Page 63 of Business or Pleasure

“And every little old lady at synagogue complimented you,” she says, patting his cheek.

“Please tell me you have pictures,” I say, and Sondra assures me she does.

After his mom introduces the dogs, Freddie and Waffles and Moose and Galileo and Duchess, we make our way into the house. It’s a homey one-story ranch style with bright patterned curtains and plush, cozy furniture. His mom flits about the kitchen, getting out glasses of water and arranging a plate of cookies on the table. They’re not normal cookies, though—they’re an absolute monstrosity of dough, chocolate chunks, M&M’s, nuts, and marshmallows. I try to mentally capture every detail, wanting to do this place justice in our chapters about Finn’s childhood.

His eyes light up. “You remembered.”

“Of course. Every time,” she says, looking pleased. I sense there’s some kind of inside joke here.

“We made these all the time when I was a kid,” Finn explains. “Kitchen sink cookies. As in, everything but the. To this day, they’re my favorite cookie. Favorite dessert, period.” He picks up a napkin, uses it to reach for the cookie. His mom doesn’t even blink at this.

To his credit, the cookies are excellent. “Is that a potato chip?” I ask between bites.

“For extra crunch,” Sondra says. “What are you two planning to do the rest of the day?”

“I was hoping to show Chandler the lay of the land. My old stomping grounds, and all that. For the book,” Finn clarifies. “And we can’t miss your Shabbat service Saturday morning.”

“Perfect. I’ll try to be on my best behavior. How’s the book coming along?”

Finn and I trade a glance. “Chandler’s making me seem much more fascinating than I actually am.”

“You’re plenty fascinating,” I insist, unsure why his gaze on me in this moment, in this house, is bringing heat to my cheeks. I turn to Sondra, which seems much safer, and while I have a hundred questions for her about the man I’ve spent the last month on the road with, I suddenly have no idea where to start. “Were you surprised when he decided he wanted to be an actor?”

After taking another cookie, Sondra leans back against the kitchen counter. “A little, mostly because I was worried about how unstable it might be. But he always had a flair for the dramatic. Even before he took theater in school, sometimes he’d act out scenes in his favorite books over dinner.”

Finn runs a hand down his face, groaning. “I’d completely forgotten about that.”

“Then you also must have forgotten that I filmed some of them.”

Even more groaning.

“That’s adorable,” I say. “Did you use the salt and pepper shakers as props? Or maybe you did voices for your silverware?”

“Now you’re just being cruel. And yes. Yes, I did.” Then he turns back to his mom, who’s smiling at this exchange in a way that makes me want to assure her nothing is happening between her son and me. Nothing that isn’t casual, at least. “You’ll be the first to read it, I promise. After our editor.”

Sondra places an arm on his shoulder. “You know you can write anything you want about me. I just... well, I worry. Once it’s out there, it’s out there. You want to make sure you’re comfortable with what you’re telling people—you don’t get to take it back.”

Finn swallows a bite of cookie. “I know,” he says quietly, eyes flashing to mine for one brief moment. “That’s what I’m figuring out.”

He gives me a tour of the house, and I linger on the family photographs. His dad is notoriously absent; instead there are photos of Finn as a toddler, elementary schooler, teenager. There is the promised bowl cut, which is somehow more adorable than it has any right to be. Those little old Jewish ladies were right. I watch him get braces and have them taken off, endure poor fashion choices, and pose with his costars. Then there are photos of his mom with her friends, with her dogs—all of which have their own bed with their name embroidered on it.

Then he pauses outside his room. “Before we go inside,” he says, voice serious. “I need you to know that I was deeply obsessed with Lord of the Rings as a child.”

“I already know that. In fact, it was one of the first things you told me.”

“Yes, but knowing it and seeing it are two very different things.” His face has turned grim. “You’re at the foot of Mount Doom. It’s not too late to turn back.”

Gently, I push at his chest. “You’re being melodramatic—I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

With a defeated shrug, he reaches for the doorknob. “Remember, you asked for this.”

My mouth falls open.

“Please just tell me what’s going through your head right now,” Finn says from behind me. “I’m not sure I can handle the silence.”

“Well, to start, I’m thinking we have to rewrite the whole book. Scrap everything we have.”

He hangs his head, faux somber. “I was afraid of that.”

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