The Hot Shot(59)

I left Finn and New Orleans like a thief on the run. I'm not proud of  it. I should have said goodbye. But panic took hold of me, and I needed  to see a familiar face that wasn't Finn's. I went to New York, my  hometown, and to James, my oldest friend, thinking that maybe distance  would make it easier to breathe again, and figure out what the hell just  happened.

Finn doesn't call or come storming after me, demanding we talk things out.

Did I expect him to? I can't say. It's horrible to admit that I'd wanted  him to maybe show even a little bit of resistance. But he let me go.

A week out, I get a text from Charlie, asking for my address. Since I'm  not trying to hide, I give it to him. Charlie sends me the bulk of my  clothes.

I cry myself to sleep that night.

Weeks pass. I throw myself into work. And I guess Finn does too. He wins  one game and then the next. I cry again when I watch him celebrate on  the field with his teammates, the sight of his smiling, victorious face  too much to bear. But I'm not a masochist, and when they go to interview  him, I turn the TV off.

Two days after they officially announce Finn and his team are in the  playoffs, a New Orleans gossip e-mag I subscribe to shows a picture of  Britt and Finn walking into a restaurant, Finn's hand protectively on  her arm as they shy away from the camera. Another grainy image of them  siting at a table for two follows.

I cry myself to sleep for a second time.

Do I think he's with Britt now? My heart says no. My brain keeps  flashing to the image of them together, and I am sick with bitter  jealousy. Part of me thinks I deserve this. It's my own fucking fault  for leaving. Another, far more angry part of me says, fuck that noise.

Ironically, every other aspect of my life is fantastic. Michael's SoHo  loft is so prefect it makes my bones hurt with envy. I remember that  he's from New York real estate royalty and probably doesn't have to work  a day of his life if he chose not to. And I'm grateful all over again  that he offered me this opportunity.

The project is a dream come true. Every day, I look forward to working. I  meet established Oscar winning actors who flirt shamelessly, and young  Hollywood A-listers who act like overgrown boys, which, unfortunately  reminds me of Finn and his guys.

I keep waiting for someone to throw attitude or be a dick, but it  doesn't happen. It's as if the stars have aligned and fate is telling me  this is exactly where I need to be.

I hate fate.

I'm sitting in the sun-drenched living room of Michael's loft, curled up  on his oversized Italian leather couch, and eating a New York bagel  with apple cinnamon cream cheese, when Finn calls.

I should have known he'd hunt me down when I was the most content I'd  been since leaving him. Face prickling with heat and heart pounding  hard, I stare at the phone, his name lit up on the screen, as if it  might up and bite me.

I don't want to pick it up. But the damn phone won't stop. It rings and  vibrates, making the coffee table rattle. My fingers dig into my thighs.  Finn.

Answer it, you weenie, it's just Finn, for fucks sake, not Satan.

Grumbling, I snatch the phone up.

"Hey." I sound like I've been eating glass.

"Hey." The timbre of his voice, rough and unsure, lodges between my ribs and digs in.

I close my eyes and bring my knees to my chest as if I can protect myself.

Finn clears his throat, but doesn't speak.

"I should have called you."

"I wanted to call you."

We speak over each other, and he huffs out a small laugh, before his voice lowers to something hard and tight. "You left me."

A shard of guilt goes through my heart. "I said I was leaving."

"But not like that. Not without saying goodbye."

"I'm sorry."

"It hurt, Chess. We deserved more than that."

A lump swells in my throat. "I know. It was shitty."

Finn doesn't say anything for a long moment. But when he finally speaks, it's a strained rush. "I took Britt out to dinner."

Hearing the words from his mouth makes it more real.

"I saw pictures of it." I lick my lips and taste salt. Another fat tear runs down the side of my nose, and I bat it away.                       
       
           


///
       

Finn makes a sound. "I was afraid of that."

I don't know what to say to that, so I stay silent.

He sighs, long and tired. "I wanted you to hear it from me."

