That is some seriously cool shit. I never know when inspiration might strike for a new ride concept, so I’m always on the lookout. I open the door and wander down the block, where every single yard on the street boasts some sort of life-size cartoonish sculpture made from what looks like recycled junkyard metal.
As I snap photos, I wonder if Finley knows about this block.
Crazy, wacky Finley who likes curiosities. I slide open the screen on my phone.
Tom: Did you know there’s a wicked witch with a muffler for a nose and hair that looks like it’s from an old box spring flying across a front lawn in Hope Falls?
Finley: She’s creepy and beautiful, and she lives next door to the Batmobile. Also, you can sit on any of the sculptures and no one cares.
Tom: Is that so?
Finley: Pinky swear you won’t be arrested.
Tom: Did you feel that? It’s my leg being pulled.
Finley: Okay, maybe not arrested. You’ll just be yelled at. Make that, yelled at loudly. Correction—yelled at loudly and possibly run off the property.
Tom: With rakes, hoes, and other gardening tools shaken at me angrily?
Finley: Shovels too. Don’t forget shovels. They’re particularly fearsome when shaken angrily.
Tom: But not when shaken gently, kindly, or lovingly?
Finley: No one knows. No one has ever tried to shake a shovel gently, kindly, or lovingly.
Tom: So that was your warning not to climb the yard art?
Finley: I’m thoughtful like that.
Tom: Definitely appreciate the tip, since I was tempted to climb all over this yellow school bus driven by a curly-haired guy who looks like Buzz Lightyear.
Finley: The bus is so cute! It’s one mile from my house. Stay there.
Tom: Are we meeting now?
Finley: You’re busy looking at art in yards. I crushed my page count for the day. Seems we ought to gawk at junk together. Agree/disagree?
I stare at my phone as I stroll past the bus, not entirely sure what to make of this woman and her eagerness. Finley doesn’t even know Cassandra, so I’m not sure how much help she can be in my quest.
My phone buzzes, and I figure it’s another text from her, but it’s from my brother.
Ransom: Kyler, this is Delia, texting you from Ransom’s phone. Don’t worry! I have faith you’ll find Cassandra! Trust the new girl.
Me: Did you take my brother’s phone?
Ransom: Of course. He’s so ridiculous, but I can’t let him give you a hard time. Also, keep it up. You’re such a romantic at heart.
Me: Yeah?
Ransom: I swear! You should show up at her place of work next and carry her off. It worked for me. I swear it’ll work for you!
See? I am good at romance. My brother’s wife thinks so. Obviously, Finley is wrong. She said women don’t like big gestures. Or wait. Is that what she said? I flash back to last night, snapping my fingers. Ah, she said my grand gesture sucked, for many reasons. But now I wonder—did it? Do I have to be a good singer to pull off the boom-box move? My brother is no Richard Gere, but his big gesture worked like a charm.
Wait.
Wait just a hot minute.
How did I not see it sooner? I bet Finley wants to sleep with me. Yes, that’s it. She totally wants to bang me. Finley doesn’t really want to help me win Cassandra.
She wants to seduce me.
I let that prospect roll around in my head for a few seconds, picturing Finley with come-hither eyes, pouty lips, a flip of her hair. The image is both incongruous with the woman I met and weirdly appealing too. It seems my brain thinks Finley’s hot in an adorable sort of oddball way.
Trouble is, I can’t be thinking of New Girl as hot. She’s Wrong Girl, and I’m a man on a mission to win back Right Girl.
Me: Thanks for the advice, Delia!
Ransom: Bro, that was epic punking. You do know that was me pretending to be Delia, right?
I groan and drag my hand over my face. He’s such an asshole, and I’m such an idiot for falling for his tricks.
Me: This is me ignoring your texts.
Then I think about Finley again, doing that come-hither thing, and I like the image more than I should.
I shake my head to clear it while texting her to find out where she wants to meet.
7
Tom
Ten minutes later, her mint-green bike appears on the crest of a hill as I stare at a rusty fire engine assembled from what looks to be old motorcycle parts and manned by three cartoonish metal dudes that were once water pipes. As I stare at it, I calculate the weight, the angles, the amount of pressure the structure can hold. This is the part of the answer I didn’t share with Midge—I went into roller-coaster design because math and I were best friends growing up, and nothing intrigued me more than figuring out how structures of all sorts of shapes and sizes worked.
But I shove formulas out of my head when Finley’s a few feet away. She stops, hops off the bike, kicks the kickstand, and wiggles an eyebrow. At least I think she’s wiggling an eyebrow. Hard to see beneath these crazy sunglasses she wears. They’re gold and covered with plastic flowers that look like the kind on a decorated cake.
“It’s hard to take you seriously with those sunglasses on,” I say, pointing at her freckled face.
“Who said anything about taking me seriously?”
“Well, now that we’re on the same page . . .”
“Please don’t take me seriously at all. Unless I’m telling you what to do. Then take me very seriously,” she says, stopping in front of me. I’m not sure if I should hug her or shake her hand or something else entirely.
I point to the glasses instead. “What’s the story with the kooky shades? Are they part of a costume?”
She whips them off. “I don’t have a desk job.”
My brow knits. “And that means?”
“If you don’t have a desk job, that means you can and should regularly go pantless.” She counts off on one finger. “Write in a bikini on the porch.” She adds another finger, and the image of her in a bikini conveniently pops in front of my eyes. “And wear fun sunglasses.”
“What color bikini?” I ask, because I’d like to fill in the paint by numbers image precisely.
“A polka-dot one, of course,” she says with a wink, then parks the shades over my glasses, steps back, and appraises her handiwork. “I say we need to get you some crazy shades too.”
She reaches for her phone, snaps a picture, and sends it to me.
I take off the shades, since it’s hard to see through two layers. “Is this where we do the sunglass-shopping montage scene?”
She laughs, pushing the glasses on top of her head. “Are we living in Pretty Woman now? Don’t tell me you want me to take you shopping on Rodeo Drive?”
“Of all the elements of Pretty Woman, that’s the one you key in on?”
“Instead, should I hire you to be my boy toy?”
I part my lips to speak, but I don’t know how to answer her. Or that. She rocks back and forth on her heels like she’s waiting for me to say something, and I realize I don’t know what I’m doing with her. I don’t understand her.
Is this her ruse to get me in bed? Calling me a boy toy?
Truth is, I wouldn’t mind getting naked with her because, hello, hot chick, but I need to keep my eye on the prize, so I’m going to have to cut this seduction strategy of hers off at the knees. “I want to level with you. I’m not interested in you that way.”
She blinks, coughs, and then laughs. For several seconds. Okay, more like half a minute. “I’m sorry. Say that again.” She gestures for me to keep going.
“I’m interested in Cassandra.”
She points at her chest. “And not me, right? I just want to make sure I understand. It’s a touch confusing, and I don’t want to miss a beat.”
I frown, totally confused now, because isn’t it self-evident? “That’s what I said.”
She shakes her head, amused. “Tom, I need you to know something.”
“Yes?”
She brings her hand to her chest. “I solemnly swear I have not once thought of you naked. I absolutely haven’t dirty-dreamed of you. And I’m definitely not harboring delusions about stripping you down to nothing and having my wild, wicked way with you.”