Slip of the Tongue (7 page)

But Finn is a stranger. I don’t know his quirks, his telltale signs, his habits. Whatever Finn’s trying to say, it’s personal. We’re just neighbors, though. I need to remember that. And based on the fact that I’m curious about what he can’t get out, I have to stop him.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “You don’t need to explain anything.”

“But I want—”

I hold up my hands. “I don’t. I don’t want. Nate is probably waiting.”

“Of course.” He glances at his hands, his expression fallen. It makes me wonder if he wishes someone were waiting for him too.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to rub that in.”

He raises his head a little. His melancholy look morphs to curious. “Rub what in?”

“That someone’s waiting for me, and you’re—” I stop before I put my foot in my mouth.

“What?” he prompts.

Alone
. It’s my turn to look sheepish. I want to tell him good luck with his apartment. Moving is one way to learn who your real friends are, but decorating is a whole other beast. I hope he has someone he can call. Instead I say, “Never mind. Goodnight.”

“Night.” He unlocks his door and goes inside.

I take Ginger into my dark apartment. It’s past six, and Nathan isn’t home. I lean back against the door. After a warm, easy evening with Finn, I can’t help acutely feeling the cold distance Nathan has put between us.

Finn may be alone in a new apartment, but right now, I’m alone in my marriage. It’s a first for me. I recognized the loneliness on Finn’s face just now because I feel it too.

Was Finn flirting? Or was he just looking for company, a friendly neighbor to borrow sugar from? Hunky, athletic, kitchen-averse Finn—baking. The image makes me smile. I wonder how far he’s gotten unpacking the kitchen he says he doesn’t use.

I feed Ginger and check my phone. There’s nothing from Nathan. Remembering he might not be home for dinner doesn’t help the emptiness in my chest. I need a distraction, and Finn needs a hand. When we moved into this apartment, Nathan had no problem with the heavy lifting. It was the little things that got to him—getting books on shelves, setting up the printer, organizing the hall closet. That was when I took over. Some light manual labor might get my mind off things.

I leave Nathan a note.

Across the hall. Come get me when you’re home. 6A.

I scribble a heart and stick the Post-It on the refrigerator. Nate will tell me if he’s uncomfortable with me spending time at Finn’s. He’s up front about those things.

I run a brush through my hair. Keys, cell phone, and a portable speaker in hand—music is a lifesaver during the moving process—I walk back to Finn’s place. When I reach his door, I pause. The elevator beeps, on its way up from the lobby. I wait to see if it’s Nate, but it passes our floor, so I knock.

Finn doesn’t answer right away. He takes so long that I wonder if he’s gone back out. I rap a little harder. A third time feels desperate. I’m about to leave when he yanks the door open. I catch a flash of his abs right before his t-shirt falls over his stomach. He tugs the hem into place and scrubs a hand through his messy hair.

“Bad time?” I ask. He was clearly shirtless, and he’s wearing lounge pants now instead of the jeans he had on earlier.

“No.” He’s out of breath. He gestures behind him. “I was just lifting.”

I arch an eyebrow. “What happened to unpacking?”

“That too. Between reps.”

“Should I come back . . .?”

“No.” He opens the door wider. “Please.”

The dim apartment is warm and smells like Pumpkin Spice. The opposite of friendly. Romantic.

“I’m sorry about the lighting,” he says. “I only have one lamp that I’ve been moving from room to room. I’m waiting on a furniture delivery with the rest.”

Several lit candles in the main room explain why it smells like fall. “It’s cozy.”

It’s an odd feeling, walking into an apartment identical to mine, but with hardly any furniture and a new carpet. His white walls make it seem bigger than ours, but also harsher. Nathan and I painted the living room grayish-blue in April on a day when I got my period. We’d discussed buying a two-bedroom apartment in this neighborhood. Nathan had been up for a promotion, and we knew we’d need a nursery eventually. But the idea hasn’t come up in months, not since it became clear pregnancy wasn’t going to come easily.

“You should paint,” I say. “The white is very . . .”

“White,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Maybe, if I have the time.” He nods at the speaker. “What’s that?”

“Changed my mind about helping you out. I brought music in case you don’t have anything set up.”

