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“Like that…it’s weird.”
My hand flops down to my side and then I gesture to my dad. “You’re hallucinating. I am smiling totally normal. And anyway, how did you find me?”
“I drove to your parents and when you weren’t there, I texted Basil.”
I glance over at my dad who is talking to a customer and then meet Finn’s fiery eyes.
“Ah, well, doesn’t matter. I’m almost done. You don’t need to wait for me to finish. I can grab a ride home.”
“Like hell you are. Why didn’t you text me where you were when you ran away earlier,” Finn says, moving to help my dad.
“I didn’t run away. I walked briskly because I didn’t want to bother you on yourdate.”
That’s a four-letter word now.
“It wasn’t a date! We’re just friends. Like I told you before.”
“Yeah, well you were holding hands. Friends don’t hold hands, Finn.”
His eyebrows hit his hairline because we hold hands. Always have, always will. “Are you fucking serious?”
Yes, no. Maybe? I don’t know. I just sigh and let it go because I don’t feel like arguing. I move to help my dad, limping slightly because I may have overdone it a little. Just a tad. But the physical exertion helped me forget what Finn was doing all morning.
On a not-date with Archer. Whispering and touching each other. And probably talking about sex.
“You’re limping,” Finn grumbles, and I roll my eyes.
“I am.”
“Let me take you home.”
I eye him, watching him run a hand through his hair, his eyes a little wild.
“Ugh. Fine,” I say, rolling over much too easy, but then again, I am a pushover. Plus, Finn looks like he’s ready to burn the world down, and poor Mr. Anderson really loves this place.
I shout over to my dad. “We’re going to go now.”
“Oh yeah. Cool. See you later?” my dad asks.
I wave and nod. “Yeah.”
Finn sighs, looking relieved and his hand slips around my waist, his pinkie finding its home on my skin. But it feels wrong this time, a little off.
Maybe because he was with someone else. Those hands were touching someone else.
I take a small step to the side and his hand falls against his thigh.
Finn looks at me confused.
“Uh, um, I’m going to go tell Mr. Anderson we’re leaving,” I say, shooting a thumb over my shoulder, feeling shifty and sick and just really sad.
Finn tucks his hands into his pants pockets as I move away from him. Mr. Anderson stuffs some bills into my hand and I tuck them away without argument. He insists every time. There’s no use fighting it.
“Ready?” Finn asks, his hands still hidden from view.
I nod, swallowing a small lump in my throat.
We should talk about this. I should say something. But it gets shuffled around and makes a home under the hypothetical rug.
