Page 39 of The Neighborly Thing To Do
“Got it.” He squeezes me close and then releases me without complaint.
I’m already cold without his arm around me, and I hesitate. “Do you want to talk to her with me?” I ask.
His eyes open and he stares at me. “For real?”
“Yeah.” He’s my husband. And it’s early days, and we could have both deluded ourselves into thinking things that aren’t possible. But if this does work like we’re saying it will, if we get even a fraction of the forever we’re talking about, then Finn is going to be in G’s life, and they should get to know each other like that.
He sits up. “Yes. Absolutely, yes. Now?”
“After we clean up. And change.” I swing myself out of bed, glancing around the room for where any of my clothes went from last night, when my eyes catch on his feet—and a few inches of his shins—hanging right over the edge of the bed. “Finn.”
“Yes, wife?” He doesn’t bother to get up yet.
I force myself to ignore the tingle from him calling mewifeagain. “You don’t fit in this bed.”
His eyes crack open. “Oh. No, I don’t.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask, incredulous. He’s been sleeping here this whole time with his feet hanging off the edge of the bed. That’s ridiculous, and unacceptable. I’ve had my husband staying in my house, doing me a favor, and I didn’t even get him a comfortable place to sleep.
“What were you going to do? You can’t make the bed bigger.”
“What do you do at home?” I demand.
“Big bed, custom-made. It’s fine, Cassidy. It doesn’t hurt me.”
I frown, grumpy about this now. I don’t like that he doesn’t fit in my bed, but I don’t know what to do about that.
“Want to join me?” I ask instead of dwelling on it. The ensuite bathroom’s shower is decently sized. It’ll be a tight fit for both of us, but I still want him in there with me.
That gets him up and moving.
After we’re clean, I position us both on the couch downstairs, fretting about camera angles. Is it better to have Finn there from the beginning, or to introduce him later? What will cause her the least amount of anxiety?
Finn stops my shuffling by slinging an arm around my shoulders and pulling me into him. “She’s an adult, Cassidy,” he says firmly. “This isn’t a television show. Just tell her.”
She’s eighteen. I’m still sending her money to do her laundry and buy snacks. She’s an adult in the most technical sense of the word, but that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t need me to make some decisions, still. I can’t dump things on her.
But I guess the decision has been made. Finn is going to be in this whole call. I nod and clickdialon my tablet that I’ve set up on the coffee table in front of us.
It rings for a moment, and then G picks up, phone at a weird angle until she shuffles it and we can take in her whole face.
My throat tightens. She looks good. She looks like she’s getting plenty of sun and having fun. Hopefully not too much fun, but G is a responsible kid. I trust her to figure that out for herself.
She’s bright eyed and smiling. There’s a new streak of color in her hair, looking like someone dip-dyed a piece, and I fight a smirk. College evidently hasn’t changed that much.
“Hey, Cee,” she says, grinning. Then her eyes dart to Finn. “And… Mr. Delaney?”
He clears his throat. “You can call me Finn, Georgia.”
“Yeah, sure. Uhm, good to see you?” She says it like a question, and I don’t blame her.
I clear my throat so I can do this properly. “G, Finn is—we have something to tell you.”
She blinks, and then there’s movement behind her as she plops down on her bed, sprawled out on her back and holding her phone above her. My arm always gets tired when I try that, but G does it constantly. “Alright, what’s up?”
“We’re, uh, dating,” I say. It doesn’t cover nearly enough, but it’s too soon to talk about the marriage. What, am I supposed to pretend I was sneaking out to see him after she fell asleep? It’s one thing to tell the town that, but I don’t want Georgia to think I kept anything from her.
“Oh.” She doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I wait without breathing, ready for her judgment. I’ve never done this before, never had to find out how she would react. What if she hates it? What if she thinks I was waiting for her to leave so I could find something else? What if—