“Best idea I’ve heard all day. One of them, anyway.” He glances at a box next to us and slides it with his foot behind the door. “Let’s go in the kitchen.”

I follow him. His place has a hallway with four doors, all of them closed except for a bathroom. A three-bedroom apartment seems excessive for a single man. Then again, maybe he’s planning ahead.

The kitchen has no candles, but there’s an overhead light Finn doesn’t switch on. He’s unwrapping something in a plastic bag. I wait in the doorway as my eyes adjust.

“Light bulb,” Finn says, holding one up. “From Home Depot.” He’s tall enough that he doesn’t need a chair to reach the ceiling.

“Do you have a flashlight?” I ask.

“I’ll grab it.” He sets the bulb on a table and comes toward the doorway. He’s mostly a silhouette, barely lit by the glare of candles in the other room. The hollows of his cheeks are shadowed. He stops. It could be the low ceiling, but he seems twice my size.

Adrenaline jolts me. This place is unfamiliar. Dark. Private. The air between us changes, growing heavy, uncertain.

He lays a warm hand on my shoulder. “Excuse me.”

Goose bumps rise over my skin. I’m blocking the doorway. I step aside so he can pass. My brain recovers slowly, unwrapping a thought piece by piece like a package. I like the easy way he moves. His unassuming charm. The way his bottom lip seems stuck in a perpetual pout. I’m attracted to him.

“Do you mind?” he asks.

I nearly jump out of my skin. “What?”

He holds out a flashlight. “So I can change the bulb.”

“Oh.” I take it. “Yes. Okay.”

He gets into position. I turn the light on and shine it at him.

He waves his arms in front of his face. “Jesus. I need to see the lamp—it doesn’t need to see me,” he says.

I giggle and shift the glare to the ceiling. “Sorry.”

“You will be if you blind me. Then you’d be forced to take care of me.”

I mock gasp. “How do you figure?”

“Out of guilt,” he says simply.

“Guilt?” I tease. “What’s that?”

“Ha. How much time do you have?” He screws the light bulb in and brushes his hands on his jeans. “That should do it.”

I flip the light on. Nothing happens. “Is it in all the way?”

“Yes. Are you sure that’s the right switch?”

“It is in our kitchen.”

I aim the flashlight along the walls, searching for any others. Finn removes the bulb and blows on it.

“I think we’re screwed,” I say. “That’s a little light bulb humor for you.”

“Very funny.” He tosses the bulb in a full garbage can near the sink. “Thanks a lot, Home Depot. Now what?”

I get two candles from the living room and set them on the kitchen counter. “We forge ahead. There’s a job to do.”

He tilts his head. “Are you sure?”

“The show must go on.”

He chuckles. “I should invite you over more often. You’re like a human inspirational poster.”

“Hmm.” I try to think of something uplifting that relates to switching on a light bulb. A familiar quote comes to me. “I will love you the same in the dark as I do in the light,” I murmur, though I probably should’ve kept it to myself.

“Now you just sound like a Pinterest board.”

“It’s from Nathan’s vows.” I force a smile. “He wrote that.”

“Oh.” Finn leaves the room and returns with a box in his arms. “Pots and pans.”

I peek inside. “A lot here for someone who doesn’t cook.”

“How about under the stove?” he asks, as if this is our apartment.

“Makes sense. Where’s the rest?”

“Outside the doorway, to the left.”

I find a box labeled
Silverware
. Finn’s handwriting is unusually neat. I take the one underneath it too, since it has other drawer items, including a utensil organizer. The first two of its three labels have been crossed out with black marker: Marissa. Donate. Kitchen.

Marissa? An ex-girlfriend? Is that the real reason Finn moved?

I don’t ask. It isn’t my business, and I tell myself I’m better off not knowing. I return to the kitchen and get to work unpacking the boxes in a way that seems right to me. The sterling tings each time I drop silverware into the organizer. I have to squint to make sure each one goes in the right slot. Finn’s making a lot of noise trying to get all the pans to fit.

“By any chance, was your kitchen in Connecticut a little bigger?” I ask.

“What gave it away?” He sighs, pulling out a solid black pan. “What the hell is this thing? Can I get rid of it?”

“Cast iron skillet,” I say. “Why on Earth do you own it if you don’t know what it’s for?”

