With a proud smile, she says, “The King of Edging.”
Layla whistles. “Damn, girl.”
“He’s the one from the private party?” Harlow asks, remembering what I told them two weeks ago.
I can say that, right? Surely, they don’t know Finn frequents a kink club, of sorts. “Yes.”
“So,” Layla says, twirling a strand of hair, “will you see him again?”
My heart sags. “It’s complicated, but I don’t think so.”
Layla’s brow knits. “Why the hell not? He sent you panties. A man doesn’t send an after-sex gift unless he wants to see you again.”
Oh, god. Oh, fuck. Why didn’t I anticipate this part of the confession? The pressing. The questions. The why not.
But I don’t have to explain the specifics. Sometimes, maybe most of the time, romance doesn’t last anyway. “It was just a one-time thing. We’re both busy with our lives. Maybe it’s for the best,” I say. I glance around at their sympathetic faces and…fuck it.
“I don’t really trust that easily. My college ex read my journals and used all the details in them against me for weeks.”
“What?” Layla’s upper lip curls with disgust.
“He did,” I confirm. “So, it’s not like I’m dying to have a boyfriend.” I pop up from the bed and make my way to my closet. “But I am dying to go out.”
That’s true too. I’m grateful I got that out so they’ll know and understand me, but mostly, I’m ready to have some fun.
Later that night, when I’m alone again in my home, the scent of lavender calming me and the stars my only companions, I take out my journal. The card slips out, and I look at the front—an image of stars in a blue sky—then the words inside. I’ve memorized them. I’ve known them for a long time, but still, I read them. It always brings me a sense of peace, this quote from The Little Prince.
Then, I tell Willa what I did tonight.
When I re-read my secret language to her, I want to shake this record of my thoughts at Brandon. Shake it with a satisfied sneer. You’d never be able to figure me out now.
Never.
Then I lock it up.
I don’t ever want anyone to read my private thoughts again.
14
BEFORE HIM
Finn
As I head to meet Tate on Sunday morning, I feel like I’m putting on a mask.
It’s not something I want to do with my friend. I detest lying, but there’s no getting around it. When my brother hid his relationship with Layla from his son, back when they were first dating, I advised Nick to stop sneaking around. But this weekend, I was the one sneaking around. But this weekend is over. It’s behind me.
I need to get into the exercise zone ASAP. I spot Tate stretching his quads next to the bench by the entrance to the High Line and jog over to him.
He looks up, business as usual, and gives a curt nod.
I act like nothing has changed since Thursday. Which, I suppose, it hasn’t.
“Surprised you showed up,” he says gruffly. He does nearly everything gruffly, except write airtight contracts. That’s why I like him. He’s straightforward in life and diligent in business.
“Because I’m usually such a no-show,” I deadpan.
He clears his throat, a reminder that I bailed in advance yesterday.
Yeah, I’m not going there. I nod to the running path, which at seven a.m. is already teeming with weekend warriors. “I stretched at home. Let’s do this, old man,” I say.
He rolls his eyes. “Fuck you.”
It’s an easy target, but I take it. When your buddy is eight years older than you, you can always rib him for being old.
The trash talk covers up my guilt and so does the exercise.
The morning air is cool, the light catching the edges of buildings, creating a golden glow. We weave through the stream of joggers, hitting a brisk pace quickly.
“So, how was your Friday night?” Tate asks. Since I didn’t run yesterday, it was inevitable he’d ask. Still sucks though. “Better than it’s been over the last couple of years?”
The twisting? It’s a fucking knife right now in my gut.
Tate was there for me when things with Marilyn went south—there in exactly the way I needed, giving me a focus as his workout partner, finding triathlons that raised money for causes from cancer to children’s hospitals, and developing a training schedule for running, biking, and swimming.
Suited his needs too. He’s become addicted to our races. He’d joined our local running club a few months after his daughter’s death, and he’d once told me running was his therapy.
“I have no complaints,” I say, then shift the topic. “Except that you’re a fucking turtle this morning.”
I peel ahead, running faster, needing distance. Maybe in a few more days it’ll be easier, this…lying by omission.
But Tate’s resilient. He hates losing. So he pounds the pavement relentlessly until he catches up. When he does, I make sure I take the reins of the conversation. “What about you? How’s Liz doing with the new hires?”
He talks about his wife’s projects at her company as we go.
This is freedom for me, outpacing other runners as we push further and further out of our comfort zones. My heart races as I outrun the recent years of heartache, maybe even the other night of pleasure too. My lungs burn and my quads scream, but with each passing mile, the unease in me lessens, like I’ve burned off the emotions.
Soon enough, we slow down, nearing the end of our run.
“Big week ahead,” Tate says, his breath coming fast as we veer to an exit on the path. “The paperwork is all done. I’m seriously fucking proud of this deal.”
I clap his shoulder, proud of him too. “You should be,” I say, slowing to a light jog. “You made it all happen.”
A rare smile shifts his lips. The man is stoic so much of the time, rarely letting an emotion through. I understand why. He’s been through hell and doesn’t want to feel pain like that again.
We slow to a walk and head to our usual coffee cart, just off the running path. “Thanks for taking a chance on this old cop,” Tate says, earnestly.
I laugh. “Easiest decision ever.”
“No, I mean it,” he says, sounding more vulnerable. “You were my first client. You took a big chance. I want to do right by you, Finn.”
Ah, hell.
The knife goes deeper, digs farther. “You have, man. You have,” I say, focusing only on this deal.
I don’t want to linger on Friday night, and why I invited Tate’s daughter over. Or why I didn’t cancel before she arrived. I don’t even have a “heat of the moment” excuse. My night with Jules was one hundred percent premeditated.
I know why I invited her, why I didn’t cancel—because I wanted her.
But in the light of day, that reasoning doesn’t hold up. That’s flimsy and trivial compared to a friendship that’s real and true. Best to focus on that.
Tate came to me when he passed the bar. I took a chance on him when I ran my own venture firm, farming out smaller contracts. He proved his mettle. When Nick and I recently merged our firms into Strong Ventures, I told my brother we were now one of Tate’s clients.