Dirty Rowdy Thing

by Christina Lauren

  Mia puts her hand on my arm and slides it down, weaving her fingers with mine. “Harlow?”

  I look up at her. Mia and Ansel have been married since June, but only a little over two months ago they had a huge fight, something so huge and hurtful between them that I could see on her face she was worried she might have lost the thing she wanted more than anything in the world—even more than to erase the accident that shattered her dream of dancing for a living: her marriage.

  So I know what she’s going to say before she even opens her mouth.

  “You just have to go fix it,” she says simply. “He’s mad, you’re hurt. But as clichéd as it sounds, none of that really matters in the long run. Just go talk to him.”

  I LIFT THE R2-D2 knocker and drop it down against Oliver’s front door, but my stomach is already gone, dissolved away from my body and leaving in its place a hollow, aching pit. Finn’s truck isn’t at the curb.

  Oliver answers the door shirtless, in lounge pants that hang way too low and expose way too much muscular hip for a guy I’d like to firmly and forever keep in the friend zone. He’s clearly just got out of the shower; his hair is wet and messy, his glasses a little foggy. Even with the panic rising in my throat, I can still take a second to appreciate how cute he would be with Lola if he would just man up and ask her out for real.

  “Expecting a booty call?” I ask, keeping my eyes on his face.

  He takes an enormous bite of apple and chews it with a wry grin on his face. Finally swallowing, he says, “I think we both know I’m not.” He lifts the apple to his mouth and says behind it, “Just dressed as if I’m hanging out in my house alone, as you do.”

  “Alone,” I repeat. “Because Finn is gone?”

  “Left ’bout an hour ago.”

  “Left as in . . .”

  Oliver points north. “Canada.” His Aussie accent turns the word into kin-ih-duh and even though, logically, I know what he’s said, it still takes my stubborn brain a second to let the confirmation sink in that Finn left town without saying goodbye to me.

  He left town, and didn’t kiss me goodbye, or wait to make sure I’m not knocked up with his spontaneous car-sex love child, or even come find me. What a dick.

  I’m suddenly so angry I want to take Oliver’s fucking apple and throw it at the wall. “I told him I loved him last night,” I tell Oliver, as if it’s his business. As if he needs to know. But it feels so fucking good to explain the storm pounding in my veins, the hurt and fire making me want to scream. I want confirmation that Finn is as epic a dick as he seems to me right now. “The best part? He said it first. And now he’s fucking left without saying goodbye?”

  If any of this surprises Oliver, he hides it remarkably well. This is his superpower, I think. The comic geek always has one, and Oliver’s is a poker face that would leave even the Holy Trinity guessing what he’s thinking. Too bad Lola’s superpower is never needing to dig for information that hasn’t been offered. They’re going to Remains of the Day this thing until the end of time.

  “You want to come in?” he asks.

  I shake my head, hugging my arms around my shoulders. It’s almost seventy degrees out but I’m freezing. Is this what heartbreak feels like? Like a hot skewer in my chest and I’m too cold and can’t take a deep breath and want to cry all over Oliver’s awkwardly naked shoulder?

  Heartbroken sucks. I want to kick it in the nuts.

  “Look, Harlow,” he starts, before pulling me in for a hug. “Aw, pet, you’re shaking.”

  “I’m freaking out,” I admit, leaning into him. How could Finn just leave town? “Oliver . . . what the fuck?”

  He pulls back and looks down at me. Way down at me. Holy shit Oliver is tall. “I’ve known Finn for a long time,” he says slowly. “It takes a lot to get him upset, and even more before he shows it.” He winces a little and then says, “I can tell you’re upset, too, but he basically grunted out a few words, said we’d talk soon, and then walked out to his truck. I dunno what’s going on with him, or why he left or . . . anything, really, that might help you feel better. You sure you don’t want to come in?”

  I shake my head again. “He didn’t tell you what happened?”

  Oliver laughs a little. “Finn rarely tells us much of anything. He usually tells us things after he’s got them all figured out. If there’s something going on with him, and he confided in you, then he wasn’t lying when he said it first.”

  “Said what—oh,” I say. He’s talking about the I love you. Ugh. Punch to the gut.

  He bends, catching my eyes. “Call him, yeah?”

  Chapter FOURTEEN

  Finn

  I DID A LOT of things in San Diego that weren’t stereotypical Finn Roberts: sleeping in, watching TV, buying Starbucks coffee, not working a steady fifteen hours a day. But this—driving away as the sun sets over the water—is the first familiar feeling I’ve had in a long time.

  Oliver came home while I was packing and watched me warily from the doorway. “You want some coffee for the road?” he’d asked.

  “Yeah, that’d be good.”