He does a bicep curl and sets it on the counter. “Hell, I don’t even need a gym membership while I have one of these.”

“Skillets make frittatas, not muscles.” I say
muscles
flirtatiously. It’s a good word for that.

“A fri-whatta?”

I squeeze my eyes shut as I laugh. His furrowed brow alone has me doubling over.

“I’m serious,” he says.

“I know.” I gasp for breath. “That’s why it’s so funny.” I point behind me, into the other room. “There’s a box that says
donate
if you want to put it in there.”

He glances over but leaves the skillet where it is. “Thanks, but since you interrupted my workout, I think I’ll squeeze in a few reps as we go.”

I smile, and in the silence that follows, I think about Finn’s arms. How they might feel around a woman. How they might feel around me. It’s nice to be held. I wish Nathan would knock on the door. Drag me home. Put his own arms around me. Make love to me. Remembering his vows has made me feel warm inside, fuzzy. And maybe even a little guilty? Which is odd for me. I’ve never been a big believer in guilt or regret.

I remember a recent discussion Nathan and I had over the summer. A friend of mine admitted over drinks to having second thoughts about her fiancé. I came home, turned on a bedside lamp, and told Nathan.

“Will she marry him anyway?” he asked.

“I think so. Out of guilt if nothing else.”

“You wouldn’t have gone through with our wedding if you’d had any doubts,” Nate stated.

I agreed. “And I hope you wouldn’t have either.”

“Probably not. I have no way of knowing, though. I never had any.” He sat up against the headboard, his eyes sleepy but engaged. “But she’s staying with her fiancé out of guilt and nothing more. How sick is that?” he asked. “Imagine if no one felt guilt. We’d be free of our own demons.”

“Without guilt, there’d be no remorse,” I said. “Sure, we’d all be happier if we could forgive ourselves for this or that. But imagine the world we’d live in if people had no reason to think twice about how they treated others.”

“All right, but hypothetically speaking—if we could learn as a society to deal with our guilt in a healthier manner, we’d function better. Don’t you think?”

“Give me an example.”

He thought a moment. “Take your friend. If she didn’t feel guilty about calling off the wedding the week before the ceremony, she’d save herself a lot of misery. Yeah, it would suck. People have flights and hotel reservations and both parties have put a lot of money into it. But now, what’ll happen is—they’ll get back from their honeymoon, and reality will settle in. Maybe they won’t realize it at first. Maybe they even have a kid or two. Ten years down the line, they’re divorcing, tearing the family apart, fighting each other tooth and nail, taking years off their lives from the stress.”

I nodded along with everything he said. Nathan’s not only smart, but emotionally intelligent. I love that about him. “Or stay together and set a bad example for the kids,” I said, thinking of my own parents. “But I think what you’re talking about is shame. She’d be ashamed to call it off because of how it would look and what it would cost everyone. She wouldn’t necessarily be remorseful.”

“What about you?” he asked. “You claim that you never feel guilty.”

I waggled my eyebrows at him. “And imagine if the rest of the population were like me?”

“The horror.” He reached out and pulled me flat on the bed for a kiss. “Terrifying, really.”

I touched his cheek. “I want to be more like you.”

“How am I?” he whispered.

“I don’t know. But you always get it right. You always know what I need, even if it’s space.”

“Space,” he mused. “That’s something I’ll never give you too much of. Promise me the same?”

I promised, of course. Was I breaking that promise now by not pushing him harder to tell me what was bothering him? Each day I’ve thought about bringing it up, something has stopped me.
I’ll wait until the weekend in case it’s a big deal
, I’ll think, or,
After the holidays
. Or,
Maybe tomorrow he’ll be different
. Then there’s the fact that he’s already hurting over the sudden decline of his dad’s health. I don’t want to needle him.

But this tiny, red-stain of a clue—I’m more worried now than I was.

“You’re quiet over there,” Finn says.

Sweating, I shrug my cardigan off my shoulders and place it on the back of a chair. My tank top sticks to my stomach.

“Hot?” Finn asks.

“Kind of.” There’s another box at my feet, though I don’t remember it being there before. It looks heavy, so I open it on the ground. Carefully, I lift a set of dinner plates onto the counter. “I was thinking about what you said earlier.”