Unzipped Page 6

  Tom: Is that so?

  Finley: Pinky swear you won’t be arrested.

  Tom: Did you feel that? It’s my leg being pulled.

  Finley: Okay, maybe not arrested. You’ll just be yelled at. Make that, yelled at loudly. Correction—yelled at loudly and possibly run off the property.

  Tom: With rakes, hoes, and other gardening tools shaken at me angrily?

  Finley: Shovels too. Don’t forget shovels. They’re particularly fearsome when shaken angrily.

  Tom: But not when shaken gently, kindly, or lovingly?

  Finley: No one knows. No one has ever tried to shake a shovel gently, kindly, or lovingly.

  Tom: So that was your warning not to climb the yard art?

  Finley: I’m thoughtful like that.

  Tom: Definitely appreciate the tip, since I was tempted to climb all over this yellow school bus driven by a curly-haired guy who looks like Buzz Lightyear.

  Finley: The bus is so cute! It’s one mile from my house. Stay there.

  Tom: Are we meeting now?

  Finley: You’re busy looking at art in yards. I crushed my page count for the day. Seems we ought to gawk at junk together. Agree/disagree?

  I stare at my phone as I stroll past the bus, not entirely sure what to make of this woman and her eagerness. Finley doesn’t even know Cassandra, so I’m not sure how much help she can be in my quest.

  My phone buzzes, and I figure it’s another text from her, but it’s from my brother.

  Ransom: Kyler, this is Delia, texting you from Ransom’s phone. Don’t worry! I have faith you’ll find Cassandra! Trust the new girl.

  Me: Did you take my brother’s phone?

  Ransom: Of course. He’s so ridiculous, but I can’t let him give you a hard time. Also, keep it up. You’re such a romantic at heart.

  Me: Yeah?

  Ransom: I swear! You should show up at her place of work next and carry her off. It worked for me. I swear it’ll work for you!

  See? I am good at romance. My brother’s wife thinks so. Obviously, Finley is wrong. She said women don’t like big gestures. Or wait. Is that what she said? I flash back to last night, snapping my fingers. Ah, she said my grand gesture sucked, for many reasons. But now I wonder—did it? Do I have to be a good singer to pull off the boom-box move? My brother is no Richard Gere, but his big gesture worked like a charm.

  Wait.

  Wait just a hot minute.

  How did I not see it sooner? I bet Finley wants to sleep with me. Yes, that’s it. She totally wants to bang me. Finley doesn’t really want to help me win Cassandra.

  She wants to seduce me.

  I let that prospect roll around in my head for a few seconds, picturing Finley with come-hither eyes, pouty lips, a flip of her hair. The image is both incongruous with the woman I met and weirdly appealing too. It seems my brain thinks Finley’s hot in an adorable sort of oddball way.

  Trouble is, I can’t be thinking of New Girl as hot. She’s Wrong Girl, and I’m a man on a mission to win back Right Girl.

  Me: Thanks for the advice, Delia!

  Ransom: Bro, that was epic punking. You do know that was me pretending to be Delia, right?

  I groan and drag my hand over my face. He’s such an asshole, and I’m such an idiot for falling for his tricks.

  Me: This is me ignoring your texts.

  Then I think about Finley again, doing that come-hither thing, and I like the image more than I should.

  I shake my head to clear it while texting her to find out where she wants to meet.

  7

  Tom

  Ten minutes later, her mint-green bike appears on the crest of a hill as I stare at a rusty fire engine assembled from what looks to be old motorcycle parts and manned by three cartoonish metal dudes that were once water pipes. As I stare at it, I calculate the weight, the angles, the amount of pressure the structure can hold. This is the part of the answer I didn’t share with Midge—I went into roller-coaster design because math and I were best friends growing up, and nothing intrigued me more than figuring out how structures of all sorts of shapes and sizes worked.

  But I shove formulas out of my head when Finley’s a few feet away. She stops, hops off the bike, kicks the kickstand, and wiggles an eyebrow. At least I think she’s wiggling an eyebrow. Hard to see beneath these crazy sunglasses she wears. They’re gold and covered with plastic flowers that look like the kind on a decorated cake.

  “It’s hard to take you seriously with those sunglasses on,” I say, pointing at her freckled face.

  “Who said anything about taking me seriously?”

  “Well, now that we’re on the same page . . .”

  “Please don’t take me seriously at all. Unless I’m telling you what to do. Then take me very seriously,” she says, stopping in front of me. I’m not sure if I should hug her or shake her hand or something else entirely.

  I point to the glasses instead. “What’s the story with the kooky shades? Are they part of a costume?”

  She whips them off. “I don’t have a desk job.”

  My brow knits. “And that means?”

  “If you don’t have a desk job, that means you can and should regularly go pantless.” She counts off on one finger. “Write in a bikini on the porch.” She adds another finger, and the image of her in a bikini conveniently pops in front of my eyes. “And wear fun sunglasses.”

  “What color bikini?” I ask, because I’d like to fill in the paint by numbers image precisely.

