Page 71 of Blurred Lines

31

FINN

After the party ends, I don't hang back. I can see the tiredness in Caeleb's eyes. He needs to get some sleep, and if I'm being blunt, all of us do.

"How do we handle this?" Silas asks gruffly, never one for softer sentiments. "Do we just … never contact her again, even though she's in the damn town?"

Caeleb rubs his face wearily. "Ugh. Why is it so complicated with her? Why didn't she just tell us she's pregnant?"

I look into the distance. "I'm not sure. But I have a feeling it has something to do with Harvey."

Caeleb releases an exasperated grunt. "Yes, because everything leads back to him."

I shrug as we begin walking to the front of Caeleb's home. "Look, I'm not saying she did the right thing by not telling us any of it. All I'm saying is that she likely felt we'd be asshole dads."

"Or, we'd argue between ourselves about whose kid it is," Silas butts in, voice frayed.

Hell, that possibility hadn't actually occurred to me. "Why the hell would we do that?" I ask blankly. "It's … it's her baby. We—to be a dad when I never?—"

I stop talking because the emotions that are taking control over me right now are just too much. I never got the chance to be a father. And I sure as hell wouldn't let go of this chance to be a parent based on something so frivolous as who the "real" dad is. So far as I'm concerned, all of us are involved in this.

"It's our fault, if you think about it," Caeleb intones. "We didn't have this conversation."

"We didn't consider it a possibility," Silas counters. "She said it would never happen, remember."

"Don't be bitter," I say reasonably, patting Silas's shoulder. "You sound like a jackass right now. She probably didn't think it would be possible either, which is why she was guarding the secret like her life depended on it."

"Oh," Silas says, voice dropping to a mumble. "Didn't think of it that way."

I sigh and look at my car. "Let's just go home and let Caeleb sleep. Come over to my place in the morning, both of you."

"Why?" Silas scowls. "It's Sunday, I'm sleeping in."

"No," I say, giving him the stink eye. "We have work to do."

Silas mutters something about me being an asshole and walks to his car. I grin at his retreating form.

"You're thinking of going to the mansion," says Caeleb, eyes fixed on my face.

I shake my head impassively. "I'm thinking about sleeping. The rest will fall into place in the morning."

The moon hangs low, a silent witness in the ink-black sky as I make my way back home. The streets are deserted, only cars and the distant ocean humming against the chirping of crickets. It's late, later than I usually prefer, but the night holds a tranquility I've grown to appreciate. My thoughts drift to Emily, to the tumultuous sea of our past interactions, and how against all odds, I find myself at peace.

There's a healing in understanding oneself, in acknowledging the strength buried beneath layers of grief.

Unlocking the door to my dwelling, the familiar scent of aged wood and lingering spices welcomes me. I discard my jacket, the fabric whispering against the back of a chair, and make my way to the bedroom.

I'll think about everything tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow is best.

I sleep quicker and easier than I'd thought possible. Morning arrives too soon, painting the sky in hues of gold and lavender. I wake up and potter to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. The kettle's soft whistle breaks the silence, and I move with a practiced grace. Tea leaves, a hint of cinnamon, and a splash of milk merge in the cup, the steam rising like prayers whispered in the dark.

I wrap my hands around the warmth, the porcelain almost burning against my skin, a pleasant reminder that I'm here, alive, and somehow thriving. I close my eyes, letting the heat from the first sip seep into my bones, chasing away the remnants of last night's chill. It's as if I'm stitching the frayed edges of my soul back together, one sip at a time.

Once the last sip is done, I make the calls and summon the men. They both come, although Silas still looks like he could take great pleasure in pummeling me as I say what I want us to do.

"I'm not going to the mansion," he barks, his eyes narrowed and angry. "I'm not getting involved in this mess."

"You're very angry," I observe calmly.

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