Page 51 of The Tryst

Things with Marilyn have been even more strained since Miami. Finn’s still trying, going to couples therapy every week. But as far as I can tell, Marilyn’s still Marilyn—unhappy with everything.

“I like Ginny fine. As an interior decorator. Which is what I hired her for,” I say pointedly, but it’s aimed at his nosy wife.

Finn holds up his hands in surrender. “She said you won’t go out with Ginny since she’s older than you.”

“What the fuck?” I demand.

“Yeah, she thinks you only like younger women,” Finn adds.

I bristle, even more annoyed. “Where does that come from? I don’t have a track record of dating younger women. Rose was my age. Millie too,” I say, mentioning my last girlfriend. “Fine, she was three measly years younger. Big deal.”

“Exactly,” he agrees, then he drops his head against the back of the seat. “Nick…”

He sounds so strained. So exhausted.

I shed all my annoyance. “What is it?”

He lifts his face, meeting my gaze. “She’s convinced I’m going to leave her for someone half her age,” he says. “What the hell am I supposed to say tothat?”

“Are you? Is there someone else? Half her age, twice her age, any age?” I ask. If he needs to confess something, I’m glad he’s coming to me. Vault and all.

Finn stares at me sharply. “C’mon. You know me,” he says.

“I do. Just making sure,” I say, then pat his knee.

“The other night, I met up with my friend Tate for dinner. His daughter was there. She’s in her mid-twenties, I guess. Marilyn was there too.”

His voice is heavy, and I know where this is going.

“Did she accuse you of staring at Tate’s daughter the whole night?” I ask.

Finn taps his nose. “Bingo. And, I was not looking at her. I’m disgustingly faithful, and I just want my wife to be happy with me again. Is that so much to ask?”

Poor guy. He tries so hard. “I don’t think it’s too much,” I say.

“I don’t either. So I guess her being mad that you’re not into Ginny is her way of punishing me,” Finn says.

I’m glad he put two and two together himself. But I bite my tongue the rest of the car ride, so I don’t say something likeGood luck making her happy.

But Dad doesn’t have my restraint. Over spaghetti and meatballs, he points his fork at Finn. “Is your wife still busting your balls on everything?” he asks. The man doesn’t mince words.

Finn shakes his head. “It’s fine, Pops. Nothing to worry about.”

“You sure?” No wonder he picked tonight to meet us. Mom’s busy with her book club. She’d never let him give Finn the third degree when it comes to romance.

“It’s all good,” Finn insists.

“You need a woman who understands you,” he says, stabbing a meatball.

“Dad, you need to cut back on red meat,” Finn says, shifting gears.

“I didn’t cut back on smoke inhalation for forty years at the firehouse. I don’t need to cut back on meat.”

He takes another bite. Defiantly.

Hard to argue with the salty old bastard so I don’t even try. Nor does Finn. Instead, I wrestle the conversation away from the thorny subject of romance. “Thanks again for connecting me with Jack’s kid. Kyle’s working out well,” I tell my pops.

“Good to hear. Jack appreciates what you did and so do I,” he says gratefully.

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