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“Where?” I ask.
“Astoria,” he responds.
“Jackson Heights,” I reply.
I like Sid more, suddenly.
“We met there, actually,” Tasha grins. “My dumb ass took the train the wrong way…got completely turned around. This knight in shining armor took it upon himself to lead me back to safety.”
“And introduce her to falafels in the process.”
Tasha says, “Stop,” and smacks his shoulder, but she’s laughing.
I like them as a couple. They complement each other well—her brash and amicable attitude matched with his quiet charm.
I’m also a sucker for a happy ending. But that’s just me.
Tasha’s inquisitive eyes flicker between the two of us.
“Where did you two meet?”
Finley puts a bite of turkey burger in her mouth. The rotations of her jaw slow as I can tell she’s trying to work out the best way to answer that question.
I let her off the hook and answer for both of us:
“I killed her father in front of her.”
A pregnant silence hangs over the table. The fireplace cracks.
Finley laughs suddenly and touches my arm. “He’s joking. He worked for the Rossi family, yes. Bodyguard.”
“Was it intense?” Sid asks. I can tell by his eyes what he really wants to ask, though, which is how many people have you stuffed in the trunk of your car?
Finley keeps her hand on my arm. I feel the heat of her palm against my bare skin.
“It was basically glorified babysitting,” Finley says and turns to me hopefully. “Right?”
She wants to make her friends comfortable. I want to tell her comfort will get them killed—but the dinner table isn’t the place. Or the time.
Instead, I play along. “Right.”
“Oh,” Tasha says, but her eyes seem hesitant to accept the answer.
Smart girl.
After dinner, Sid and I clear the table. If the women cook, the men clean. Tasha’s rules.
I like this woman more and more.
They light their fireplace—it’s nothing more than brick and iron, but Sid shows me how he tricked it out with gas inserts so you can light it with a twist of a switch, no lighter required.
They have a surprisingly large assembly of board games (Sid works in IT, and Tasha insists on cutting down on his screen time), so we set up a game of Apples to Apples in front of the licking flames.
I haven’t played this before, but I think I’m following the rules, and Finley sits side by side on the ottoman with me, her thigh pressed against mine, so she corrects me if I misstep.
I’ve only had a single glass of wine, but I’m hazy. The painkillers are wearing off, and the hole in my chest is starting to throb, the pain like red-hot fingers squeezing my shoulder, relaxing, and then squeezing again.
The fireplace provides some warmth in the high-ceilinged house, but Finley still hugs her long-sleeved arms against the nighttime chill. I pull a throw blanket off the back of the couch and lay it over her shoulders. She thanks me and pulls the blanket around her, cocooning up in it.
