“Ordering for someone else is a deal breaker.”
“It’s called chivalry.”
“It’s called steamrolling.”
“Steamrolling sounds vaguely dirty.”
“Steamrolling sounds horrifically filthy.”
They agree to never use the word steamrolling again. He segues to sex talk that sounds deliciously naughty, and they wind up talking about a million other things, like music and risks and friends. That feels dangerous to his lady friend—every path the conversation takes.
I send the draft of the first episode to Bruce and cross my fingers that he’ll like it, then find a message on my phone from Tom.
Seeing his name makes me feel giddy, so I tell my feelings to settle the hell down while I slide open the text.
10
Finley
Tom: Since timing is everything, what time should I pick you up for tomorrow’s practice date?
Finley: Seven is a perfect date time for dinner. But we’re not doing dinner. So five, please.
Tom: Should I bring a snorkel?
Finley: Why on earth would you bring a snorkel?
Tom: You never know what risks we might be taking. It’s good to be prepared.
Finley: I assure you, there is no risk of snorkeling in or around Hope Falls.
Tom: Maybe a blowtorch, then? A bowling ball? A badminton racket?
Finley: Do you think we’re going to weld, join a league, or engage in lawn sports?
Tom: Fine, fine. Just surprise me. But just so you know, my badminton game is on fire.
Finley: *makes note to challenge you to badminton soon* Also, you’re such a weirdo. :) P.S. Dress casually.
Tom: I can do that. Also, I think it’s cool that you love roller coasters.
Finley: I think it’s cool that you design them.
Tom: You should ride one of mine sometime.
Finley: Is this you trying to trick me into naughty talk again?
Tom: No. I mean, maybe. That is going to be pretty hard for me to resist doing. But I’m serious. I’m ridiculously proud of my work, and seeing a thrill-seeker like yourself ride one would be a total high.
Finley: I would love to ride your rides. And no, don’t go there!
Tom: *engage resistance to sex talk mode*
Finley: Do you have that mode?
Tom: I do. I absolutely do. Also, I was thinking about what you said about timing and chasing laughs. Makes me realize we’re both pursuing the same prize in our jobs—that moment of elation.
Finley: I like that description.
Tom: It’s a good gig, isn’t it? Loving what you do?
I smile as I settle onto the couch, enjoying the direction our texts have taken.
Finley: Yes. I’m lucky I get to do this. I only hope I can keep doing it.
Tom: Keep up the timing and you will. You make me laugh.
Finley: I guess that’s helpful, since you don’t want to sleep with me.
Tom: Your laughter keeps me totally focused on not sleeping with you.
I want to tell him it’s the same for me. But that’d be a lie.
11
Tom
“You’re doing it wrong.”
I flip Nash the bird as I shave. “If I’m doing it wrong, it’s because you taught me wrong.”
My brother points at me from his perch on the corner of my hotel bed, surrounded by bags of produce he picked up at the Sunday farmers market this morning for his restaurant, a few towns over from Hope Falls. “What have I told you? You need to shave in the opposite direction of the hair.”
“Oh right. Of course. How did I ever forget that key detail?”
“Just like I taught you.” His tone is notably evil, as it often is.
I rinse off the stubble and shaving cream then bring the razor back to my jaw. “I know, jackass. You tried to trick me into shaving the wrong way when I was fifteen.”
Nash cackles, a familiar sound I’ve heard my whole life. “It worked though. You totally fell for it.” He runs a hand over his shiny skull. He says he’s bald by choice, and since he shaves his head nearly every day, I have no clue if his hair would grow in if he let it. But he likes the look and claims the ladies do too.
“I was fifteen! I trusted you guys! And you were eighteen then.”
He waves a hand dismissively as he roots around in his bags. “And look at your handsome face. Not a single nick. You’ll look so pretty when you see our cousin,” he says, since I’m grabbing a bite with our cousin Gabe before a quick meeting with a contractor. “Also, you didn’t actually get hurt the first time you shaved backward, so don’t cry wolf.”
My lips curve up in a grin, thinking of Finley’s “raised by wolves” comment last night about guys who went to all-boys schools. The way she said it was cute—she shook her head, sort of bemused, her wild, curly hair moving back and forth, her lips looking all mischievous. If only she knew how close she was to the truth.
While I work the razor over my jaw in the hotel mirror, he finds a cauliflower head and holds it up, Simba-style. “How beautiful is this cauliflower?”
“As beautiful as your bald head is not.”
“Bald by choice is beautiful.”
I smirk at him, running a hand over my hair. My thick hair. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Enjoy the rug while you have it.” He points in the direction of my face. “But you do know you hardly had any facial hair when you were fifteen? It was like a layer of peach fuzz. When you came to us and said you wanted to shave, we had no choice. We had to fuck with you.”
“Yes, you had no other option but to fuck with me at all times. No other options existed.”
He shrugs. “Dad was busy with work, so it fell to us to raise you as our own. We had to toughen you up to prepare you for the world,” Nash remarks as he tucks the cauliflower back into his bag. Our father’s management consulting business grew exponentially larger when we were teens, which meant he traveled more, so my brothers did more of the heavy lifting with me than my dad did.
“Like wolves,” I say, testing the idea, since all four of us went to the same all-boys school.
Nash lifts his face skyward and howls. “We were the wolves. We were wolves raising wolves.”
“I’d say that’s an apt description. When I was learning to drive, you told me the windshield wipers needed to be on all the time. It’s a wonder you didn’t try to convince me to put on a condom backward.”
Nash scoffs. “No way. Can’t mess with that stuff. I’ve spent thirty-one years trying to prevent that accident, and you seem to take after me rather than Gannon and Ransom, those seed-spreaders.”
I correct him as I swipe the razor down. “Thirty-one years? I hope you haven’t been practicing safe sex since you were born.”
“Fine. I’ve been practicing it since I was fourteen.”
I give him a look. “I remember you sneaking out to date, but were you really only fourteen when you started?”
He puffs out his chest. “When you got it, you got it. I can’t help that the ladies wanted a piece of me.”
“You seemed older than that, but maybe it’s just because you were older than me.”
“You were a late bloomer, Kyler.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “But not me. The ladies have always thought I was hot.”
His use of my real name snags on my ears. I haven’t heard it used much in the last few days, and it makes me wonder if I could pull off a name change. “Hey, Nash?”
“Yeah?”
“What do you think about the name Tom?”
“Your middle name, you mean?”
“That’s the one. You like it?”
“Is this your way of telling me you want me to call you by your middle name? If I did the same, then I’d be Larry, and that’s boring as fuck. Can you even imagine?” He affects a higher-pitched voice, on the cusp of pleasure. “Oh, Larry. Give it to me, Larry. Right there . . . Larry.” He shudders.
“That wasn’t entirely my purpose, but yes, point well taken.”
He rises, setting all his bags on the bed. “The way I see it is this—Nash has served me well, but if you don’t like Kyler, change it.”
“It’s that simple?”
He smiles, the genuine way, not the I’m-going-to-give-you-shit way. “Yeah, change it. I’ll still give you hell, but it’s your name. Do what you want.”