Page 87 of Business or Pleasure

Aunt Sarah rolls her eyes. “What she’s really asking is if you met Dakota Johnson.”

“What? She’s a really talented actor!”

Everyone around the table laughs at this, fully aware of Aunt Vivi’s long-standing crush.

I tell them about the rest of the Nocturnals cast, the other actors I saw in passing at the cons. But I hate that my voice sounds strained, my smiles forced. Because the whole time, my idiot brain can’t help imagining Finn here with us, charming my parents and making everyone fall a little bit in love with him.

When it’s time to clear the table, I rush to intercept my dad before he picks up the heavy serving dish with the leftover stuffing.

“I’ll get that,” I tell him, and he levels me with a stern look.

“I can manage, Chandler.” There’s a slight thread of annoyance in his voice, enough to make me defensive.

“Okay, okay.” I hold up my arms, placing the dish back on the table. “Sorry.”

After dinner, I retreat into my childhood bedroom. I haven’t lived in this house for over a decade, and yet this space still feels like a perfectly preserved museum of my adolescence. The mysteries stuffed onto the bookshelf, the Agatha Christie collection I hunted down at every Half Price Books location in Seattle. The Bed Bath & Beyond comforter set with an ice cream stain on one corner. The walls, collaged with photos of Noemie and me in our backyards, at the mall, leaning against bus stop shelters and trying to look cool.

When I imagined coming back home as an adult, I thought it would feel different. I’m almost ashamed to admit that I thought I’d have a book of my own to add to this shelf, one I’d display face-out and make my parents do the same in our living room.

My phone buzzes in the pocket of my jeans. Two texts, one right after the other.

Reno misses you.

So do the dogs.

This is accompanied by a photo of Finn’s mom’s Chihuahuas, two of them lounging on the couch together and three eagerly waiting for table scraps.

Those chihuahuas are angels on earth, but I fully believe they’d eat one of their own if it meant ensuring their survival.

Probably, Finn writes back. How’s your Thanksgiving?

The way my body relaxes, hearing from him like this—it’s the loveliest relief. I slide backward onto my bed, settling against the daisy-patterned pillows. Like I’m in high school and texting a boy I have a crush on.

Good. My aunts are disappointed I didn’t meet anyone famous.

Don’t they know you’ve met ME????

I can’t help it—I laugh out loud.

How’s your tofurkey? I ask, rightfully assuming that’s what Finn’s eating tonight. He sends back a photo of his mom’s dining table: stuffing dotted with cranberries, glazed vegetables, flour-dusted rolls, and what looks like a lentil loaf drizzled with mushroom gravy.

Too many leftovers, though. I’m a little heartbroken I won’t be able to finish it all before I have to go back to LA.

And there I go, overanalyzing again. Does his talking about too many leftovers mean he wishes I were there to help reduce the amount? Or is he simply telling me they made too much food?

When Noemie knocks on the door, I realize that as much as I’ve tried to push it away, I think I need to talk it out with my best friend.

“I have a minor problem,” I say, and when I attempt to laugh it off, it comes out strangled, high-pitched. “It’s about Finn, and my sudden inability to stop thinking about him. And how we slept together before I left and it felt different from all the other times and I think I’m truly, deeply fucked.”

I let this all out in one breath, chest heaving when I finish.

“Okay. Slow down.” She joins me on the bed, tucking her legs beneath her. I’m amazed she made it through dinner with her taupe wool sweater unharmed; I spent ten minutes in the bathroom scrubbing at a cranberry smudge on my jeans.

“You have a crush.”

“I’m afraid it’s a more than a crush.” I hug one of the daisy pillows to my chest. “And it’s not just physical, either. I like spending time with him. I like talking to him. He’s sweet, and he’s funny, and he’s just... really good.” I think about the way he stayed with me during my panic attack. The way he massaged my hands and tracked down my mom’s suitcase and defended me when I filled in on that panel at a con that now seems like it happened a lifetime ago. “Nome... I told him about my abortion.”

Her eyes grow wide. “Oh.” And in that single word, she understands exactly what it would take for me to open up like that to someone. She places a hand on my knee. “You really, really like him.”

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