by Erika Kelly
“Fin, I don’t have time to fight with you.”
“Yeah? Well, luckily for me, I’ve got all the time in the world to fight with you.” He gave her a cheerful smile. “Specifically, eight hours a day for the next six weeks.”
She stilled, eyes narrowing.
He grinned. “This is going to be fun.”
“What’re you’re talking about?”
“Judge Pilson assigned me to you.”
It took a moment, but awareness dawned. “You just got back from a trip, and you’re in trouble already?” When the clarity struck, her eyes went wide. “Wait, he gave you community service with me?”
“You’re the only one in town who needs my help.”
Strangely, she didn’t look annoyed or angry. She looked worried. “That’s…not a good idea.”
Because of her ex? Jealousy twisted through him. “Why, did you get back with Man-Bracelet?” Not a chance would Fin work here if that asshole planned on showing up. He’d rather sit behind a desk for eight hours a day in an airless room than watch his girlfriend with another guy.
My girlfriend? Where the hell had that come from?
“No, that’s never going to happen. But you’re not going to…” She let out a huff of frustration. “This is an art installation. About broken hearts.” She shifted on the ladder. “It’s not your thing.”
You’re my thing. “I’m not here to draw pictures. I’m here to help you get your museum up and running.” He clapped his hands together. “So. Let’s do this. Tell me what we’re doing and when we’re opening.” He knew she had an interview in New York at the end of August, so that didn’t give her much time to pull this place together.
“It’s an exhibition, and I need it to open as soon as possible.” Now she looked conflicted.
“Then you need help.”
“Of course. But it can’t be you.”
Awareness struck like the jerk of blinds, and light flooded in. Because he’d broken her heart. And she just wasn’t going to let it go. “Like I said, I’m not here to be creative. I’m here to help you get the building cleaned up and the art on the walls. Now, I can either stand here and hold the ladder or you can tell me what you’re doing and let me take over.”
“I only have a few more to hang, so let me just finish this batch. Since you insist on hanging around, maybe you can jog in place or do some lunges or something.” Hesitantly, she turned back to her project.
She attached a rope of transparent fishing line to the ceiling with a screw-in hook. An origami-style bright yellow piece of paper dangled off the other end, held onto the line with a tiny silver paperclip.
He noticed a pile of similar papers on the table, so he grabbed one.
We’d dated four and a half years, lived together for one and a half. I had an eight year old kid from another relationship. Fin was basically a father to my son.
Fin? A chill swept through him. He kept reading.
For my son’s birthday, I took him to Harry Potter World. Fin couldn’t come. He said he had work. My son and I came home from a great weekend only to find our house cleared out of Fin’s things. No note, nothing. I called everyone I knew, his friends, his parents. No one took my call. Fin just disappeared. On me. On my son. A few months later, I ran into his sister at the mall. She marched right up to me and said, My brother’s an ass. You should know he met someone at work and is living with her. You should also know your son is better off without a coward like Fin for a role model.
Tossing that one aside, he picked through more papers. Each one had his name. What the hell did the comments from Traci’s Instagram page have to do with her museum?
It’s about broken hearts. It’s not your thing.
He looked around the room, noticing a few items mounted in Plexiglass frames on the far wall. A shiny black high heel, a box of blueberry PopTarts, and a smashed cell phone.
What was going on? He opened his mouth to ask, when he noticed a long, rectangular LED message screen. “Callie?”
“What?” She snapped right back at him.
But he didn’t give two fucks about her attitude. “Hold onto the ladder.”
She followed his gaze, worry tightening her features.
Which only pissed him off more. He crouched under the table and plugged in the cord.
“Wait. Fin.”
He didn’t want to hear anything she had to say. Red lights blinked several times before words appeared.
Thanks for a great time. ☺ Gotta jet. Talk soon.
Like a toy train circling a track, his text message scrolled continuously across the screen.