  “A polka-dot one, of course,” she says with a wink, then parks the shades over my glasses, steps back, and appraises her handiwork. “I say we need to get you some crazy shades too.”

  She reaches for her phone, snaps a picture, and sends it to me.

  I take off the shades, since it’s hard to see through two layers. “Is this where we do the sunglass-shopping montage scene?”

  She laughs, pushing the glasses on top of her head. “Are we living in Pretty Woman now? Don’t tell me you want me to take you shopping on Rodeo Drive?”

  “Of all the elements of Pretty Woman, that’s the one you key in on?”

  “Instead, should I hire you to be my boy toy?”

  I part my lips to speak, but I don’t know how to answer her. Or that. She rocks back and forth on her heels like she’s waiting for me to say something, and I realize I don’t know what I’m doing with her. I don’t understand her.

  Is this her ruse to get me in bed? Calling me a boy toy?

  Truth is, I wouldn’t mind getting naked with her because, hello, hot chick, but I need to keep my eye on the prize, so I’m going to have to cut this seduction strategy of hers off at the knees. “I want to level with you. I’m not interested in you that way.”

  She blinks, coughs, and then laughs. For several seconds. Okay, more like half a minute. “I’m sorry. Say that again.” She gestures for me to keep going.

  “I’m interested in Cassandra.”

  She points at her chest. “And not me, right? I just want to make sure I understand. It’s a touch confusing, and I don’t want to miss a beat.”

  I frown, totally confused now, because isn’t it self-evident? “That’s what I said.”

  She shakes her head, amused. “Tom, I need you to know something.”

  “Yes?”

  She brings her hand to her chest. “I solemnly swear I have not once thought of you naked. I absolutely haven’t dirty-dreamed of you. And I’m definitely not harboring delusions about stripping you down to nothing and having my wild, wicked way with you.”

  Wild, wicked way.

  What does Finley think is wild and wicked?

  My brain spins, crafting scenarios that involve her bent over the Batmobile, or daring me to climb the fire engine sculpture and test its strength for a wild, wicked screw. I have no fucking clue why my mind finds these images permissible for assembly, so I shove a hand roughly through my hair, trying to clear my head.

  “And I’m not thinking of stripping you down
to nothing and having my wild, wicked way with you either,” I say.

  She dusts one hand against the other. “Good thing neither one of us is remotely attracted to the other.”

  “Yeah, not at all,” I say flippantly. But wait? She’s not? “You’re not?” My voice ticks up. Why does her statement bother me?

  “Did you want me to be remotely attracted to you?”

  I shake my head, unsure what to do or say next.

  “Because I thought this was about figuring out women, and Cassie in particular,” she adds.

  I hook onto something she hinted at last night. “I’m not terrible with women. I don’t know why you think I am.”

  And that came out defensively.

  “I didn’t say you were terrible with women,” she says gently. “I said I’d help you with one woman.”

  “I’ve had plenty of women, you know,” I add, since I can’t seem to stop defending my track record. It’s one I embarked on post-Cassandra. After all, she dumped me after we slept together once. Only once. How would I know whether that had anything to do with it? I decided if there was an iota of a chance that I was bad in bed, I’d work my ass off to become good in bed. Suffice it to say, I know I’m the latter now.

  She crosses her arms. “Tell me more about all the women you’ve slept with. Was Cassie your first or your tenth?”

  “First. Same for her. We were each other’s firsts. The night of the cast party.”

  “And now you’re a stud. So tell me all about your sexual prowess. You’re a good-looking guy. I’m sure women flock to you. Do you have to beat them off with a stick? Maybe some brooms? Sweep them away?”

  “All I’m saying is I don’t think I’m a terrible case. The women I’ve been with have been pleased, thank you very much. And I get along well with women I work with too.” I point in the direction of the meeting I had earlier. “Just today, a woman at the standards organization laughed at my jokes before she asked me a bunch of questions about female engineers.”

  Finley tilts her head. “What about them?”

  “If there were many in my field. Because her daughter is in a related field. So I told her I meet lots of women.”

  She raises one inquisitive brow. “Did she tell you anything about her daughter, by chance?”

  “Like what?”

  Twirling a finger around a strand of hair, she tosses out, “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe did she say her daughter is smart, pretty, and lives nearby?”

  “I think so. Do you know her?”

  Finley chuckles, clapping a hand on my shoulder, doubling over in laughter. “Did it ever cross your mind she was trying to set you up with her daughter?”

  My jaw comes unhinged. I start to speak, but I sputter. “Seriously?”

  “I suspect so.”

  I replay the conversation with Midge in my head. “I honestly thought she was making conversation about the field.”

  “I suspect she was trying to glean whether you were single so she could play matchmaker.”

  I scratch my head. “Really?”

  She pats my cheek. “You’re adorable. You truly didn’t realize that?”

  Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m not picking up on all the signs. I cycle back to earlier in the day. I meant female ones. Especially smart, pretty, and single ones. Smacking my forehead, I blow out a long stream of air. “I’m oblivious?”

  Finley laughs. “I think you might have high levels of obliviousness flowing in your blood. Do you want me to test you?”

