Two Weeks and a Day (Finn's Pub Romance Book 2)

by R. G. Alexander

  “We’re not talking about it at home either. So why shouldn’t we do it here? I’ve been told I suck at romance more times in the last few weeks than I want to admit, but here I am, making a grand gesture. Telling you I lo—”

  “Don’t.”

  One quiet word and it twists in my heart like a knife. I shake my head, suddenly tired. “You know what? You’re worse at this than I am. You’re more afraid of this than I am. At least I can say it. I love you. What’s worse is that you know it because no one else knows me better than you do. I want to live in that house with you and Fred and Dix. I want Diane to be my neighbor, that’s how far gone I am. I want to stay.”

  I take a breath, my chest heaving with the effort not to shake him when he still doesn’t respond. “You’re the one holding us back, Miller. I know how hard it was for you to lose your mother. It was hard for me too. But there’s something special between us. There always has been. And you could have it if you’d stop pushing it away, but you have to make that decision. You’re the one who has to tell me where we go from here.”

  The murmuring returns with a roar as I turn to grab my clothes. No doubt I just made everything worse by humiliating him at work, but I can’t worry about that now.

  All I can do is hope he heard me.

  And maybe go get drunk again. That’s always good for a laugh.

  Chapter Ten

  Roberta Don’t Give Me No Flack

  Miller

  New deck. New haircut. New box-o-wine I got from the corner store on the way home. Oh, and the speakers I installed a few days ago that are sharing my love for a certain classic R&B singer with the entire neighborhood as we speak.

  Jesse come home, there’s a hole in the bed, where we slept.

  Now it’s growing cold.

  I’m not a pub guy. I’m a box-of-wine-by-myself guy. It’s getting so pathetic my ridiculous dog decided to join Fred at Heather and Diane’s house until I get my act together.

  “It’s only been a few hours,” I mumble into my red plastic cup, because there’s no way I’d risk drinking around sharp objects. I’m a lightweight, remember? “You’d think they’d be more understanding.”

  They actually were, until I gave them more details about what happened at work today. Once they realized what Brendan had done, everything that he’d said in front of the entire staff of Indulgence—who’ve been dying for any bit of interesting gossip about my life for years—he became the hero of the story. Me? I was the big, ‘fraidy chicken. Cat. Whatever.

  Even Diane.

  She’s never liked Brendan. She’d thought the same thing Regrettable Robbie had—that he was using what I felt for him, along with the memory of my mother, against me. Tugging on my heartstrings. Coming around whenever he wanted some affection and a home-cooked meal.

  He’d be happy to know that she’s done a one-eighty, and I’m the one on the receiving end of her stink eye now. And why? Because I didn’t want to have an incredibly personal conversation at work?

  Was it not as professional as getting a blowjob five minutes earlier?

  “The door was closed,” I reason, filling another glass before lying on my back to look at the stars.

  I keep going over what Brendan said. He has a point. I’ve been pushing people away. I’ve kept all of my focus on this old place, because I know if something goes wrong with it, I can fix it. A house can’t get sick and waste away. A house can’t fly off into the sunset and leave you.

  So yeah, I’ve had some issues. But even if I didn’t, how in the hell would I know how he felt? I’m not Austen. I’m not a witchy Sherlock woman. I can’t read minds.

  I’m also the one with zero experience at this. I knew I was in love with him, but was I supposed to intuit that he loved me back by his finger technique or the amount of times we came together in a single night?

  Why are you making it less than it is?

  “Because I didn’t know it could be more.” Anything I thought I saw, or might have felt coming from him, I put in the wishful thinking column of my heart. He’d been in that column for years. It was habit.

  And I'm leaving the light on the stairs.

  No, I'm not scared,

  I wait for you.

  Hey Jesse, it's lonely, come home

  “Are you planning to torture us with this easy listening for the morbidly depressed all night?” Diane asks sharply from their upstairs window. “Don’t you think Fred’s been through enough trauma?”

