Page 33 of Business or Pleasure

Last night before I fell asleep, I imagined a dozen different ways to tell Finn that my suggestion was a joke that should have never gone as far as it did, and we owed it to our careers and to this book to keep our hands to ourselves. Then, when that didn’t sound appealing, I turned the ethics over and over in my head. Granted, journalism ethics wasn’t my strongest course in college no matter how much Wyatt helped me study—or maybe I was too easily distracted. But this can’t be any worse than what happened at that Seattle radio station a few years back, when two hosts pretended they used to have a relationship for the sake of their dating podcast.

And hey, it worked out okay in the end. Their sexist boss wound up getting fired, and I heard through the journalism grapevine that the two of them just got married.

Not that whatever I have with Finn is trending in that direction—just that these things don’t always end in fire and ash. All of us can come out unscathed, with Finn more skilled in the art of pleasure and me allowing myself some fun for the first time in years.

Still, maybe I take my time unpacking, showering, even reading a chapter of the bagel shop mystery before throwing on leggings and a striped sweatshirt because the AC is making some strange noises. I go through the longest skincare routine my face has ever seen, and then scrunch some salt spray through my hair. I text Noemie a reminder to check on my parents, which she replies to right away with a thumbs-up emoji.

It’s midafternoon when I emerge into the kitchen, where Finn is in the process of loading what looks like every dish and piece of silverware into the dishwasher.

“What are you doing?”

Finn whirls around, so startled he drops a plate.

“Shit, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, no. It’s fine. All good.” He picks up the unharmed plate, presenting it to me with a flourish, face pale. “Just... making sure everything’s clean. You never know.”

In the silence, the clattering of the AC might as well be a fleet of helicopters overhead. I’m starting to think there’s more to this than a simple desire to eat off clean plates, but I’m not going to say anything to him about it. If there’s something Finn wants to share with me, something he wants to put in the book, then he’ll tell me when he’s ready. At least, I hope so.

Based on the way he quickly turns back to the dishwasher, shielding his face from me, I’m not sure he’s ready.

“It’s not a big deal,” he rushes to say. “Is there something you need? I can hand-wash it for you, or—”

“Nope,” I say, holding up my Nalgene. “Wash away. I was just coming to get some water. And maybe check on the AC, though I’m not sure I’d be able to diagnose what’s wrong.”

He finishes up, dropping in a dishwasher pod. The hum of the machine fills the space, creating an oddly soothing harmony with the AC.

“If you’re ready to—” I start, just as he says, “I was thinking about—”

Both of us hurry to backtrack. He gestures for me to speak, and I force myself to take a deep breath. “I was just going to say, if you’ve settled in, maybe we could start in my bedroom?”

His eyebrows jump to his hairline. “To... work on the book?”

The book. Obviously. “No, uh—we can do that out here, of course,” I say, my face flaming.

Finn has a call scheduled with his manager first, which ends right around when the dishes do, so I unload everything. It’s still freezing in the house, and I’ve had to add another pair of socks.

When the doorbell rings, Finn slips by me to answer it. “Ordered some groceries,” he explains.

“Oh. Thank you.”

He brings the bags to the kitchen counter, the two of us stumbling around each other. “Thought I could whip something up if you’re hungry. If you don’t mind eating vegetarian.” He has to speak loudly to be heard over the sound of the AC.

“I don’t mind!” I shout back.

Then the house emits one final clatter as the air-conditioning breaks.

We scrounge up some fans from the closets, open all the windows before realizing the air outside is too hot and then shutting them again. We debate leaving the house before realizing we’re in the suburbs and the first five Ubers we try to get decline the trip. So we decide to tough it out.

I changed into cutoffs and a tank top, and even with my short hair, I’m still scraping sweat off the back of my neck. Finn’s in a heather gray T-shirt and gym shorts, a bowl of fresh berries waiting on the counter for me. While he cooks, I pepper him with basic questions, the kind that are easy to answer in between chopping onions.

He talks me through his career before The Nocturnals, because his audition is widely documented online. The story goes, a nineteen-year-old Finn started talking about Middle-earth during a callback because one of the producers asked whether he could relate to the feeling of being an outcast, like Hux is at the beginning of the series. Finn rambled on and on about Elves and Orcs and Hobbits, unsure why it was relevant, and by the time he paused to take a breath, he was certain he’d fucked things up. But that was exactly it: he seemed so perfectly Oliver Huxley that they couldn’t not cast him. In all the interviews, that’s what they’ve said made the decision for them.

“I grew up in Reno,” he says, salting tempeh sizzling in a pan. “Which you know. I drove myself into LA for auditions and got cast in a couple commercials at first. Then I played one of Bob Gaffney’s kids on a sitcom that got canceled during season one, but it’s what got me the audition with Zach.” Bob Gaffney: a sort of everyman stand-up comic whose lowest-common-denominator jokes have somehow landed him three TV shows, all of which feature him playing some version of himself. I watched a couple clips of Dad in Training, the show Finn was on, and could barely make it five seconds without cringing.

“That’s not a short drive.”

Finn shrugs. “Eight hours, ten if there’s traffic.”

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