“I went and saw him last weekend,” Oliver says, and I swear the sound of screeching brakes tears through my head.

“You saw Finn?”

“Yeah. I flew up to see what the hell was going on with him since no one here told me anything.” He gives me a pointed look, but then winks.

And see? This is what I mean by Oliver’s poker face. I’d never have known from his reaction nearly two weeks ago that he was so concerned over why Finn left that he would leave his new store in Not-Joe’s questionably capable hands and fly up to Canada just to check in.

I want to say something to show I’m not completely consumed with pain at the thought of someone else flying up and checking on Finn. And by the way they’re all looking at me, I can tell they expect me to make some quip and lighten the mood... but I can’t.

I’m done being mad. Trying to stay mad is exhausting, and I’ve never been good at it. I fucking miss Finn, I miss My Person, and I can feel my jealousy that Oliver got to see him for a weekend climbing in a hot flush up my neck.

“You okay over there?” Lola asks gently.

“Not really,” I admit. “I have to go up there next week to look at boats with Sal and we’re taking Finn to lunch to thank him for coming on as a consultant. I already know it will be awkward and hard to see him because he’s so good at being distant and professional. This whole thing is making me sad.”

God, I hate how honest I get when I’m feeling devastated. It’s like I’ve been trained under some Pavlovian trigger by my parents to talk it all out as soon as I have feelings too big to stuff into a sarcasm cannoli.

“If it helps,” Oliver says, “he looked just like you do now when I told him you stopped by the house, looking for him the day he split town.”

“Did you tell him the part about how I was mad, or the part about how I was sad?” I ask. “Because I want him to imagine me with a chain saw and ass-kicking boots.”

Oliver laughs, shaking his head and returning to his waffle.

“Did he tell you why he was mad?”

“A bit,” Oliver says around a bite.

“So it’s at least a little bit of an overreaction, right?” I can hear in my own voice that not even I am convinced.

Ansel pokes at his breakfast and asks, “Did he ever tell you why he dropped out of college?”

“Yeah, briefly. I mean we never really talked about it, but I know he left to start fishing with the family business.”

“Not exactly,” he says, putting down his fork. “He dropped out to run the family business.”