Page 64 of Business or Pleasure

It is an absolute shrine to Middle-earth. Movie posters cover the walls, along with handwritten scrolls of paper with Elvish translations. A shelf of action figures, a miniature Orc army. I stride through the room, walking toward his Tolkien-stuffed bookshelf. As much as I’m teasing him about this, I also truly love it. That passion, the one he has, the one I’ve been chasing. There’s something so meaningful about being able to see someone in their element. I imagine a young Finn running lines, dreaming of living among Elves and then later of Hollywood.

Hiding from his father.

Plotting his escape.

Then I spot a pair of fuzzy brown slippers peeking out from the closet.

“Oh my god. Is that a Hobbit costume?”

“Aaaaaand we’re leaving,” he says, doing his best to shoulder me toward the hall.

“Does it still fit? Can you try it on? I promise I’ll never ask for anything ever again—”

I’m still laughing when he shuts the door behind us.

The official Finnegan Walsh tour of Reno takes us past his elementary, middle, and high schools and through the casino-dotted downtown, with a stop at what he declares is the good Taco Bell.

“Used to hang out here on weekends all the time,” he says when we park at a strip mall. He points at a Barnes & Noble. Next to it is a game shop with a going out of business sale sign hung across the windows. “There, too. Typical suburban kid in the late nineties/early aughts.”

“Not a terrible way to grow up.” I take a bite of my bean burrito, then tear open a hot sauce packet and drizzle on some more.

“It wasn’t,” he agrees. “Everyone was nice enough, and I never really felt a pull toward Vegas. Plus, we’re less than an hour from Lake Tahoe.”

“You come out here often?”

“Not often enough,” he says. “Every few months or so. And I always do the Reno con—it’s the first one I ever went to as a fan.” He gazes out at the parking lot. “There are good memories here, but some not-so-great ones, too. I can’t erase my dad completely.”

“I’m so sorry. You deserved so much better than that.”

If we were different people, I’d reach over and place a hand on his. Reassure him more than I can do in my capacity as ghostwriter.

Because that’s all I am, I unwrap another burrito.

By the time we make it back to Finn’s mom’s, it’s nearly nine o’clock and my body’s stuck in another time zone. Sondra’s at the kitchen table, fine-tuning her address for Saturday’s Shabbat service, Galileo in her lap and the others perched on blankets and dog beds in the adjacent living room. Tomorrow will be a writing day, and then Saturday will be packed: services, con, meeting up with Finn’s friends.

My eyes are heavy, but I don’t want to assume I’m sleeping here just because Finn is, so I left my suitcase in the hallway. “Sorry, could I get the address for an Uber?” I ask.

Finn pauses at the kitchen sink, where he’s been inspecting a glass of water before filling it. “What do you need an Uber for?”

“Oh—a hotel?”

“Don’t be silly,” Sondra says. “You’ll stay here with us. We have a guest room made up already.”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

Sondra gives me her best mom-side-eye. “Honey. You’re not intruding. Besides, isn’t this better than a cold, soulless hotel?”

“Stay,” Finn says, and then adds, “please,” with a heart-melting smile all his directors must have loved.

It’s strange, how sweet the word stay sounds in his voice. The way it makes those roots deepen in my chest.

Just as quickly as the thought occurred to me, I brush it off. Hux must have said it in one of his scenes, and that’s why it’s making me react this way—I’m certain of it.

I’m less certain Saturday morning, after a full day of writing during which we finish rough drafts of two chapters, when Finn dons a yarmulke at the synagogue entrance and it’s unfairly attractive. I have to bite back a smile, half because I’m not used to seeing him in one and half because I don’t think a kippah should inspire these kinds of feelings.

Sondra told me yesterday that the congregation skews older and the temple is very bare bones, without much funding, but it has a charm to it. As a kid, I went with my parents to temple only for the High Holidays, a tradition Noemie and I have tried to maintain as adults. But I haven’t been to services in a few years, mostly because my deadlines always felt more important. Now I can’t remember why I thought I couldn’t put aside my work for just a couple hours every week.

There’s nothing like feeling at home inside a synagogue, this immediate sense of belonging. As Rabbi Zlotnick, Sondra has a natural magnetism in the way she speaks. I’ve found that no matter how long I’m away from temple, the prayers come back to me with almost no effort, as if they were imprinted on me a long time ago.

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