  “There’s nothing easy about Roberta,” I shout back, already knowing I’m going to be really embarrassed about saying that tomorrow.

  “Could you two keep it down? It’s a weeknight,” says the neighbor who lives behind me. The one I’ve only spoken to once at a community meeting when he moved in a year ago.

  “Sorry, Mr. James. But if you want me to turn off the music, I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to do that,” I tell him, as politely as possible. “If you want to call the police, I can’t stop you. I probably deserve it.”

  Because I suck at drinking. And relationships. Didn’t Brendan say that to me the last time we fought? That I was wound too tight to be in a relationship? Well, he was right about that too.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Mr. James asks Diane casually, as if they aren’t both shouting out their open windows.

  These houses are too close together.

  “A man he’s in love with told him he loves him back. It’s a tragedy, apparently.”

  “Can’t you two use a phone?” I grumble, trying to focus on the lyrics that I’m starting to realize would make anyone suicidal.

  Why am I listening to this? More importantly, why did Mom listen to this?

  And she listened to it all the time. I can’t even remember all the times I’d wake up in the middle of the night to Killing Me Softly, Jesse or Where is the Love?

  God, even those titles are killing me. And not that softly.

  Whenever people who knew Aurelia Day described her, the first word they used would almost always be joy. She was a joy to be around. No matter how sick she got, no matter how broke we were. Everyone loved her.

  But at night she listened to these songs about broken hearts and missed opportunities.

  Halfway into my box of liquid enlightenment, the only conclusion I can come to—and one that hits me like a wine-flavored freight train—is that she lied. Either by omission or with intent, my mother led me to believe she didn’t regret anything, didn’t miss anyone and she’d never really been in love.

  But who listens to songs like this unless they’re drowning some kind of sorrow? Unless they understand what it’s like to be left behind?

  Why didn’t she tell me? We talked about everything.

  Maybe because she didn’t want to scare you with her drunken bouts of backyard melancholy. You know. Like you’re doing every time Fred looks out that window.

  “I’m sorry, Fred,” I say too softly for her to hear over the fence. I haven’t even filled out the official paperwork, and I’ve already failed as her legal guardian.

  “It’s okay.”

  I look up in surprise to find her standing just inside the sliding glass door, Dix sitting quietly at her feet. “Did you forget something? I thought I put the dog treats in his backpack.”

  But I’ve been focused on the whole drinking thing.

  She joins me on the deck, taking off her ball cap and running a hand over her recently buzzed head. “I wanted to hang out with you, I guess. And I’m okay with the music. This singer reminds me of my mom.”

  “Me too. Mine, I mean.”

  Fred nods wisely. “I figured. I like that—I mean it blows, that we both lost our moms. But I like that you still have her pictures up, still listen to the music she liked. You know?”

  I think Fred lost most of her family albums in that fire. What she has on her social media stream is it. We should print those out.

  “I like to keep her memory alive,” I say. “Pull it out whenever I need her. Althou
gh right before you came out, I was working my way up to being mad at her for not giving me better relationship advice. And this music is depressing.”

  She laughs and sits down next to me. “Brendan talks about her too. Your mom,” she says quickly after mentioning his name. “He said the three of you were close.”

  “We were.” Not that close or she wouldn’t have told me on more than one occasion that sex and romance were overrated. She would have told me there was a chance that I could have both with someone who knew everything about me and wanted me anyway.

  And if you were really close to Brendan, you would have known he was in love with you. At least, according to him.

  “It’s not because of me, is it?” she asks, tugging at the laces of her boots in a nervous gesture I’ve never seen her make before. “You didn’t break up with him because I want to live with you? I hear I’m a lot to take on.”

  She says it lightly, but I can hear her doubts. She’s so smart that sometimes I forget how young she still is.

  I sit up, set my drink down and put my arm around her shoulder. “He said he wanted to live with us, Fred. Not just me. Us.”

