Page 15 of The Neighborly Thing To Do
He made the bed already, and all of his belongings are neatly tucked away, but I can smell him on the air, the cold, minty-clean smell I discovered while he was carrying me around yesterday. How does it pervade every inch of my space after only one night?
I can hear him going into the bathroom and opening the closet, and I force myself to take a deep breath. First order of business is clothes. Then, I can figure out what the hell is going on here.
When I emerge from my bedroom fully dressed, Finn has swept up the shards and deposited them somewhere. I can hear him in the kitchen, so I take a moment to move the little table off the landing, sticking it in the living room. I should have realized the stairs weren’t ideal for his size. I wonder what else about this house isn’t set up for him.
When I make it to the kitchen, Finn is scrambling eggs. “I hope after breakfast for dinner, you still want breakfast for breakfast,” he says over his shoulder.
“Finn. You don’t have to cook me breakfast,” I tell him. First he mops, then he cleans up the mess, and now he cooks? This is ridiculous. This is too much.
“I don’thaveto do anything. I want to cook for you.”
“Why?” Does he think I can’t do it for myself? Did dinner last night suck so badly he’s taking over? I bristle, because my dinner wasfine. I can take care of this house and keep it running on my own, dammit.
He flicks off the heat and turns toward me slowly. It’s then I realize he’s not wearing a shirt. It’s not unusual for him—when I see Finn in his own yard, he’s almost never wearing a shirt—but the sight of him cooking for me shirtless, aftermarryingme, is doing something to my brain.
It’s fake, I remind myself. The man is clearly more comfortable this way. I shouldn’t read too much into it.
“When was the last time someone took care of you?” Finn asks out of nowhere, and my brain scrambles.
When was the last time someonetook care of me? I couldn’t guess. G tries to be helpful. She’s a good kid. She’s also a teenager, and I never wanted to put too much on her. It was my job to take care of the house; it was her job to grow up.
Finn’s mother talked me through taking care of my flowers when I first got here, and she sends me Christmas cookies. Sally, the nineteen-year-old who also works at the market, covered my shift when I got sick a month ago. But other than that, I have no idea.
“It’s not your job to take care of me,” I tell him after a too-long delay, no doubt sounding like an idiot.
He points the spatula at himself. “Husband, remember?”
“Fake,” I remind him.
Something changes in the room when I say that. “Not fake,” he contradicts quietly after a moment. “Temporary, maybe. Not getting married for the reasons people expect, absolutely. But it was a legally binding wedding. Now, sit down. Breakfast is ready.”
I stand there for another second, processing his stubborn insistence that we’re really married now. He’s not wrong—it’s as legal as a wedding can be—but we both know it’s only temporary.
When he gestures to the table again, I say, “I have to work in an hour.”
“Good. Plenty of time to eat, then.”
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Instead, I sit at the table and let him put scrambled eggs and orange juice in front of me.
I stare at the spread while he puts dishes in the sink. I’m still staring when he sits down across from me. “Cassidy,” he says, voice more gentle than I’d expect coming from that big frame. “It’s fine. Eat your food.”
I huff. I still don’t understand this. “You’re downright solicitous for a grumpy neighbor,” I mutter.
Finn, to my shock,laughs. I stare as his head tips back, long lines of his throat on display. I’ve never heard him laugh before. It’s deep and resonates through the whole room, like it’s warming us both up. “Grumpy, huh?” he asks.
I shrug, forcing myself to look away from him and back at my eggs. “Can you blame me? You’re not exactly chatty, Finn.”
“Fair enough. But I’d like to think I’m not an asshole.”
“I don’t think you’re an asshole,” I say immediately, because I never have. He’s practically a recluse, and terrible at small talk, but he’s not an asshole. I remember him helping me get Georgia down from that tree when she was small, or the times in the early years when I was overwhelmed and he’d mow my grass or rake my leaves without saying anything. He never wanted thanks or anything in return; he’s justthere.
“Good. Then I need you to hear this. You do not have to do all this on your own. It’s not all on you anymore, Cassidy.”
I stare at him, brain blanking out as I process that. Not all on me? What does that even look like?
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, watching me. “We’ll figure it out. But in the meantime, know that if I make you breakfast, you’re not obligated to say anything except maybe thank you.”
“Thank you,” I say automatically, feeling like an asshole that I didn’t say it in the first place.