A wave of dizziness comes over me, and I rest my head against the couch pillow.

"I'm trying to be her friend," he goes on. "Like you suggested."

As if he's trying to appease me? I don't feel appeased. I'm miserable. I swipe at my eyes. "That's good. She needs a friend."

That it's the truth doesn't make it any easier for me to picture them together.

Silence descends.

"How's work?" Finn blurts out, as if forced.

"Good. Great. Tomorrow I'm photographing The Avengers. Well, the guys, that is."

A choked sound comes through the phone then abruptly cuts off. "Naked Avengers?"

I almost smile. "They get to hold their weapons. Iron Man's wearing his glove."

"Oh, well at least his hand is covered," Finn grumbles.

My lip twitches. But it's not enough. Our easy flow is broken. And we fall silent once more.

When Finn speaks again, his voice is so low and hoarse, I almost don't hear it. Almost.

"I miss you."

My heart kicks against my ribs, and I clutch the phone. "I miss you too."

Tell me to come home. Tell me you need me.

"You were right, though," he rasps before clearing his throat. "I needed to get some clarity. Figure out what's important."

Something inside me cracks. I think it's my heart. I draw in a ragged  breath. "Me too." Don't cry. You're fine. Fine. "This job has been a  dream come true. Really, really. Good."

That's descriptive. You don't sound at all like you're falling apart.

He pauses. "I'm glad. You deserve … .good things. We made the playoffs."

"I heard. I'm …  so happy for you."

Someone in the background yells for Finn. I close my eyes, knowing my  time is up. He speaks at stronger now, but more distant. "I've got to  go."

I feel every cold mile between us.

"Yeah. Me too. I've been so busy … " I swallow hard.

"That's good. I'm glad."

God, we're horrible now.

"Good luck, Finn."

It's so quiet on his end, I think he's hung up. But then he speaks, his voice soft and full of regret. "Sleep well, Chess."

It's only after the line is dead and I'm back at work that I remember  he'd said the same words to me before. On the night we met, when I'd  left him at my apartment door, intent on walking right out of his life.



* * *



Finn



* * *



The door to my condo opens. I don't bother looking up from the TV. I  know it's not who I want to see. Keys jangle and then Charlie walks into  the room.

"Manny," he says, glancing at me then the TV. "What are you watching?"

"Singles." My voice sounds as if it had been dragged over rust before breaking free.

Charlie takes a seat next to me. "Never seen it."

"You're missing out on the glory that is Cliff Poncier and Citizen Dick."

"Citizen Dick?" He makes a sound of amusement.

I cut him a glance. "They were underrated."

"If you say so."

We watch for a few minutes. Every time Steve and Linda are on screen, my chest hurts. You broke his heart, Linda.

Yes, I am a fucking masochist.

"This looks like a chick movie," Charlie says out of the blue.

"According to Chess, every movie is a chick movie." It isn't easy saying her name out loud, but I refuse to make her a ghost.

He's silent of a moment. "I guess she has a point."

"She usually does." Fuck. I need some antacid.

Charlie turns my way. "You talk to her lately?"

"Yes."

I don't expand on the disaster that was our phone call. The conversation  had been so stilted, it was like pulling teeth just to get the words  out.

His stare is a weighty thing. "You going to go get her?"

When she's in the middle of her dream job? With The Avengers? How the fuck do I compete against Iron Man? Or-fuck-Thor?

"She isn't lost, Charles."

He pulls a bottle of green juice from his backpack and hands it to me. "It's about time to get going for the game."

Normally, I'd drive myself. But this is a playoff game. When Charlie  asked me if I wanted a ride to the stadium, I realized, that he really  wanted to drive me. He wanted to be a part of this. He deserves to be.  So I have myself a chauffeur, even if he's a nagging one.                       
       
           


///
       

"We have at least fifteen minutes to spare." Because it's in my hand, I  open the bottle and take a drink. I'm not going to say I love the green  health drink because I have working taste buds, but it does send a nice  shot of energy running through my system.