Anger fired him up like a blowtorch. He couldn’t believe she’d stab him in the back like this. “Your museum’s about the damn meme.”
She let out a shaky breath, but any concern she might have had settled into determination. “No, it’s about broken hearts. This one, the central installation…yes, it’s about the meme. But it’s important.”
“You know what’s even more important? That you don’t fuck up my life.”
“I’m not doing anything. The meme’s already out there, and I had nothing to do with it. Besides, it stopped being about you a long time ago. Look, I don’t know why this happened, but your text tapped into something big and important.” Climbing down the ladder, her little black ballet flats clacking on the steel plates, she flipped the LCD switch off, killing the display. He noticed the tightness in her shoulders which told him, no matter how sure her tone, she had doubts. “This exhibition’s going to help people heal.”
“Cool. Do it. Do everything you’d planned on doing.” His finger stabbed at the LED box. “Except that. You don’t need the meme to talk about broken hearts.”
“Yes, I do. It’s a cultural phenomenon. A single text message triggered a tidal wave of reaction around the globe. It’s big, and it’s important. And, I’m sorry, Fin, but The World’s Worst Boyfriend’s going to be the central installation.” That regal voice, calm, haughty, sent his pulse skyrocketing.
He held her gaze. “Find something else.”
“I can’t. It is the story. Look, I swear it’s not about you anymore. I have no idea how it ballooned, but it’s somehow giving a voice to people who’ve been living with a terrible pain they can’t get rid of.”
“They can pay a therapist for the same result.”
“You’re not getting it. Talking to their friends or sisters or therapists hasn’t worked. I think this meme is working because it’s helping them see that they’re not alone. That—”
“That asshole boyfriends are common? Call it what you want, but this is nothing more than a mob mentality. You’ve got a bunch of angry women gunning for the bastards who hurt them.”
“That’s not what it’s about at all. Read the comments. It’s not just women. It’s gone beyond gender or age or anything. It’s people sharing their stories and finding a community of support. It’s healing them.”
She obviously wasn’t going to budge, and he wasn’t going to argue. “You don’t have my permission to use the meme.”
“I don’t need your permission. Look, it’s gone viral for a reason, and the fact that it’s still going strong tells you it’s touched a nerve. That means something important, and I’m going to explore it in this exhibition. I swear, this is not about Fin Bowie.”
“Every fucking comment has my name.”
“But it’s not you. Everyone knows that. It’s a placeholder that stands for the source of pain.”
“That’s great in theory, Callie, but it’s affecting me. We had to shut off comments on my website. I had to deactivate my social media accounts. I need this thing to die down, and what you’re talking about—showcasing it in my hometown? You’re dumping gas on a burning building.”
“The building’s already burning, and the whole world’s watching. I’m just one person out of millions talking it about in a tiny little town in the Tetons. Nothing is going to come of my little pop-up exhibition.”
As
much as he wanted to throttle her, he understood her point. Her museum meant nothing in the scheme of things.
“I don’t mean to upset you.” Underneath her tone of conciliation he heard a slab of resolve.
And that pissed him off. “You sure about that?”
“Oh, come on. You can’t seriously think this is some kind of retribution?”
“Don’t bullshit me. On some level, you know it’s exactly that.”
“This is what I do, Fin. I’m a modern art museum curator. It’s my job to explore the cultural ethos.”
Okay, he’d had enough. “You can fuck right off with your cultural ethos bullshit. I don’t need this kind of crap in my hometown.”
“Then guess what? If you don’t like when shit blows up in your face, quit crapping on the people you’re supposed to love.”
“Are you talking about you or Traci right now? You’ve got them both so twisted up I can’t tell.”
“I’m not doing this to get back at you but, of course, it has something to do with you. The whole reason I’m fascinated by these stories is because of what happened to me. I don’t think you understand. What you did…Fin, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever gone through.”
