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“Don’t be embarrassed,” I whisper against her hair. It smells like flowers. “The verdict is in, and apparently I’m pretty loveable.”
She shoves me. “You’re a clod.” Her face is still tipped down, but I can see she’s smiling.
I laugh. “What’s a clod?”
“A stupid person.”
That makes me laugh…which makes her laugh.
“Your cheeks are red,” I tease.
“Because I’m the clod.” She strides ahead of me, but I lunge forward and catch her hand. “Finley.” I lace my fingers through hers. “You’re not a clod.”
“I’m inexperienced and awkward.” Her words are whisper-hisses. She’s glancing down at just the right angle so I can see a teardrop in the corner of one of her eyes.
Shock moves through me, making my hands shake a little. Then my chest goes warm and heavy. I squeeze her hand. “Hey now. Let me tell you something. Experience is overrated.”
“Is it?” She peeks up at me, and it takes some effort not to pull her up against my chest again. To keep my tone light, like I don’t want to fucking hug her.
“Oh yeah. If I could get a redo, I’d go somewhere just like this. Appreciate the everyday shit. One type of gum. Mail runs every third month. You know everybody. Everybody looking out for each other.”
“Is that what you think it would be like?” I can hear the censure in her soft tone.
“I don’t know.” I rub my forehead. I know there wouldn’t be any covert trips to Mass Avenue. I know I’d never swerve around some fucker sprawled out in the middle of the road and foaming from the mouth—because even though I’ve got Narcan in my glove box and I’m certified at CPR, I can’t stop for him. Homer Carnegie isn’t supposed to be there with a bundle of smack at 4 a.m. on a fucking Tuesday.
I feel the heavy shaking start in my shoulders and vibrate down my arms.
Her fingers squeeze mine as we walk toward a rocky ridge.
“You didn’t tell me you were mute.”
It’s the next thought that crosses my mind, and it falls out of my mouth with no forethought, surprising me and stopping Finley in her tracks. I feel her hand slacken in mine as her gaze snaps to my face.
“Who told you?”
I rub my forehead. Shit—my heart is fucking pounding. I can feel it right behind my eyes. I try to keep my voice steady as I say, “One of the guys digging. Asked what you were like, said he’d never heard you talk.”
“Who was it?” Finley’s tone is impassive, but she’s gone ghost pale.
“Mark Glass.”
Fuck. I feel like shit for blurting that out like I did—and even more so when one corner of her mouth quivers and she presses her lips together.
“He heard me at your ball game,” she says tightly.
“This was before.”
She blinks at the sloping field beside us, her chin raised, her face statuesque.
“Shit. I’m sorry, Finley. I wish I hadn’t said that.”
Her eyes shift to my face. She gives me a stoic look that makes my queasy stomach knot up.
“Quite all right.” She blinks down at her boots before locking her focus on me. “Not untrue,” she says softly. “I didn’t speak for ten years…after. I’m aware that I omitted this fact from my tale of woe back in the burrow. But who’s to say you wanted to know? Even if you had,” she murmurs, “I suppose I didn’t want to tell you.”
“Why?”
She tugs her eyes away from mine and starts to walk again, her arms rigid at her sides and her gaze set on the trail. I follow her for a long minute, hating myself for how bad my hands are shaking, for how hard it is to breathe. My heart pounds like a fucking drum, and I feel like my chest is empty. Like I’m only half here.
