Oliver swallows, points his fork at me. “You two are thinking about doing the long-distance thing?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t know what the fuck we’re doing yet.”
“You like it here, yeah?” Oliver asks. “In San Diego?”
“Yeah, of course. But I have to go back eventually.” My food sits, practically untouched in front of me, and I push it around with my fork. I suddenly have no desire to eat. “I mean, not eventually, but probably in the next day or two.”
“You’ll make it work,” Ansel says. “Harlow’s not going to leave her mom right now, but—”
My head snaps up and I blink over to him, the same sense of unease I felt last night in bed flares in my chest. “Why wouldn’t she leave her mom?”
“Well, how she’s . . .” Ansel’s words trail off and he glances nervously over to Oliver. “Shit.”
Oliver is a rock, usually completely unreadable, but I know him better than almost anyone. The way he shifts in his seat, he’s definitely uncomfortable. And then it all clicks, and before either of them have even said anything, I know.
Harlow mentioning that her mother wasn’t feeling well. Mr. Furley asking after Madeline. Harlow’s flashes of desperation and need for escape.
Harlow’s mom is sick sick. Not just with the flu, or a lingering cold.
“Jesus Christ,” I groan, pressing my hands to my face.
“Breast cancer,” Oliver says quietly. “I think . . . stage . . . advanced? She had surgery a couple of weeks ago, and is between rounds of chemo.”
“Stage three?” I guess.
He nods. “That sounds right. From what I hear she’s doing all right, for now.”
I can’t do anything but stare down at my plate, a familiar ache pulsing fresh in my chest. I’m not sure who I’m madder at: Harlow for keeping this from me, for telling everyone but me, or at everyone else for keeping her secret. I told her everything and she couldn’t even tell me this? The one thing I would have understood. The only thing I could have offered her.
I drop my fork and the sound rings through the restaurant, louder than the shitty rock song playing on the TV overhead, louder than the other customers. What little I’ve eaten sits heavy, leaden in my stomach, and I’m not sure if I want to throw it up or get the fuck out of here.
“Finn,” Oliver says, reaching out to grip my arm. “Look, I don’t know why she didn’t tell you, okay? But it wasn’t my secret to tell. I swear to God.”
“I know.”
“She had to have had her reasons,” Ansel says quietly.
“Yeah, thanks. That’s super comforting.”
“Think about this before you do anything crazy, okay? I fucked up so bad with Mia . . . just, hear her out.”
I stand, pulling out my wallet and tossing a twenty to the table.
“Where are you going?” Oliver says.
I shake my head. I can feel my pulse pounding inside my ribs, hear the rush of blood in my head. My heart hurts for her, but I’m frustrated and confused about why she didn’t just tell me. My face feels hot and I’m not sure if I want to find Harlow and ask what the fuck is going on . . . or if I just want to hit the road and drive.
“I’ve got some calls to make,” I say instead. “I haven’t been the best captain or brother lately and I need to catch up. They’re doing some repairs and I need to check in on a few things. I’ll talk to you guys later.”
Chapter THIRTEEN
Harlow
ONLY ONE HOUR into my five hour shift at NBC and I get a call from Salvatore, telling me he’s agreed to my proposal. He loved my idea, and also? He is going to find a place for me on the staff of his new production company.
“No way in hell you should still be shuffling papers at that place,” he’d said. “You’ve got places to be, kiddo.” And for the first time, I agreed.
I’m ready.
I can barely concentrate on the giant stacks of folders I need to file, what copies I’m making or whose coffee I’m pouring. Finally, I think we might have a solution that works for everyone: It could save Finn’s family business . . . and it could allow me to be closer to him far more often.
The first thing I do Monday afternoon when I get out of work is text Finn: You at Oliver’s?
I see him begin to type, and then stop. And then I’m in the elevator, and leaving the building, and walking to my car, staring at my phone and nearly walking into a telephone pole and getting hit by a bicycle because I’m not watching where I’m going.
I’m already almost home by the time his text appears: Yep.
OK, headed there, I reply, laughing over how long it took him to write one word.
It also takes him forever to answer the door, even though his truck is parked out front. And when he does, he looks . . . bad.
Sour, even.
“Hey,” I say, stepping close and stretching to kiss him. I can tell he’s just showered, but he didn’t shave. He’s scratchy and smells like soap and coffee. But he doesn’t bend to me, and instead offers the stubbly angle of his jaw.
“Hey.” He steps back, avoiding eye contact, and letting me walk past him into the house.
“You’re awfully . . . surly,” I mumble, sitting down on Oliver’s couch. Unease bubbles in my belly, and I study his expression, mentally rifling through everything I’ve said or done in the past twenty-four hours that might make him act this way. “Did I do something?”
He hums, shrugging, and then asks, “So what’s up?”
I pause for a beat; he didn’t answer my question at all. But the good news I have pushes forward in my thoughts. Whatever his foul mood may be, I have the power to cheer him up. “I came over because I wanted to tell you something. Something really good, actually.”
“Something good?” he says, looking at my face. His expression turns from dark into hopeful. “Is it good news about your mom?”
I freeze, not sure I heard him right. “What did you just say?”
“Your mom,” he repeats. “Is it good news about her?”
“How . . . ?” I pause, closing my eyes as my heart drops in my chest. I haven’t told Finn yet, which means he heard it from someone else. “No. I . . . how did . . . ?” I trip around, trying to find my footing. Who told him and what does he know? My stomach sinks. Now I understand his mood. “Finn, I was going to tell you about that, but that isn’t what—”