  Things had been the slightest bit tense between us, and I knew there were probably a hundred questions Oliver would ask if given the chance. In turn, he knew there were about a hundred reasons why I wouldn’t answer any of them, and so once my bag was closed, we walked to the kitchen, stood over the Keurig in silence, both of us watching the final drip drip drip of coffee into the cup below.

  “You can’t have this one,” he said, turning away from me to spoon in more sugar than any human should probably consume in one sitting.

  “Of course I can’t. It’s your Aqua Man mug, you think I want to lose an eye?”

  He glanced up at me, smiling weakly. “No, you can’t take that one because yours will take a few minutes to brew and I wanted the chance to talk to you before you left.”

  “Ah.”

  “I know you have some stuff going on.” He let the sentence hang for a moment, suspended in the air while he walked to the fridge and retrieved a carton of half-and-half.

  I felt a flash of panic, worried that Harlow had decided to get even with me after all, and told him everything. But she hadn’t; I knew this even without hearing what else he had to say. Harlow may be a lot of things—meddling, naïve, impulsive—but disloyal is absolutely not one of them.

  He returned to the counter and opened up the carton, checking the date before continuing without missing a beat. Like we were just having a casual conversation after work, like he wasn’t giving me yet another chance to open up. Which of course, I didn’t.

  “Just know that you can talk to me.”

  “I know,” I said, grateful that Oliver never seemed to push. “Thanks.”

  And that was it. He handed me my coffee, gave me a long hug that would have bordered on awkward even for Ansel, and I left.

  I pulled out of his neighborhood and headed straight for the I-5, not glancing even once at the road behind me.

  THIRTY-THREE HOURS AND one horrible, sleepless hotel night later, I’m home. I pull into my driveway—the sound of gravel crunching beneath my tires is like a lullaby—and see my house for the first time in weeks. It weird to be home and see how small and alien everything familiar looks after I’ve been out in the wide-open world for what feels like forever.

  It’s in these moments I realize just how different my world is from Harlow’s. How much quieter. Instead of buildings crowding overhead, my view here is nothing but towering evergreens, crystal blue water and sky; color in stretches that seem to go on forever. I’m almost completely surrounded by forest, so much so that even the smell of the water on the back side of the house is eclipsed by the heavy scent of decaying trees and foliage out front. There’s no traffic, no noise, and it’s entirely possible to just start walking and go days without ever seeing another person.

  The air feels wet—everything feels wet—and my boots squelch in the grass that needs mowing along the drive. After weeks in the California
sun, the temperature takes me by surprise. By next month the storm season will be here, and in just the few weeks since I’ve been away, the leaves have started to change, the ground is littered with spikes of orange and red and brown. I climb up the porch and fish out my key, kicking away even more leaves that have gathered in little clumps around the mat. The lock opens easily and the door swings wide, the screen door closing with a creak and a groan at my back.

  My house is a tiny two-bedroom, but it’s clean and comfortable, and just a few steps out the back door puts you right on the water. I managed to buy it in one of our better years, and I’m grateful now to Sensible Finn who thought ahead and bought a house, rather than dumbass Colton who bought a gas-guzzling Mustang and a condo all the way in Victoria.

  It’s stale and musty inside, and so I set down my bag and walk from room to room, opening the windows to air the place out. It brings in the chill, but it’s worth it and almost instantly the house is filled with the scent of salt and pine. A set of glass doors along the back wall leads out onto a deck where the only view is miles of blue and green, the tree line so thick in some places it stretches clear down the bank to the water’s edge.

  I leave the doors open and force myself to the kitchen to find something to eat, and quickly realize the mistake I made not grabbing something on my way through town. The fridge is practically empty but I manage to scrounge up a can of soup and some peaches I find in the pantry, and stave off starvation until I can make it to the store tomorrow.

  Hours on the road, a head full of jumbled thoughts, and not enough sleep have taken their toll, and it’s almost more than I can do to make it into my room. Without closing the windows, I strip off my clothes and pull back the blankets, and for the first time in ages, climb gratefully into my own bed.

  THE HOUSE IS freezing when I wake up. But it’s good—it’s life here, and the sharp air is exactly what I needed to get me back into the mindset of a day spent on the boat.

  A full night of sleep gave my brain time to reboot after all the thinking I did on the drive up. I get out of bed and get ready, feeling good about where I’ve landed on the question of what to do about the business. It’s a relief to have made a decision, even if my stomach remains a little sour with nerves. I trust myself and my brothers enough to know we’ll land on our feet no matter what.

  I just hope I’m not about to ruin our lives.

  I’m on the dock before five. Salt air fills my lungs and my body moves on autopilot, my muscles remembering exactly what to do.

