Page 64 of The Neighborly Thing To Do
Finn waits until she’s completely gone, then asks, “Are you mad at me?”
It’s a fair question. I’d told him that I didn’t want Georgia to know. “Why’d you do it?” I ask him.
He’s silent for a minute, but then admits, “Because you talked about her coming back here someday and not wanting her to know that her neighbors hurt you. But I thought—if I was her, I wouldn’t want to come back here and not know that I’d done everything I possibly could for the person who mattersthe most to me.” He pauses, then admits, “That goes for me, too. I couldn’t go today without knowing I prepared every tool in our arsenal.”
It’s incredibly thoughtful, and I don’t miss that he implies I’m the person who matters most to him. I take a step toward him, holding out my arms. He takes the hint and pulls me into a hug.
“She wouldn’t have forgiven me if I didn’t tell her,” I admit, seeing what I didn’t earlier. Eighteen is a complicated age. Georgia is an adult according to the law, but we all know that she’s still young and learning. Even so, she’s not the little kid she once was, and I owe it to her to start handing her adult things. It’ll be slow, and I’ll be there to help her carry them, but she’s right; we’re partners in this now. I’m no longer the guardian meant to shield her from the world.
“Thank you.” I rest my head on his chest, feeling the heat of him as he holds me close.
“I’m glad. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you,” he murmurs. He rubs my back for a minute, then asks, “And how about us?”
“What about us?” I demand, pulling back so I can look at him.
He bites his lip. “You can stay now, Cassidy. No one can throw you out of town. This is your house. You don’t need me anymore. Do you still want this?”
He’s actually worried I’m going to say no. I can see it in his eyes, the way he holds himself. My husband, my fake-then-realhusband, the man who holds me when I cry and wakes up early so he can race me to get chores done, the man who fucks me so good I forget my own name, the man who stepped up today as a partner and husband and made the right decision for Georgia—he really thinks I’m going to leave him now. Divorce him, keep my house, and, what? Go back to being neighbors?
The idea is abhorrent. “Will you move in here?” I ask him. “For real, I mean. Not saying you are, not out of a duffle bag. Really live here. Bring your things over. Figure out closet space with me. Get rid of some of the furniture here so we can mix in yours. Take whatever bed is in your apartment that I hope fits your massive frame and move it into our bedroom upstairs. Will you do that?”
His eyes are wide as he nods, watching me with a glassy sort of expression. Is he about to cry? I reach up and cup his jaw. “Finn,” I say firmly. “We are married. I don’t care how it started. If we get re-married because Georgia is going to be a demanding brat about it, great. I’ll be happy to marry you again. But you are my husband regardless. And that’s not changing.” I show him my wedding band. “I meant this. Did you?”
I already know the answer, but he nods, eyes still looking ready to spill over with tears. “Of course I did,” he promises. “I’d be honored to spend forever with you, wife.”
His arms are still around me, tugging me closer, running up my sides, and I can get behind this. I lean into him, seeking his warmth, but then he pulls away.
“I want you to be able to spend every minute with your sister before she goes back,” he explains while I pout, which immediately turns my reaction around. Okay, that’s a good point. Time with G is very much limited.
But my husband—he’s never getting rid of me now. We have all the time in the world.
Epilogue: Finn
Snow is falling out the kitchen window, the tree lights are twinkling, the house smells like cookies, and I’m flipping pancakes.
Georgia had claimed that she definitely failed her theory of magic final, which Cassidy proclaimed as a “pancake for dinner” event. She then privately told me she thinks G is being overdramatic, but to let the kid eat pancakes anyway. College is rough, and she made it through a semester. She deserves a reward.
Georgia is unpacking in her room upstairs, and Cassidy is puttering around, cleaning her things up from the kitchen table. I’ve told her a million times that she should use the office we made her in the workshop to keep work separate from our home, and she does most of the time. But it all migrates around with her, especially now that she’s taken on social media marketing for two more people in town. Mrs. Granger is trying her hand at selling her soaps and perfumes to a wider marketthan just her neighbors, and Doug Petrokoff does actual glass blowing from his backyard workshop. Cassidy does the social media marketing for all of us, then acts as the human face on post office runs or deliveries.
She gets her things tidied away, then comes over to me, careful not to touch me until I flip the last pancake onto the stack. I give her a kiss while I give her the plate, and when I pull away, she has a soft smile on her face. “I love you,” she murmurs.
She’s been doing that a lot lately. We both have. Saying it, and making sure the other hears it. It still makes me melt inside every time.
“Love you too, baby,” I promise her, watching her walk to the table. It’s a hell of a view.
“And thank you for doing this,” she says, now fiddling with the place settings.
I bite back a smile. Thanking me for it is a massive step up from arguing that I don’t have to do any of it, which is what she would have done even a few months ago.
“You’re welcome,” I tell her, sneaking up behind her to grab her hips and pull her back. “Anything to welcome Georgia home in style, hmm?”
She sighs, her head tilting to the side. “You saying my sister’s name while grinding on me is really counter-productive,” she points out.
My nose wrinkles. “Fair point.” And we better get used to it for the next few weeks. Georgia is home until the second week of January.
And my parents are always conspicuously around, too. We’re not getting any privacy for a while.
Well, not unless we make it for ourselves. “I could stick these in the oven on low,” I suggest. “Keep them warm while we sneak away? No one will be in the workshop.”
We’ve been married four months now, and I can confidently say that I’m as crazy for my wife as I was the first time I kissed her. Maybe more so, honestly. She has a way of doing that to me.
She rests a hand on mine, and I can see her turning it over in her brain. But before she can answer, the front door opens and footsteps pound down the stairs.
She moves out of my arms and turns to give me a wry smile. “Too late,” she murmurs. “Looks like we got a full house.”
I’m not even that put-out, honestly. Cassidy has a whole big family around her dinner table: my parents who support her unquestioningly, her sister who loves her to the moon and back, and me. Always me. I know this is what she wanted, what she barely let herself hope for.
So I kiss her silly, not caring that my parents and Georgia are walking into the room, and then I go to get the orange juice so we can have dinner with our family.
