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He seemed to consider this, but he was too tired to argue. “Just let him out back,” he said. “He doesn’t need a leash.”
“He won’t run away?”
This amused him. “He’s old, and he hasn’t had his breakfast. He’ll barely let the bowl out of his sight. He’ll go far enough into the grass to do his business, and no further.”
Gary moaned urgently, as if in agreement. I swung my legs out of bed. I found my panties on the floor, but I couldn’t find my shirt, so I quickly tugged on the sleeveless tee Finn had worn yesterday. The arm holes weren’t exactly modest, but it didn’t matter. I hurried downstairs and to the back door before Gary had an accident.
It had drizzled in the night, and the morning air was crisp and clean, washed with damp. Tattered clouds moved over the pale sun. Spring was coming, which meant more rain. I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling goosebumps on my skin, but I didn’t go back inside. It felt good to inhale the fresh air in the silence of the peaceful morning.
As promised, Gary didn’t wander far, and when he was done his business, he came back, giving me a doggy grin and wagging his tail. “Good boy,” I told him, and I bent to pet him, but he saw something behind me and rushed past me into the house, excited.
I closed the door and followed him into the kitchen. Finn was at the counter, getting out the dog food. He had put on an old pair of flannel sleep pants a T-shirt. His hair was messy and his eyes were half open.
“I could have done that,” I said.
Finn looked at me and his hands went still. His eyes opened all the way.
I glanced down. I still had my arms crossed over my chest, but I was wearing only panties and Finn’s shirt. I hadn’t looked in the mirror, but I definitely had morning-after hair.
Finn cleared his throat, and his voice was soft, almost reverent. “Jesus Christ, Juliet.”
So this was the morning after, then. And it wasn’t going to be awkward. I dropped my arms and put my hands on my hips, giving him the full display. “Feed your dog, Finn. He’s starving.”
From his spot at Finn’s feet, Gary made a pitiful sound of agreement.
“Yeah, sure,” Finn said, still staring. He’d said something like that last night, too, as if he forgot what words were. It should have been funny, but instead it made something twist inside me as I stood there, rumpled and mostly naked for him to see. No one had ever looked at me like Finn did. Not one person. Not ever.
He blinked, then forced his gaze back down to what he was doing. “I brought your phone down,” he said, gesturing to my phone on the counter. “It keeps buzzing.”
This early? No one ever messaged me this early, which meant it wasn’t anything good. It couldn’t be the Road Kings, because none of my bandmates was ever conscious before ten a.m. unless they were on tour. Mom and Vicki never texted me. I picked up my phone and winced at the series of messages.
Dad: Honey are you up
Dad: Probably not
Dad: It’s just a small thing, call me
Dad: You are asleep, do you have a few hundred you can spare until payday? I don’t ask for much.
I put the phone back down without replying. Finn put Gary’s bowl down, and then he straightened and looked at me, concerned. “What is it?”
I hesitated. I didn’t talk about Dad to anyone. It was ancient history. I just swallowed my feelings and got on with life, like I’d been doing since Dad left when I was a kid. He wasn’t going to change. The only way to deal with Dad was to push the hurt away and move on.
But Finn was standing there, waiting, and last night had been incredible, and I was tired of swallowing my feelings. I was just fucking exhausted. “It’s my dad,” I said. “He’s asking for money.”
Finn looked surprised. “He’s asking you for money at seven in the morning?”
“He likely hasn’t gone to bed yet,” I explained. “Dad likes to party.” Finn had put a hand on the counter and I stared at it, at the line of his forearm. “I haven’t heard from him since before Christmas, I think. He must have heard that I’m working with the Road Kings, which means I’m making some money. That’s why he’s messaging me now. Not because he misses me or because he cares. Because he wants money.”
I waited for the pain to descend, waited for the old feelings of anger and sadness that always accompanied any interaction with my dad. Instead, I felt nothing. Emptiness. It wasn’t even a sad nothing—it was just nothing.
“Don’t do it,” Finn said.
I looked up at him. There was something in his expression, a shadow of his own hurt, that said he knew exactly how I felt. I hadn’t thought that was possible.
“What?” I asked.
“Don’t do it.” He gestured to my phone. “Don’t give him money. It won’t get you whatever it is you want. His acceptance, his love, whatever you need. Giving him money won’t get you that.” When the silence stretched out, he added, “My mother left when I was eight. We had radio silence until I got famous. Then, suddenly, she wanted a relationship.” His smile was cynical. “When I wouldn’t give her money, she didn’t want a relationship anymore. Funny how that worked. We haven’t talked in years.”
