Page 58 of A Hard Fit

“It’s very nice.”Oh my God.

“What can I get you to drink, Finn?” Jonathan asked, stopping at the bar in the first living room. “Beer, wine, scotch…?”

“Wine is fine, thank you.”

“Ooh, could I talk you into champagne then?” Lainey chimed in. “I’ve been dying to open the bottle that Dimitri brought us from France.”

“Oh, no, don’t waste that on m—” Finn started.

“Waste? There’s no wasting champagne! It’s meant to be enjoyed!” Lainey beamed at him. “You’ll have some?” she asked Rory. They nodded as Jonathan pulled the bottle from a wine cooler and arranged four flutes along the bar.

“So, Finn,” Lainey said as they settled on the ‘patio’ furniture that was infinitely nicer than what Finn had grown up with in his one and only living room. She crossed one ankle over the other and rearranged her flowy sweater. “Rory tells us you’re an incredible painter.”

Finn’s mouth dried out. “I, uh—” He flinched when Jonathan popped the cork.

Rory squeezed his knee. “Finn has a really hard time accepting compliments.”

“I—”Goddamn it.Now his tongue was dryandthere was a lump in his throat.

“Is there anywhere we could see your work? Jonathan and I have memberships to a few galleries in town…”

A few?“Not really, or I mean, no, I—” He fumbled for one of the flutes Jonathan offered on a tray. “It’s just a hobby.”

“Oh?”

“He hangs them in his house,” Rory offered. “And has a whole gallery’s worth in his garage, actually.”

“Well…maybe we could see those someday? Cheers!” Lainey offered her glass for clinking.

“Cheers,” Finn mumbled, trying to picture Lainey and Jonathan sitting in his tiny living room and failing miserably.

“What do you paint?” Lainey asked.

Finn took a small sip, the bubbles tickling his nostrils until he thought he might sneeze. He wiggled his nose. “Abstract expressionism, mostly. People. And, um…feelings.”

“How lovely.”

Finn squirmed under her attention and was relieved when Jonathan joined them.

“Oh, Rory, you wouldn't believe who stopped by the plant the other day,” Jonathan said as he sat with his drink. “Patrick Harrington!”

Finn didn’t know who the fu—fudge Patrick Harrington was, but he was happy the focus was no longer on him. He took another sip. The champagne was delicious, of course. Nice and bright, with a hint of a floral note.

“Who?” Rory asked.

“Oh, you know Patrick Harrington, dear,” Lainey said. “Abigail and Hugh’s son? The one we tried to set you up with? You went on a date.”

“Him?” Rory wheezed. “That was not a date! I talked to him for five seconds at that horrible cocktail party you made me go to. Also, I seriously cannot believe you are bringing it up now.”

“Oh, what’s the harm? It’s not like you two were serious.”

“There was no ‘you two,’ Mom.”

Lainey sighed and swirled her drink.

Jonathan continued, put out at having his story interrupted. “Anyway, Patrick has been doing some contracting for Bill Thatcher—you remember him.”

“Yes, Dad, I know Bill.”

---