Page 12 of The Neighborly Thing To Do
It feels like a dismissal, and I take it as such, giving us both a little time to process what just happened.
Chapter 8
Finn
My mother is struggling to understand what I’m saying. “So, you got married without me?” she asks for the third time.
I sigh, looking at my father who’s sitting in his arm chair. If I expected him to be helpful, then I’d be wrong, and I should have known better. He’s not much of a talker, never has been, but the man does not play about his wife. If there’s ever a side to take, he’s going to be on hers, no matter what the situation is. My mother could commit murder and my father would just gruffly insist that she was in the right.
My father makes gravestones for a living. He’s not a salesman and never has been; he just relies on people needing what he makes at some point in their lives. People show up and tell him what they want on the stone for their loved one. He nods, writes it down, and then carves the stone before delivering it. He’sdone every gravestone in Hearthstone for the past forty-five years, and most of them for about a dozen other supernatural towns like ours. If he can do all that without talking, then so much the better.
My mother, by contrast, is the social butterfly of the family. She talks to everyone in town. She taught art at the school for her entire career, retiring two years ago and retreating to her gardens, where she talks to the flowers, too.
Between the two of them, I have never won a single argument in my thirty-nine years of life. But I have to try anyway. “Mom, it’s not real. That’d be like asking you to come along when I run to the grocery store for a friend.”
“A marriage isnota small favor, Finley.”
Ouch. Full name. It’s been a long time since she trotted that out. She’s leaning forward in her favorite chair, slipping right into lecture mode. “Alright, sure,” I agree, because she’s not wrong. “But it’s not as serious as you’re making it out to be.”
Something about saying that feels wrong, but I can’t quite sort out why. This isn’t that serious, and it is a favor. Nothing about what we’ve done says we’re bonded forever now. Cassidy and I are, essentially, going to be roommates for a while.
Roommates with a legally binding partnership, though.
“Finley Michael Delaney,” she snaps, and I sit up straighter. “You got married.”
“You’ve wanted me to do that for ages,” I point out.
“Don’t sass your mother,” my father says, his voice like gravel.
I’m notsassingmy mother, but I don’t argue.
“You like Cassidy,” I try next.
“She’s a sweet girl,” my mother agrees. “Taking on her sister like that, that’s the mark of a good person. But I like plenty of people, Finley, and I don’t see you marrying them. What’s different?”
“She needs a favor. Davies is fucking her over; she deserves to stay in her damn house.”
My mom is silent for a moment, and I have long enough to regret the cursing when she says, “You’re very invested, Finny.”
I'd rather her scold me for swearing.
“I’m just saying,” she continues, “there are a lot of people in this town. You’re a nice boy, but you have to acknowledge you don’t go out of your way for people. There are people you’ve known far longer than Cassidy. I’ve seen you in actual relationships where you’ve put in less effort.”
I think my mother is calling me a bad boyfriend in the most roundabout way possible, and I don’t know how to think about that. I’m not a terrible partner. I’m considerate and I listen, and I’ve never expected a woman to take care of me like some giant man-baby. But I am stubborn. I have a way I live my life and I don’t like changing things.
In my defense, my role model was a stubborn gravestone carver who took over the business from his father and planned to pass it to his son, who eats the same breakfast every day, gets to the workshop at the same time on the same four days everyweek, and wears the same six outfits on rotation. I guess I figured that, if that type of man could attract a woman who’d fill the silences he left and plant flowers among his headstones, then maybe I could, too. But it hasn’t worked out that way yet.
“She’s a good girl, Finny,” my mother says, voice quieter now. “But you’re a good boy, too. I don’t want to see either of you get hurt.”
“I know what I signed up for,” I tell her, which is only partially an answer. I do know what I signed up for. This is a favor, and it’s temporary, nothing more. Whatever I might be feeling when she’s near—when she touches me, when she sits next to me in that little blue dress, when she holds my hands and whispers wedding vows while looking me in the eyes—that doesn’t matter. This is a favor.
“I’ll be fine, Mom.” Maybe. I guess we’ll find out.
My mother purses her lips. “Let’s have her over for dinner.”
Absolutely not. I can see the scheming in her eyes already. She’ll trot out the baby pictures and the welcome to the family speeches before Cassidy even knows what happened. That’s the last thing we need right now. “Give us some time first, alright?” I plead. “She’s trying to learn to live without Georgia around, and now she has me. Let her settle into her new routine before you throw it all out of whack.”
There’s a pause while she considers me, and I hold my breath. “Two weeks,” she decides. “I’ll give you two weeks without saying anything.”