  It surprised me, how quickly he adapted to having her around. He even wore the Resist shirt she’d gotten him. In public.

  “It’s not about you, I promise. You’re wonderful. I’m the one that broke this.”

  My inner control freak was celebrating how right he’d been. How inevitable this was. Seriously, fuck that guy.

  And yes, my mother was amazing. Best mom in the world. But I’m looking at my future now and there are some similarities I’m not that comfortable with. Will I be watching Fred grow up and possibly become the second or third female president of the United States—she would be mad if she were the first—with no one to share it with? Will I be listening to Roberta Flack while she sleeps, and wishing I hadn’t let Brendan leave because I was too afraid to trust him when he said he wanted to stay?

  Let’s recap again. For Team Logic.

  Brendan, the heterosexual playboy/pirate/pilot shows up with a dog. For me. Admits to wanting me without any hang-ups or hesitation. Deals with my neighbors. Builds my deck. Comes out to his friend. Handles first times and fires like a champ. Goes to a party where the women spend three hours discussing chin sag and large pores without a complaint. Surprises me at work to tell me he loves me.

  I grab the remote and turn off the music.

  “Oh good,” Mr. James says with a relieved sigh.

  I honestly forgot he was still there.

  “I thought I might have to put some pants on,” he continues. “To help straighten things out.”

  I can hear Heather laughing through the window while Diane tries to shush her.

  “Where’s my phone?” I ask Fred, patting my pockets. “I can’t find my phone.”

  I stumble over the wine box when I get to my feet. Is the backyard spinning?

  “About that,” Fred says, her voice oddly muffled. “Your battery died? So Austen sent me an emergency text message.”

  “How does Austen have your number?”

  Fred shrugged. “She signed one of my petitions a while ago. She’s really involved in local politics, plus she makes my favorite body scrub.”

  She turns her screen toward me—not letting me hold it because I’m intoxicated and she’s smarter than I am—and I squint hard, trying to make out the words.

  Austen: Tell M that B is at the airport ASAP! #SaveWatson

  “I’m not sure who Watson is,” Fred says with a shrug. “But the rest of it sounded important.”

  He’s at the airport? He’s leaving tonight? He just got back today.

  “I have to go there. I have to stop him.”

  “Fred, grab his keys and tackle him if you need to. We’re coming over.”

  Diane’s warning has me racing toward the sliding glass door. “No one is taking my keys alive!” I shout dramatically. “I have to tell him!”

  I’m not sure what happened in the seconds that followed, but I saw a flash of fur and ended up on my back on the kitchen floor, right where I plan to eventually put a nice banquette.

  “Airport,” I wheeze.

  “Well, that isn’t happening,” Heather says easily, hovering over me like an apparition. “Even if you could get in your car and drive without putting everyone else in danger, would you really want him to see you like this? You’re in worse shape than he was. I think the both of you should just stop drinking entirely if this is the end result.”

  I rub my head. “Ouch. Did someone hit me?”

  “Your little dog darted out in front of you, and you fell trying to avoid him,” Diane says with a certain amount of satisfaction. “Nothing’s broken, and it gave me time to hide your keys. You’re welcome.”

  Dix is panting worriedly in my ear. Do dogs worry? Well, this one does. “It’s okay, Ridiculous. I’ll still love you. Even if he flies away before I can tell him what I need to and he starts dating a runway model. Even if I die alone.”

  “Oh, good lord,” Diane mutters. “I had no idea wine made him so dramatic.”

  “What do you want to tell him?” Fred asks from somewhere behind me.

  “It’s a little personal,” I say, closing my eyes and wondering if I have enough energy to bob and weave around my jailers, find my keys and get to the door without falling on my face.

  Sounds doable.

  “We won’t tell.” Heather picks up Dix and walks over to the sink. “I’ll make some coffee while you practice.”