  “Like a pinprick? Won’t hurt, will it?” I hold out a finger, glad we’ve slid back to familiar ground—teasing, joking, playing around.

  She shakes her head. “I’ll be gentle.” She tugs my finger then pretends to stick it with a needle.

  “Ouch.” I yank back my hand like it’s burned.

  She shoots me a chiding look then declares, “You’re off the charts. Just like I suspected. Which explains why you thought it was okay to tell a woman her hair is fine.”

  Ah, the plot thickens. I might have been oblivious to Midge’s ulterior motives, but Finley is putting her cards on the table. “This is about your hair and the fact that I don’t want to sleep with you?”

  That’s a lie. I’d totally sleep with her. I mean, I would if Cassie wasn’t in the picture.

  Rolling her eyes, Finley flicks her hair off her shoulder. “I don’t care if you like my hair or not. I don’t care if you think I’m hideous. I care that you don’t scare off Cassandra.”

  But that’s what I don’t understand. What’s in this for her? “Why do you want to help me? Why do you care? Are you a hopeless romantic?”

  “Hopeless isn’t the adjective I’d use.”

  “Then what is your preferred adjective?”

  She taps her finger against her chin. “Practical. I’m a practical romantic.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  She glances down the street one direction, then the other, then speaks like she’s revealing a secret. “Look, even though I don’t think you should Lloyd Dobler your way through life, I did like Say Anything. And I can’t help but root for you to win this woman back. You love her. You’re looking for her. I want to help you. And yes, selfishly, I’m curious how it all pans out,” she says.

  “Because you’re a writer? Do you hang out with everyone you find curious?”

  Sadness streaks across her blue eyes. “Here’s the deal. I have this TV show. It’s kind of struggling. Well, more than kind of. And I’m casting about for any inspiration. For ideas to make it fresh. It helps to get away from the screen and talk to interesting people, to hear about their lives. You’re interesting, and spending time with you is”—she pauses, licks her lips—“creatively stimulating.”

  “You do know that sounds vaguely dirty?”

  “You can’t say stimulating without sounding dirty.”

  “Some words are naughty by nature,” I say as the iron mermaid catches my eye, reminding me why I stopped on this street in the first place. Inspiration. I need it for my rides, Finley needs it for her show. “What’s your show?”

  “Mars and Venus. I’m the creator and writer.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No,” she says, laughing lightly.

  I grab her shoulders, grinning. “That show is awesome.”

  She smiles shyly. “Stop it. You’ve never seen it.”

  I mime hitting a buzzer. “Wrong. I’ve seen every single episode. Every single one.”

  “No way. I have maybe ten viewers.”

  “Want me to prove it to you?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes are sparkling with excitement.

  “Fine. How about the one where Lane is convinced his shrink gives everyone the same advice, so Amanda makes an appointment and pretends to have all the same issues.”

  The total delight on her face is beautiful. And I want to put it there again.

  “But the shrink was onto the gambit, so she played them by giving them contradictory advice.”

  “And they didn’t even realize it at first,” she says, completing the thought.

  “What about the time Amanda becomes obsessed with what the T.J. Maxx salesman wore every time she went to the store on Friday night, and whether he only owned one pair of pants?”

  She bounces on her toes. “They clearly had to get to the bottom of the mystery.”

  “So she and Lane stake out the T.J. Maxx, and it turns out”—I stop for dramatic effect—“he organizes his outfits by day of the week!”

  She clasps her hand to her mouth, shaking her head. “I can’t believe you really watch it.”

  “Correction—really love it.” My brain catches on something she said last night. “Wait. You said something about shopping at T.J. Maxx last night. Was that storyline inspired from real life?”

  She nods excitedly. “I used to go to T.J. Maxx every Friday night to pick up a new dog toy for my dad’s dog, and after a few visits, I realized the manager was wearing the same green jeans
every Friday, so I went back on a Tuesday night just to test my theory.”

  “And he was wearing something else? Please say yes because I don’t understand why anyone would own green jeans.”

  “Yes. He wore khakis on Tuesday.”

  “Thank God. Also, that’s awesome.” I rub my palms together. “All right. Let’s do it. You can be my dating doctor, and you can diagnose everything I need to fix so I can win back Cassandra. How about we grab something to eat and formulate our plan?”

  She grabs her phone, checking the time. “I need to go see my dad and write. Do you want to meet tomorrow night for dinner?”

  We set a time and I suggest a place—one of Nash’s recommendations for favorite restaurants in Hope Falls—and, as she heads to her bike, it occurs to me I should probably say I’m sorry for some of the things I said earlier, like the comments about her hair, and not wanting to sleep with her.

  But I don’t always seem to get the right words out with her. Or with Midge either, it seems. And I definitely didn’t get the right words out with Cassandra.

  And that needs to change. I need to improve my skills in that area so I can win back Cassie.

  She’s the endgame, and I need to focus on the girl I came looking for.

  8

  Finley

  “And this is the Sonoma Suite. If you choose this option, Mister Dog will get a peanut-butter-filled Kong every night, as well as a bedtime story.”