“I know that.” His voice bounced off the low ceiling and slammed right back into him. “You think I don’t know that? But, Jesus, I was a seventeen year old kid. I’m a man now, and I wouldn’t make that same mistake today. I’m sorry, Callie. I’m so fucking sorry, but…” How did he get through to her? “You have to let it go.”
“I’m trying. Do you think I want to feel all this…this anger?” She turned away from him, and he watched her features settle into something new. It took her a moment to speak again. “It isn’t anger. It hasn’t been that for a long time.” She sounded defeated. “It’s hurt. I’m so incredibly, overwhelmingly hurt by what you did. I want to let it go. More than anything I want to…flush it all out of me. But I can’t. I just can’t.”
Tears glistened in her eyes, and he couldn’t stand it. He took a step toward her, but she held up a hand to warn him off.
“This meme…the comments…I can’t explain it. I guess it helps to know it’s not just me who can’t let this kind of hurt go. That there are literally hundreds of thousands of people who’ve been damaged in the same way.”
He’d damaged her, the woman he’d loved more than anything or anyone. He had no words, only a blistering wound of remorse. He couldn’t stand the distance—the inability to make her feel better—so he reached out and touched her fingertips. This time, she didn’t jerk away.
They stood so close he could feel her body heat. The pain in her eyes gave way to something else…something hopeful, and his pulse kicked up. Desire burned in his core, and he thought maybe this was the moment he could make things right between them.
Yes, he was angry with her—for not forgiving him, for using the meme for her own gain—but at the same time he just fucking yearned for her. He could see Callie peering at him through Calliope’s eyes, and he needed…he needed her so much his body couldn’t take it.
But when he leaned closer, catching a whiff of her sweet, feminine scent, her expression turned guarded. And so he forced himself to take a step back. She didn’t want him like that.
Drawing in a breath, she reclaimed her composure. “The point is that, without an outlet, a…resolution for the pain, it just lives inside you.” She snatched a few sheets of paper off the table and shook them at him. “These stories free people from the heartache they’ve been living with.”
You don’t need the meme. You just need to give me a chance to fix it. “I hate how I handled it, Callie. I think about it all the time. I would do anything to go back and change how I handled the situation.”
“I believe you, I do. But you can’t change what happened, and putting together this exhibition might give me the closure I need.” As she turned toward the table, taking in the heap of colored paper, the doubt hardened into resolve. “Look, I don’t want to make things worse for you, but I have a very tight timeline here and I have to get back to work. So, if you’d like to grab that taller ladder, that’d be great. Otherwise…” Her chin lifted to the door behind him.
Was she dismissing him? Oh, hell, no. “Because the judge ordered me to, I’ll help you with your museum”—he waited for her response to his word choice and got a nice hit of satisfaction when her nostrils flared and her shoulders tensed—“but you’re getting rid of anything to do with me.” Not waiting for her response, he swept past her to find the janitor’s office.
“This exhibition…”
Her cold, professional tone stopped him cold.
“…is my ticket to the fellowship. And it’s the popularity of the World’s Worst Boyfriend that’s going to get it for me. So if you’re going to have a problem with it, you might want to choose another assignment. Because this is going to happen.”
Chapter Nine
“Did you see Solheim?” Brodie set the sizzling platter down on the kitchen table.
Before Fin could answer, his phone pinged. “Hang on.” He pulled it out of his pocket to find a text. “It’s Nolan.”
Something’s still off. Look at this clip and tell me what you think.
Fin wrote him right back. You keep the log?
No. I already eat what you tell me to. That’s not the problem. Look at the footage and see what I’m doing wrong.
“What’s up?” Brodie asked. “He still not doing what you told him to?”
Fin shook his head while he typed. Next time I look at your film it’ll be after you’ve kept a log. He shoved his phone back in his pocket, ignoring the three pings in a row that told him Nolan didn’t like his response.
Laughing, Brodie spread his napkin across his lap. “Don’t know why he doesn’t just listen to you by now.”
