Page 59 of So This Isn't Love
She nods, beaming at me with a tender, incredulous look in her eyes. "No one's ever done anything like this for me before. This is already the best date I've ever had."
I smile, but inside I'm thanking all the unworthy idiots who've come before. "You deserve a lot more than this, Darcy. But I'm glad I'm the one who's putting that look on your face."
I lift her chin on my fingers and lean down to kiss her. Not the heated kiss my body wants, but a gentle one. A kiss that says I see her, I appreciate her... I genuinely care for her.
It's not a side of me I'm overly familiar with—as in, not at all. If my brothers could see me right now, or God forbid, my friends at The Retreat, they'd all want to check my temperature to make sure I wasn't feverish or suffering a stroke. I'm not the type of guy who surprises his dates with a private chef, or who brings them to my place for romantic dinners when there are any number of more exciting places I could take a woman I'm trying to impress.
But the simple fact is, I like having Darcy all to myself. I like seeing her face light up the way it's doing right now. I simply like being with her.
Maybe someone should call a doctor, because whatever is happening to me is starting to feel like a permanent condition. One I'm not sure how to handle when in the back of my mind I know there's a deal in Colorado that's waiting for my answer, and an entire life and billion-dollar enterprise back in the city that's waiting for my return.
I shove all of that back to the darkest corners of my brain as I scoot Darcy's chair in, then walk around the table to take my seat across from her.
The food is simple and perfect and the wine is excellent. For a while it's just this—her across a small table in candlelight, telling me about her day and her students, her hands moving animatedly as she speaks, the candle flames dancing when she laughs. I could watch it for a living.
Somewhere after we've finished the superb braised lamb and I've poured our second glasses of wine, she looks past me, out the window toward the main house, its kitchen light still burning up the hill.
"What was it like?" she asks. "Growing up here. The real version, not the tour."
"The real version." I turn my glass by the stem. "The real version is that everything you can see from this window has a Bardot chore attached to it. I could prune before I could ride a bike. Colton loved it. Evan charmed his way out of it. I was the one in the middle who kept doing it wrong."
"Doing what wrong?"
"Everything, if you asked my father." It comes out easier than it used to. "I'd swap rows because I lost count. Mislabel lots. My father ran this place off a chalkboard of codes and lists. I wasn't any good with lists, and there was only one explanation on offerin that house for a boy whose brain couldn't process or retain the lists." I shrug, my shoulders feeling heavy. "You know the word he used. You've known since the barn."
Her hand comes across the white cloth and rests on mine. It stays there.
"He was wrong, Finn."
"He was working with the information he had." I turn my hand over under hers, lace our fingers. "That's the generous version. I only got to the generous version a few years after his funeral, so don't grade me on that."
"I'd never." The candlelight catches the gold in her eyes. "You hated it here that much?"
"No, I hated who I was here. Different thing. Took me a couple of decades and a broken-legged brother to work out the difference." I look at her hand in mine, her thumb moving slow along my knuckles like it's thinking. Maybe it's the wine, or the way she's listening with her whole face, or the fact that I've spent today holding one secret so hard my teeth hurt, but the smaller one just walks out on its own.
"I went to see your mother yesterday. At the library."
Her thumb goes still. She doesn't say anything.
I make myself keep looking at her. "I asked her about help. Reading help. Programs, whatever exists around here for..." The sentence wants to duck and I don't let it. "For someone like me. I told her it was for one of the guys at the vineyard. I think she knew I was lying. Your mom sat there and helped me anyway."
She smiles softly, her eyes gone shiny, and she doesn't let go of my hand.
"She'd tell you the lie doesn't matter," she says. "You walked in and asked for help. That's big. Finn, do you know how many adults never ask? I've taught for eight years. I've watched grown men at parent conferences hold their kid's reading list upsidedown and bluff. Asking is the whole mountain. Everything after it is just walking."
"That's a very kind reframe of me lying to sweet Clara Gable. She's a national treasure around here."
"Take the kind reframe." Darcy's voice is tender and patient, and feeling all her compassion trained on me is nearly overwhelming. "Was she able to help you?"
"Yeah. She told me about a program two towns over. Evening sessions." I clear my throat, which needs it. "Some other things. Homework, basically. I haven't decided anything."
"You don't have to decide anything right away." She says it like she's putting something down carefully. "But just between you and me, the man who built a company out of being fearless and providing gear for others to do things that might scare them doesn't need the fake vineyard guy. A man like that, like you, is impressive enough standing on his own."
I have been complimented by magazine covers and keynote stages. None of it has ever landed anywhere near where that lands.
"Okay," I say, roughly, and refill her glass to have something to do with my hands. "What about you? Since we're talking about things that scare us, things we should do anyway, tell me some more about your comic book literacy idea."
Her mouth curves, and I know she's remembering our stolen moments in the vineyard loft. "There's not much to tell yet. It's just a dream."
