CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

F inn

It's possible I slightly exaggerated my enthusiasm for Noah's parents' visit. The knot in my stomach doesn't feel awesome.

Noah has moved his clothes and things into my bedroom, where, frankly, they belong.

Now I'm pacing the kitchen, waiting to buzz Noah's parents up.

I haven't met anyone's parents before, and I check and recheck that everything is ready. I've never been introduced as someone's boyfriend before, and now I'm being introduced as someone's husband.

And it's a lie.

Whoever these people are, I'm going to be lying to them. A year from now, they're going to learn Noah and I are divorcing, and they'll hate me.

And God, they'll be right. I swallow down the acrid taste in my throat.

Then the door buzzes. Shortly after, they're on their way.

"Noah! Your parents are almost here!"

"Okay." Noah rushes toward me from my room. His socked feet slide on the slick polished floors. Gabriella does a fantastic job, and I steady him.

"Careful, babe," I say.

His eyes widen. "You're going into character. "

I blink, then consider what I said. I flash my most confident smile. "Of course." I lean closer to him. "Or would you prefer honey bunny? Pumpkin? Snugglemuffin? Puck?"

He blinks. "No one calls their significant other puck."

"Guess that's yours, my sweet puck."

Noah laughs at me, astonished. His green eyes are larger than before, and something in my heart absolutely warms.

"You can't call me that," he exclaims.

"Why not?"

"It sounds dirty!"

I snort. "Is that why you got into hockey?"

Pink sweeps over Noah's cheeks.

The doorbell rings, and he turns toward the door. I rush to open it.

Two older versions of Noah stand awkwardly. His mother has his bright green eyes and high cheekbones, and his dad has his athletic figure, if somewhat more rounded. Cold air rushes into the apartment, and they gaze at me warily.

God, I don't blame them.

My heart marches faster and faster and faster. I want to leave.

Still, I flourish my hand at the apartment and smile, even though his parents don't attempt any upward lip movements of their own. "Welcome."

NOAH

"We're so pleased you could make it," Finn exclaims. "Absolutely delighted."

My parents exchange wide-eyed glances.

"My parents are eager to meet you tomorrow," Finn continues, with all the energy of a super host. "I thought we could hang out, then go out for dinner. Does that sound good?"

"Um..."

Finn's expression sobers. "Or if you want to sleep, you can. You two must be exhausted. Or maybe you want to see the city? I, um, can drive you around?"

"Your plan sounds great," Mom says.

"Right." Finn nods more times than necessary, then after questioning them on their drinking tastes, hands my dad an IPA and my mother some white wine. Fortunately, he neglects to mention what happened the first time he gave me alcohol.

Finn directs my parents to the couch, so they have the best view of Boston harbor. Both of us take armchairs on either side of them, and Finn and I don't have to worry about our body language so that we look sufficiently smitten.

My parents gratefully nibble the appetizers that Finn ordered from some caterer. Given the generous slathering of goat cheese and the frequent use of ham, the caterer has gone more for delicious than the healthy side of the spectrum.

"So, you're really married?" My dad asks after filling his plate with appetizers and leaning against the sofa.

Finn and I exchange a glance. I have an odd urge to curl on the edge of Finn's armchair or sit in his lap. But that's ridiculous .

"We are married." Finn shifts in his seat, and his gaze flickers away for a second. "It was sudden. We, um, hould have invited you."

"Were you drunk?" my dad asks.

I stiffen.

"Noah wouldn't be drunk, honey," Mom says, laughing. "He's a responsible man."

This time, Finn stiffens. The pleasant conversation has veered into unpleasant territory.

"I care about your son," Finn says, not making eye contact with me. "He is incredible. You should be very proud."

My parents nod, appeased.

I wait for them to muse about the oddness that I'm married to a guy, not a girl, but the statement never comes, and before long we leave to walk to the fancy restaurant Finn has selected.

Boston has fortunately decided not to rain tonight, and we stroll the short distance to the wharf. The harbor is quiet and still, and the bright lights of the city are reflected in the water, until a tiny boat smashes through it, making the lights disappear in its ripples.

"This is beautiful," my mother exclaims, and my father grins and kisses her cheek.

"They're holding hands," Finn whispers, and I shiver when his warm breath hits my ear.

"They're disgusting," I say, because God, they're my parents.

Finn flinches. I want to shove the words back into my mouth. Finn steps away from me, and I'm suddenly aware of the cool evening breeze.

Why is disappointment on his face? Did he want to hold my hand? I mean, obviously, he didn't. But he doesn't look happy. He's probably not impressed with my acting abilities.

I reach out my fingers to him, and he smiles and grips them in his hand. My heart stumbles, and I'm breathing through my nose and mouth, just to get enough oxygen. Because Finn's hand is warm and large and a completely different experience to holding Abby's hand. I like it. He squeezes my hand, and something zings through me. Huh.

Probably I was cold. His hand is warm. We're still holding hands even when we wait in line for the hostess, and even when she brings us to the table that overlooks the water. Only then do I remember that our hands are still linked, and I give an awkward giggle when he drops his hand.

A waiter guides us through the menu, and another brings a small table for my mother's handbag.

Big band music floats through the evening air, and my mother's eyes widen as she takes in the black-suited bandmembers playing their shiny brass instruments. "How lovely."

