Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(64)

“You two were married,” I remind him.

“Yeah, but unlike you two, I never even kissed her.”

Ansel is already shaking his head. “We all kissed them. I even have the photo somewhere. She’s the hottest nerd girl alive.”

“Just because you got married doesn’t mean everyone else needs to settle down. Look at Finn.”

“Me?”

“Sure. I can only assume—and don’t try and deny it—you’ve been f*cking Harlow the entire time you’ve been here and you’re not ready to propose.”

“Um,” I say, picking up my knife and digging into my food with renewed interest. “I mean, we’re . . . it might not be strictly just friends anymore.”

Ansel lifts his hand and cups it around his ear as if he didn’t hear me correctly. “Comment?” he says in French. What?

“I like her.” I bring my fork to my lips and hold it there, adding, “More than like her.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Ansel says, and I snort, taking the bite.

“Holy shit. Finn,” Oliver says. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously.”

“But, wait. You’re leaving,” he adds. “Aren’t you? I mean I know you haven’t really told me what you’re doing here, but I was never under the impression it was anything permanent.”

“It’s not. I’ve been looking into some business things, but I have to go back soon. I’m not really sure what Harlow and I are going to do.”

The table is silent and we each pretend to be interested in our food, everyone trying to process the giant admission I’ve just dropped like a bomb in front of us.

“You guys are good, though, right?” I ask Ansel. “You and Mia? Being apart.” Mia and Ansel have been doing the long-distance thing for a few months now, and if anything, they seem even more infatuated with each other than they did in Vegas.

Ansel leans against the back of the bench and exhales, this deep, long breath. It’s the kind of breath you take when you’re so full of something you feel like you might explode if you don’t let it out.

“Things are going . . .” He swipes his hand down his face. “I’m just so happy. The days when we’re apart are hard, of course. But when we’re together, it’s like I don’t even remember. None of that matters.”

Oliver swallows, points his fork at me. “You two are thinking about doing the long-distance thing?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t know what the f*ck we’re doing yet.”

“You like it here, yeah?” Oliver asks. “In San Diego?”

“Yeah, of course. But I have to go back eventually.” My food sits, practically untouched in front of me, and I push it around with my fork. I suddenly have no desire to eat. “I mean, not eventually, but probably in the next day or two.”

“You’ll make it work,” Ansel says. “Harlow’s not going to leave her mom right now, but—”

My head snaps up and I blink over to him, the same sense of unease I felt last night in bed flares in my chest. “Why wouldn’t she leave her mom?”

“Well, how she’s . . .” Ansel’s words trail off and he glances nervously over to Oliver. “Shit.”

Oliver is a rock, usually completely unreadable, but I know him better than almost anyone. The way he shifts in his seat, he’s definitely uncomfortable. And then it all clicks, and before either of them have even said anything, I know.

Harlow mentioning that her mother wasn’t feeling well. Mr. Furley asking after Madeline.

Harlow’s flashes of desperation and need for escape.

Harlow’s mom is sick sick. Not just with the flu, or a lingering cold.

“Jesus Christ,” I groan, pressing my hands to my face.

“Breast cancer,” Oliver says quietly. “I think . . . stage . . . advanced? She had surgery a couple of weeks ago, and is between rounds of chemo.”

“Stage three?” I guess.

He nods. “That sounds right. From what I hear she’s doing all right, for now.”

I can’t do anything but stare down at my plate, a familiar ache pulsing fresh in my chest. I’m not sure who I’m madder at: Harlow for keeping this from me, for telling everyone but me, or at everyone else for keeping her secret. I told her everything and she couldn’t even tell me this? The one thing I would have understood. The only thing I could have offered her.

I drop my fork and the sound rings through the restaurant, louder than the shitty rock song playing on the TV overhead, louder than the other customers. What little I’ve eaten sits heavy, leaden in my stomach, and I’m not sure if I want to throw it up or get the f*ck out of here.

“Finn,” Oliver says, reaching out to grip my arm. “Look, I don’t know why she didn’t tell you, okay? But it wasn’t my secret to tell. I swear to God.”

“I know.”

“She had to have had her reasons,” Ansel says quietly.

“Yeah, thanks. That’s super comforting.”

“Think about this before you do anything crazy, okay? I f*cked up so bad with Mia . . . just, hear her out.”

I stand, pulling out my wallet and tossing a twenty to the table.