  Practice. I don’t have to practice. I’ve had it in my head for years. “I’d tell him he answered my prayers in that hospital room and I’ve been grateful ever since. I’d thank him for saving me after Mom left. For being my friend, despite the fact that I push people away, I can’t drink, can’t be impulsive, and can’t fly away with him when he leaves.”

  “Diane, are you crying?” Heather asks in a shocked, hushed voice.

  “No. You know I don’t do that.”

  I ignore them, imagining he’s standing there, looking down at me and laughing at my current situation. “I’d thank him for forcing me to have fun. Making me laugh and showing me my wild streak. And I’d tell him I’ve loved him since the first time I saw him. I’d even sing it for him if he asked this time,” I say with a smile, remembering. I might sing a few lines, I’m not sure.

  “I really don’t want him to leave.”

  Diane and Heather help me up off the floor and walk me over to the couch. I feel someone take my shoes off, and then a warm blanket being tucked in around me.

  I want to thank them, but I’m already half asleep, dreaming of Roberta playing piano softly in the background, and Brendan’s body curled around mine.

  The first time, ever I saw your face...

  ***-***

  Brendan

  “Is he…singing…while lying on his kitchen floor?” Austen is quiet, trying not to draw too much attention at the crowded departure gate as she watches a video of Miller Day, drunk literally off his ass and singing a love song.

  To me.

  “He has a decent voice,” Royal offers, for once not cracking a joke. “But why does he think you’re going anywhere? We’re the ones hopping on the plane.”

  That was the question. Well, it’s was one of them. Another is, who’s the unlucky SOB who gets to tell Miller that Fred recorded his drunken confession and sent it to Austen via text?

  Fred: M would have told B this in person, if we’d let him have his keys. #WhoisWatson

  I stare in judgmental silence at Austen, and Royal joins me until she crosses her arms defensively. “What? How was I supposed to know he’d be too drunk to drive here? You were really upset when you showed up, Brendan, and I worried that he might be too. I wanted to help. Pay it forward, Cupid style.”

  Royal chuckles, sliding his arm going around her shoulder. “I think we should all quit the Cupid business. We’ll never be able to top our first time.”

  She leans into him w
ith a nod. “I hated the thought of him being miserable while I was in Paris, that’s all.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say, looking down as the video starts to replay. “Can you send this to my phone?”

  “Not if you’re planning to torture him with it.”

  Royal kisses her forehead and slides the phone out of my hand, forwarding the video. “Don’t worry, I didn’t also send it to myself to pull out on their tenth wedding anniversary. I swear.”

  Our tenth? “He’s drunk,” I tell them weakly. “People say crazy things when they’re drunk.”

  What if he changes his mind again in the morning? What if he still doesn’t trust me enough to believe we stand a chance?

  Don’t act as if this is a choice. You already made yours.

  Royal grips both my shoulders and shakes me.

  Always the affectionate bear.

  “Brother, that man sang to you. Sang. Talk about romance. What more could you want?”

  Everything. Every boring, mundane, ordinary and wonderful thing. Which doesn’t sound like me at all. “You’re right.”

  “I always am. Unless she is.”

  Austen laughs. “That was exactly the right answer.”

  I’m not jealous of that perfect-couple banter. At all.

  Royal catches my eye as if to say, See what I mean?

  “Come on, big man,” she says, sliding her carryon over her shoulder. “We’re about to start boarding.”

  “Oh, I know. I managed to snag us a few of the best seats, too.”

  She gazes up at him with interest. “Oh yeah?”

  “They might turn into a bed. I’m just saying.”

  I take a step back and laugh. “I’ll say goodbye now before I hear too much.”

  Royal looks between us, then bends down to give her a kiss. “I’ll be right there, Austen.”

  He hangs back to give me another back-cracking hug. “Wish me luck.”

  “Why?” I ask. “You’ve already got the girl. And she’ll be trapped on a plane with you for hours.”