“It’s off-season. He doesn’t want to be bothered keeping track of what he eats and drinks.” Fin speared a steak and dropped it onto his plate. It took him a second to realize the platter only had two steaks for the three of them.
Will trampled down the stairs. Once in the kitchen, his oldest brother went straight for the cabinet, pulled out a glass, and filled it with tap water. “I’m starving.” With his bare foot, he dragged the chair away from the table and dropped into it. His brow furrowed when he saw the platter thick with blood and peppercorns.
But no meat.
Will glanced between his two brothers. “Where’s mine?”
When they burst out laughing, Will shoved back his chair and pulled open the oven to find his dinner. Shaking his head, he brought it to the table and reached for his knife and fork.
Their dad had had a strange way of teaching his sons about the world. He’d grill four steaks for the five of them, which meant the last one to the table didn’t get fed. As a little kid, Fin made sure to be the first every time. He wouldn’t be left out of anything. But as they got older, the boys had come up with their own solution. They’d silently cut off a third of their steak and give it to the brother who’d show up last.
Mack Bowie had been a hard man, but his lessons had paid off. They’d made his sons tight and fiercely loyal to each other.
“I miss Dad.” Fin’s voice broke the silence.
“Yeah.” Will sounded resigned.
Brodie stopped chewing.
Their dad had died a year ago, and they’d yet to talk about anything other than funeral arrangements, estate details, and how hard it had impacted Uncle Lachlan, who spent way less time on the ranch these days.
Will stabbed a couple spinach leaves with his fork. “Hey, how come I have grass and he gets that.” He pointed to Brodie’s salad, which was nothing like theirs.
Guess we’re still not talking about Dad. Fin had loved his father fiercely, and he missed him every single day.
He glanced at Brodie’s plate, noticing the beets, pear, goat cheese and…candied pecans? “Where’d you get that?”
“Marcella made it for me.” Brodie drew his plat
e to the edge of the table, one beefy arm curled around it to ward off Will’s fork.
With his steak knife, Fin pointed to the pecans. “That’s candy. And the beets and pears are nothing but sugar.”
“Yeah, it has actual flavor,” Brodie said. “And I like it, so fuck off.”
“He’s right.” Will nudged his salad plate away with the back of his hand. “Mine tastes like ass.”
Fin made a show out of forking as many spinach leaves as he could and shoving them into his mouth. He and Marcella had come up with a simple dressing of balsamic vinegar infused with herbs, some salt, pepper, and granulated garlic. It tasted good. “This is real food.” Still chewing, he pointed to Brodie’s. “That’s dessert.”
“It’s got fruit, vegetables, nuts…” Brodie said. “Everything to make this growing boy strong.”
“That comes from a goat’s tit.” Will pointed to the goat cheese and shuddered.
“Besides, there’s nothing wrong with a little sugar every now and then.” Brodie’s chair scraped back. He started toward the pantry but swung around to take his salad plate with him. Pulling a tin of butter cookies off the shelf, he brought it to the table and pried off the lid. Inside was a treasure trove of movie-size candy boxes. M&Ms, Milk Duds, licorice bites, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and Junior Mints. Tearing open each box, he dumped a pile of crap all over his salad.
Will grinned and plucked a few pieces off.
“Mm, tasty,” Brodie said around a mouthful of candy.
Still laughing, Will popped them into his mouth. Immediately, he reached for his napkin and spit it out. “How old is this shit?”
Brodie unleashed the smile he’d been fighting. “No idea. It’s dad’s stash.” He pushed his plate away.
“Dad hid candy?” Fin set his fork down.
“He didn’t need to eat like us.” Will shrugged.
That was news. “He ate exactly like we do.”
“Yeah, around us,” Brodie said. “But he wasn’t in training, so he kept little stashes around the house.”
Of all of them, Fin thought he’d known their dad the best. He’d actually talked to him. About stuff other than travel plans and competitions. Still, it had been impossible to get into his dad’s head. He’d lived by his own code.
