’t know any songs, though.
When I was a kid, my grandpa couldn’t sing, and my parents died when I was really small. Maybe that was part of the reason Sammy and I always got along so well. His dad was always at work, so the two of us had that in common. We were loners: people who didn’t seem to belong anywhere, no matter how hard we tried.
Pushing the thoughts aside, I leave the bathroom. It’s a reluctant move, but I need a couple of minutes to clear my damn head.
We were so close to finding out what happened, but I have no idea what’s going to happen now. Part of me is ecstatic there’s now a chance we’ll be able to find out what happened. Maybe there will be justice. Will Marcy be tried? Will she be sent away?
I have no idea.
But I hope so.
