Page 2 of What About Us
“How was your datelast night?” I ask, pushing through the door of my building. into the stifling, mid-summer heat, and blinding Queen’s sunlight.
My best friend, Finnley, fills the screen on my phone, and I can tell that she’s got her iPhone propped next to her on the seat, because it's tipped at an odd angle as she drives. I can see her profile, her thick chocolate colored braid over her shoulder and most of the headliner of her baby blue 1992 Volvo 740 Turbo.
She’s got a half-empty iced latte between her thighs, with one hand on the wheel while scarfing down what looks to be some kind of burrito in the other. Even from here I can see something—sour cream maybe—on her chin. She’s fucking adorable.
“Oh God,” She mumbles around a ridiculously large bite. “It was a disaster, Huddy.”
At her admission, a wave of relief washes over me. That should be followed up by remorse for hoping every date she has is a disaster, but the feeling doesn’t come. It never does.
A chunk of something drops free from the paper-wrapped tortilla and plops straight onto her jeans. I chuckle to myself because she’s just always so damn disheveled.
“Oh, shit,” she mumbles and sets her wrap down, scooping up the rogue bite and popping it into her mouth with a lick to her fingers.
“What’s ‘oh shit’?” I ask, taking a right and heading in the direction of the park, one hand gripping the phone pointed at my face, and the other stuffed into the pocket of my workout shorts.
“I have to pee. And I just dropped some food on my jeans.” She blows a chunk of hair out of her eyes and flips on her blinker.
When she turns the wheel, I can see through the top sliver of windshield that she’s made a right and just passed under the wooden gateway arch leading to my family’s ranch. She picks up her food, taking another huge bite, before setting it down and swapping it to take a sip of her latte. She does all of this, her eyes never leaving the road. Jameson’s multitasking at its finest.
“Did you dose yourself for that cup of sugar you’re gulping down?” I’m mostly teasing, but Finnley has a habit of not paying close attention to her blood sugar when she’s got a lot going on. And lately, that’s been more often than not.
Even all the way from New York, it’s become a habit for me to check in on her health. She’s been diabetic since she was seven, and honestly, she’s never been great at taking care of herself.
Running Timber Haven Bed-and-Breakfast is her life. She takes her responsibility very seriously, but I can tell she’s over worked.
“Yes, Huddy.” Her tone is sing-song, like she’s humoring me.
I roll my eyes and reluctantly return to the topic of her date. “So, what was it this time?”
“Chicken Caesar wrap.”
“No,” I chuckle. “The date, Jameson. What was wrong with this one?”
“Oh, he had ridiculously small hands,” she says, around another huge bite, her tone disgusted.
“Not small hands,” I deadpan in a shocked whisper, and my voice comes out a little more labored now, as I’ve made it to the running trail near my condo. I switch over to my AirPods and picking up the pace, I start my run for the day.
“You’re out running late,” Finn says ignoring my quip and stuffing the last bite of her wrap into her mouth. Crumpling up the wrapper, she chucks it on the seat next to her.
I should hang up and focus on my run—I’ve been so stressed lately with the upcoming sale of my bar and running always helps—but with her schedule and mine, our recent conversations have been short, and I haven’t seen her since Christmas.
When I kissed her.
I cringe at the memory. Not because it was bad. It wasn’t. But it was done in a moment of weakness, six months ago, and even though I’m pretty sure some part of her was into it—if the little moan that escaped her lips was any indication, or the way her hips rocked against mine the tiniest bit—the way she high tailed it out of the living room and back to bed immediately after spoke volumes. I mean, we’re best friends. And best friends don’t kiss one another on the mouth. Even if every fiber of my being really wants to. It just complicates shit.
“I had a meeting with the bank this morning and didn’t have time earlier. Figured I’d get it in while there’s still daylight, but it's hotter than fuck out here.” I blow out a pent-up breath.
“Hang on,” she says and rolls to a stop, gulps down the rest of her coffee before turning the phone to the side so I can see the fields bathed in afternoon sunlight on the dirt road that leads to the ranch I grew up on. “Look at the calves, Huddy. Paige would love it.”
A three-rail wood fence runs along either side of the tree-lined road, five calves and their mamas graze just beyond it. They’re probably a month or so old, but still small enough that my six-year-old would be enamored by the babies.
I feel a stab of jealousy that she’s where she is, and I am…not. The place has always grounded me. I love New York, and while most of the years I’ve lived here have been good, I’m ready to behome.
“She really would,” I say.
“I better put my phone in the holder. Hank will punch me in the throat if I take out a fence.” She laughs and I do too because she’s not wrong.
My older brother Hank runs the ranch since my pop retired a handful of years ago, and he can be a bitchy asshole when he wants to be. Not that I’d blame him if she actually did take out a fence. Finn’s always been a decent driver, but her inability to properly navigate around curbs has been a running joke for years.
