Page 132 of When The Rain Falls

Finn’s face turns sour. “You’d prefer a goddamn motorcycle?”

“No. I think I’m done with motorcycles,” is my quick reply.

“Good. Me, too.” With that, he ducks his head and disappears into the van. I drop my face into my hands and smile. I peek out through my fingers as I watch him back out of the driveway and then back up into the street. He keeps backing up for several feet before he finally stops.

“There’s no bend to round,” he calls out the driver’s side window, his head popping up like a prairie dog. “You’ll have to just start your bated breath now.”

“Ok,” I call back to him and give him an exaggerated thumbs up.

“Is your breath bated, Aimee?” he asks.

“Yes,” I call out to him, pretending to be exasperated. “My breath is bated. Extremely bated. Promise.” I wave both hands in the air to make my point.

“How about your heart? Is your heart fluttering yet?” My body curls into a laugh as I try to take this game seriously. “You know what?” I finally say. “I’m going to call and cancel my date. I’m starting to get a headache.”

Finn snorts. “I’d like to see you try.” His head quickly disappears back into the cab and the van rolls forward. It rolls forward slowly. Very slowly. Too slowly. Then Blink 182’s songFirst Datestarts to blast through his open window.

“Sometime this century would be great,” I go up on tippy toes and call out to him through cupped hands.

“I’m making sure you get a good look.”

“Oh, I got a good look,” I humor him. “And you know what you look like? An old man driving a minivan really slowly through a residential neighborhood. Someone might call the cops.”

Finn flips me off through the windshield. Oh really? Fuck me? He better.

“Don’t make threats unless you intend to keep them,” I shout.

When he pulls up to the driveway, I’m already waiting by the curb, my clutch purse in both hands. The passenger window rolls down and my eyes land on the strong face that has captured my heart.

“You look stunning,” he calls through the open window. “I love that hoodie on you. The drawstrings really bring out your eyes.” This time, I fliphimoff.

“Don’t make threats unless you intend to keep them, Aimee.” I bite back a laugh. This is the weirdest first date in the history of first dates.

“Sorry I’m late,” Finn says, growing serious.

“Youcan’tbe late,” I correct him. “We never settled on a time.”

“But if we had, I’d be at least five minutes late,” he explains. “To hide the fact that I’m desperate and nervous and have been circling your block for the past twenty minutes. My date is a knockout, you know.”

A smile climbs up my cheeks as I pull open the door. “I guess chivalry is dead since I’m opening my own door.”

“Nah, chivalry isn’t dead.” He waves me off. “I just know you. And you’re an independent woman. You prefer to do things for yourself.”

“I think I’m starting to see why you were single for so many years,” I tease.

“Brat.” He tightens his lips to suppress a smile but his eyes are gleaming with humor. He started both anger management and his suspension this week. The house is so clean it practically sparkles. I’m coming up with a list of activities to get him out of the house. I’m going to volunteer him to coach the year-round baseball team. He’s going to love it. Because I’ll tell him to.

I climb into the cab and fold my clutch in my lap. I sink into the black leather seats and soak up the new car smell. I can’t help but note that this would make a great candle scent, new car and leather and the hint of pine from the man at my side. It smells like a first date.

As I pull the buckle across my body, Finn takes it and secures it for me. My heart still flutters whenever his hands graze my body.

“So,” he says matter-of-factly, “I should warn you that my Ma really wants this to work out because she thinks I’m a forty-two year old spinster.”

A chuckle tightens in my gut. God, my cheeks already hurt and this date just started. If I can get him to slap my ass later, thenallmy cheeks could hurt.

Yes, Aimee. Good girl!

A couple months ago, if you had asked me what my heart’s deepest desire was, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you. Not in specifics anyway. Everything I wanted was an abstract idea. I wanted to be wanted. I wanted to feel loved. I wanted to belong. But if someone asked me now, I could answer with exact precision.

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