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Finn and Natalie have been nearly permanent fixtures at my apartment since the whole thing. She’s none the worse for wear, but she thinks we don’t realize it took about a dozen trips in the car before she stopped looking sick and anxious about sitting in the back seat.
As for Finn… well, it’s a good thing Barry’s getting treatment, locked up safe with his doctors and his court orders.
Music drifts from the kitchen as I let myself in. Cat barely raises his head to look at me, perched on the back of the sofa where he tends to sleep most afternoons these days.
“Did they boot you off the table again?” I ask him, rubbing a knuckle under his chin. Soft laughter wafts in over the music.
The kitchen is a mess, but all I see is Natalie and Finn dancing to some old song on the speaker. She’s wearing an apron, her hair all twisted up on her head. There are pots of different things simmering on the stove. Finn’s twirling her around the kitchen. The steps are inexpert, but my heart fills to the brim at the sight of them.
There was a time not so very long ago when I thought I liked my quiet life, my solitude.
“Nic!”
Natalie’s eyes are glowing, her cheeks flushed. She dances away from Finn to come kiss my cheek but darts back to stir something on the stove before I can get my arms around her. Instead, Finn takes my hand, tugging me into his arms.
“Dancing in the kitchen?” I ask, quick-witted as ever. Watching them, coming home to them like this… this is joy. So much I can barely speak.
“Why not?” says Finn, spinning us and dipping me back over his arm.
“Do you want kids?”
Finn blinks. “What, right now?”
He brings us back upright. I could smack myself for ruining the moment, but the words are out. Natalie is gaping at me, the wooden spoon in her hand forgotten.
“I just meant, we’ve never talked about it.”
Finn looks at me for a solid minute before nodding like he’s come to some kind of conclusion while we are standing here with me being an idiot.
“Yeah. I really do,” he says soberly. “Do you?”
“I—” Oh my God. “Natalie?”
She clears her throat. “I’ve always wanted kids.”
“Kids, plural?”
“I’m an only child,” she says. “I always wanted siblings. And I’ve always loved the idea of having a big family of my own.”
“Define ‘big.’”
She colors prettily.
“Four?” guesses Finn. Her blush deepens. “More than four?”
“Nic didn’t answer the question,” she says. “Ask him.”
Finn looks at me, eyebrows up.
“My family is completely screwed up.”
“That’s your family, not you.”
“My brother’s an addict.”
“Still not you. And he’s getting treatment.”
“My parents?—”