"Uh-huh." My father nods in agreement, and his face softens as he gazes at the twinkling lights, happy people, and the dark harbor.

"Oh, honey. This is great," my mom chatters. "Is this one of your favorite restaurants?"

"It's my first time too."

"They just got married," my dad reminds my mom, and the awkwardness that Finn had successfully banished earlier returns in full force .

"This is one of my parents' favorite restaurants," Finn says, bringing out his wide smile again. "You'll get to meet them tomorrow."

"So they're, um..." My father's voice trails off, but not before his glance bounces between us.

Finn glances at me.

"I think my father is trying to ask if your parents mind that we're married."

"They only mind they didn't get to see it," Finn says.

My father nods rapidly. I want to ask him if he has more questions, but I don't like the guilt and confusion and even anger that bubbles up. So instead, I concentrate on the menu and let Finn launch into a lengthy discussion about his mother's enthusiasm for birthday parties and horror at what she might turn a wedding into.

My mother tries to laugh in all the right places, but the catered affair his mother evidently enjoys is so far from our own experiences.

"There will be some reporters at tomorrow's event," I warn them. "You don't have to answer any questions."

Four waiters swarm us with food at the exact same moment, averting the crisis of having some of us be forced to wait for the others' food to arrive. My parents exclaim at the grilled seafood and their immaculate presentation.

Soon, my dad and Finn chat about hockey, while my mother interrupts to marvel more at the food and the decor.

Finally, we stroll back to the glossy apartment complex, pass the always friendly doorman, and take the elevator upstairs.

My parents express their thanks for the dinner again, then Finn and I go back to his room.

"You have nice parents," Finn says, when the door is closed, and he takes off his shirt.

"I-I know." I remember to avert my gaze, and I pretend that the plain white painted wall is more interesting than Finn's rippled chest.

"What's wrong?" Finn asks.

"I thought they might wonder why I married a man."

"They didn't have to wonder after they met me." Finn winks.

I scrutinize the pillows on the bed. "Are those there so I can throw them at you?"

Finn gives a strangled laugh.

I decide violence, even the pillow variety, isn't how I want to thank Finn for this evening, but when I glance at Finn, he is frowning, as if I did pummel pillows at him.

"Did your parents meet your past girlfriends?" he asks.

"I don't think my parents will bring them up tomorrow," I reassure him. "They won't quiz you."

His brow remains furrowed. "I just wanted to know."

"Oh." I sit on the bed and remove my shirt.

His gaze bounces away from me, then he goes to his chest of drawers and pulls out some pajamas.

"I dated Abby through college. We broke up earlier this year."

His eyes widen. "Dude, you dated her a long time."

"I guess." I stand and remove my belt, sliding it from the loops.

"So you were in love? "

"I thought so."

"You're not sure?"

I rake my hand through my hair. "How are we supposed to know what love feels like? It's something we see other people say they have. Something we watch in movies. Or read about."

His eyes don't soften.

"Abby was nice. And smart. She was a premed student. We got along fine."

"Then why did you break up?"

"Technically, she broke up with me."

"Oh." He draws back. "You wouldn't have broken up with her."

"Probably not," I admit, but it's not a statement that makes me feel proud. "She was sweet. I could have dated her forever."

Finn blinks rapidly, then turns away. His reaction is strange. I mean, we've promised to divorce each other in the next year, but that's different, right?

This marriage was accidental.

And neither of us is gay.

Or at least, Finn isn't. The awkwardness that has filled me this past year, doesn't stop when I'm in Finn's presence. My gaze drifts to his body more often than I'm comfortable with, more often than I want him to know.

And though I can talk to Finn about lots of things, I can't talk to him about this.

There's no going back from the statement that maybe you're not actually that straight, that you would be open to...more .

I don't want him to have to awkwardly explain that he doesn't feel that way, and I don't want him to wonder if I enjoyed his kisses too much. God, I've seen the man naked before. I don't want to make the man who has been so kind to me, so kind to my parents, uncomfortable.

Finn is still acting strange. His jaw is tight, his body stiff. Maybe he's upset he can't simply topple into the bed. Why he wants to make conversation about Abby is beyond me. But I'm not going to deny him anything.

"I don't miss her," I admit. "I should have missed her, right? But even though I didn't consider splitting from her, I wasn't distraught or anything when she told me she wanted to leave herself open for someone new and that she didn't see me in her future."

"Oh." Finn's shoulders move down a fraction.

"She was smart and sweet. We rarely saw each other. She was busy with pre-med, and I was busy with hockey. I liked having someone to call at the end of each day, but that was mostly what it was in the end. Maybe we didn't work hard enough to go on dates. Maybe we didn't care."

"I'm sorry," Finn says.

"It's okay. She was a good person and enhanced my life. But she wasn't my forever. And I don't think I ever was crazy about her, even at the beginning."

I frown. Obviously, I've said too much. Finn doesn't need to hear that my longest relationship was not passionate.

But when I look at him, he's smiling, and maybe I said what I needed to say to make him happy again.

"You're a passionate guy." He winks .

I find my cheeks warming and I force myself to the laugh, but the sound is awkward, no doubt because of my tightening chest. "We gave Coach a show."

"He's probably still scarred." Finn slips into the bathroom, and I try to chuckle, but my chest remains tight, and the sound doesn't come.