I get home in record time; the traffic light gods were smiling upon me. I could change out of my grungy clothes, but don’t bother. If we aren’t banging, I’m not primping.

He’s such a gentleman that he texts from the curb that he’s here, and I meet him at his truck and jump in.

“I forget how to get to Fred’s,” he says by way of greeting.

“Hello.” After buckling my seat belt, I tell him, “Hang a right on Prospect and then a left on Draper.”

“Oh, yeah.” He maneuvers out of the spot and then follows my direction. “I think I’ll remember from there.”

“Especially given that it’s on Draper,” I say with a cheeky grin.

But he doesn’t smile back. In fact, Finn seems lost in thought. He fiddles with the radio and settles on NPR, so instead of conversation, we have a rerun of Terry Gross interviewing Joaquin Phoenix to keep us company. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel at a red light, looking out his window away from me.

“This not-having-sex thing sure is way more stimulating! I’m super glad we’re still cool just hanging out.” I lean forward to get a better look at his face, but I don’t even get a flicker of a grin.

“Just wanted to get out for a bit,” he mumbles cryptically. Oliver lives a block from the beach. Finn could easily “get out” and do about a hundred different things other than taking me to Fred’s, where we just went just a few nights ago.

He parks in front of the bar and meets me on the sidewalk, as usual gesturing that I lead the way. Mr. Furley calls out to me when we enter, telling Kyle to kick some “ratty-ass kids out of Harlow’s booth.”

“How dare they?” I hiss playfully to him.

“Kids these days,” he says, wiping down the bar. “Buncha little assholes. How’s Madeline?”

“She’s hanging in there.” I stretch across the bar and kiss his stubbly cheek before hopping down and grabbing the two bottles of beer he hands me. I give him my best Bogart: “Tanks, schweetheaaart.”

Handing one to Finn, I gesture for him to follow me to our corner, wiping a few stray peanut shells off the table as I slide into our booth.

“You sure have him wrapped around your finger,” Finn says as he climbs in after me, looking back at Mr. Furley behind the bar.

“Yep. He’s the best.” I take a long pull on my beer, watching Finn swallow as he does the same. God, I love his neck. It’s tanned, and defined, and dark stubble just barely shadows it, from his cheek... down his jaw...

I clear my throat. No sex. “So what’s up?”

Finn shrugs, and stares at the television nearest us, currently playing a Padres game.