I shake my head, hugging my arms around my shoulders. It’s almost seventy degrees out but I’m freezing. Is this what heartbreak feels like? Like a hot skewer in my chest and I’m too cold and can’t take a deep breath and want to cry all over Oliver’s awkwardly naked shoulder?

Heartbroken sucks. I want to kick it in the nuts.

“Look, Harlow,” he starts, before pulling me in for a hug. “Aw, pet, you’re shaking.”

“I’m freaking out,” I admit, leaning into him. How could Finn just leave town? “Oliver... what the fuck?”

He pulls back and looks down at me. Way down at me. Holy shit Oliver is tall. “I’ve known Finn for a long time,” he says slowly. “It takes a lot to get him upset, and even more before he shows it.” He winces a little and then says, “I can tell you’re upset, too, but he basically grunted out a few words, said we’d talk soon, and then walked out to his truck. I dunno what’s going on with him, or why he left or... anything, really, that might help you feel better. You sure you don’t want to come in?”

I shake my head again. “He didn’t tell you what happened?”

Oliver laughs a little. “Finn rarely tells us much of anything. He usually tells us things after he’s got them all figured out. If there’s something going on with him, and he confided in you, then he wasn’t lying when he said it first.”

“Said what—oh,” I say. He’s talking about the I love you. Ugh. Punch to the gut.

He bends, catching my eyes. “Call him, yeah?”

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter FOURTEEN

Finn

I DID A LOT of things in San Diego that weren’t stereotypical Finn Roberts: sleeping in, watching TV, buying Starbucks coffee, not working a steady fifteen hours a day. But this—driving away as the sun sets over the water—is the first familiar feeling I’ve had in a long time.

Oliver came home while I was packing and watched me warily from the doorway. “You want some coffee for the road?” he’d asked.

“Yeah, that’d be good.”

Things had been the slightest bit tense between us, and I knew there were probably a hundred questions Oliver would ask if given the chance. In turn, he knew there were about a hundred reasons why I wouldn’t answer any of them, and so once my bag was closed, we walked to the kitchen, stood over the Keurig in silence, both of us watching the final drip drip drip of coffee into the cup below.

“You can’t have this one,” he said, turning away from me to spoon in more sugar than any human should probably consume in one sitting.