Page 115 of When The Rain Falls

Lovely? No.

Funny? Insane? Sexy? Mine? Yes.

"Ma, don't," I say. “Don’t make things weird.”

“Son, you better not muckthatup,” I hear my dad say from the recliner. “We like her. And I’m counting on a lifetime of free haircuts.” I roll my eyes at him.

“Yeah, but you may want to watch out what kind of tip he tries to give her,” Tyler warns under his breath.

Goddammit.

“Can’t any of you be fucking normal? Just for once, for Christ’s sake,” I scold the lot of them. “I’m lucky you didn’t all fucking scare her off.”

“Finn, language!” my mom scolds.

I'm laying in my bed, tossing and turning. But I can't fall asleep. I roll over and look at the empty space where she lays when she stays over. It was the space where Laurel used to lay. I consider the fact that I must be one of those people who just can't be alone. Despite the fact that I've been alone for nine years, I'm not good at it. I'm miserable alone. I reach out to the empty sideof the bed and flatted my hand against the mattress, palm up, fingers reaching for the ceiling.

I remember how Aimee's hand feels in mine. I can't remember what it was like to hold Laurel's hand. Was it the same? Was it different? Pieces of Laurel feel like they're slipping away lately.

Canadian thistle.

What's a Canadian thistle?

I roll over to face my side table. I grab my phone and set it on my chest as I open a web browser, typing in Canadian thistle.

The images that pop up make me smile. Purple starburst flowers, oddly resembling sea anemones, perch on long, tall stems. This looks exactly like the type of flower Aimee would like. It's bright, bold, different. A little wild.

I click on the first website and read the description. I drop my phone onto my chest, close my eyes, and laugh to myself.

It's a weed.

A noxious weed.

Figures.

I set my phone safely on the side table and fluff the pillow beneath my head.

Aimee's favorite flower is a fucking noxious weed.

40HOME MOVIES

FINN

Warm evening lightfilters through the boughs of tall pine trees. The grass is overgrown and cool against my sandaled feet. I'm taking impossibly small strides towards the red checkered fleece blanket that is our destination. The chubby hand in mine is suspiciously wet and, I never thought I'd say this in my adult life but, I hope it's just slobber I'm touching. "Hey, little man. Can Daddy carry you?" I reach down to pick up the toddler, but he shakes his head, smiles wickedly, and evades my grasp.

"No," he tells me firmly. Ok, so sloth speed it is then. He’s stubborn and independent like his mother.

I hear birds calling to each other in the branches above our heads. It's one of the Pacific Northwest's majestic warm summer evenings. Ahead of us, on the blanket, a woman is setting out plates with sandwiches and apple slices. She's wearing a black tank top and cut-off jeans. Her back is to us but when she turns, the world moves in slow motion and everything around me fades to a blur, except for her. Her light brown hair floats outward from her head with the force of her rotation. Wavy curls hang suspended around her delicate, round face. Her eyes flutter slowly open, softened by a lazysmile. A hand pauses at the red of her cheeks. The dust particles between us gleam in the rays of the sun and freeze mid-air. My heart catches on the sight of her, radiant, soft, joyful. Life spins in normal time again. As she turns to face us, she runs an arm tenderly over where her belly is already starting to grow again. I can't believe she's mine.

"Good boy!" She claps and encourages the toddler by my side in an exaggerated grin. He's thrilled by her attention. So thrilled that he lets go of my hand and claps in return. With each clap he dips his bottom into a mini air squat.

"Great!" I shout out, throwing my own hands up into the air. "We were trying to get to the picnic sometime this year. Looks like I’m now aiming for this century,” I mutter. Her laugh is slightly hyenic.

"Oh, shoot," the woman says.

"What, babe?"

"I forgot the diaper bag in the car."

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