  The boys have been busy. Planks of new decking have been laid where they replaced the wiring, and the controls in the engine room seem to be working just like they should. No equipment has been left out, nets have been repaired, and I feel a swell of pride for my brothers.

  “Finn?” I hear, and turn to see my youngest brother, Levi, climbing on board.

  “In here,” I call out.

  He follows my voice and steps inside, cradling a steaming mug of coffee in his hands. He’s dressed in a heavy plaid jacket, a beanie pulled down over his curly hair. “Well, fuck,” he says, setting his cup down and pulling me into a giant hug. “Nice to have you back, stranger.”

  Apparently, I’ve become a softie in San Diego, because I find myself pulling him back in when he pulls away, hugging him tighter. “Thanks,” I tell him. “Thanks for taking care of the boats. You guys did good.” I pull away but not before I snatch his cap off his head, messing up his pretty-boy blond hair.

  His characteristic grin is in place. Levi has always been the smiling brother, the jokester, and he doesn’t let me down. “Colt’s just behind me but we could totally sneak off to paint each other’s nails if you’re feeling needy.”

  “Fuck you,” I tell him, laughing as I toss his hat back in his direction.

  Colton is there next, giant paper bag holding his lunch in one hand, an apple in the other. “Look who it is,” he says. He hugs me with every bit of force Levi did and it’s just like it always is, the Roberts boys on the boat, ready to start a new day. Except this day will start very differently.

  “So, hey,” I begin, pulling off my baseball hat and rubbing my forehead. “I think we should stay docked today.”

  Colton studies me for a moment. “Why?”

  Looking down the dock, I still don’t see Dad heading down to the boat. “Dad still at home?”

  “Probably be down later,” Colton says. “Especially since he knows you’re back.”

  “What’s up, Finn?” Levi asks. “We’re not tossing nets today?”

  I decide to go ahead and tell them, with or without our dad here. I slip my hat back on and look at each of my brothers in turn. “I think I’ve come around.”

  Levi takes a step closer. “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning, I think we should sign on.” I look over at Levi and laugh at his hopeful expression. “For the show.”

  My brothers both let out enthusiastic whoops, and high-five each other before hugging me again.

  “Fuck yes!” Colton yells, and his voice echoes down across the water. “Oh, this is good, Finn. I’m fucking stoked.”

  “Can you imagine what people are going to say?” Levi asks, though his grin tells me he isn’t particularly worried. “They’re going to give us epic shit, I’m sure.”

  “Yeah, well, they can give us all the shit they want,” I tell him. “You can wave at them from the water because our engines are working.”

  “I’ll blow them a fucking kiss wearing nothing but my bank statement,” Colton adds.

  Levi laughs. “I’m sure you would.”

  There’s a moment where I just watch the two of them, measuring this Levi and Colton against the ones I left the day I headed to Oliver’s. Things were looking bad, and maybe I didn’t realize how bad they were until right now, seeing the contrast in them. They’re smiling and happy, young. Hopeful for the first time in years. Money can’t buy you happiness, but happiness sure is a hell of a lot easier to find when you’re not worried about where your next meal is coming from.

  “Come on,” I tell them, reaching for a clipboard that hangs on a nail near the door, and thumb through the daily logs. “I need to take stock of everything so when we call, I can tell them what’s gotta be fixed.”

  Levi follows me up into the wheelhouse. “So, tell us about California.”

  “What he means is tell us about the pussy,” Colton interrupts.

  “Check yourself, Colt,” I chide him quietly.

  Colton looks at me with the most comical look of feigned innocence I’ve ever seen.

  “It was good. Great to see Oliver and Ansel. See the new store.” I scribble a few notes on the charts, add today’s date, and start a list of repairs needed in order of priority. “I saw Harlow,” I add, and regret it almost immediately.

  “Harlow,” Levi repeats with glee evident in his voice. “Harlow of the trench coat?” Of course Levi would remember that. Because karma has an incredible sense of humor, Levi just so happened to be pulling up to my house as Harlow climbed into her cab. He definitely enjoyed sharing that piece of information with my entire family.

  I glare at him over the top of the clipboard. “Yes. That Harlow.”

  “Well, damn, son. I wouldn’t have answered my phone calls, either.”

  “Yeah, about that,” I say, but Levi is already shaking his head.

  “We’re big boys, Finn, we can handle the load for a while. You deserved a break, man.”

  “This,” Colton echos.

  “Okay, well,” I say, a little overwhelmed and not exactly sure how to respond. “We have an engine to pull apart before we can make the big call, so let’s get to it.”

  IT’S LIKE I never left. I work from sunup to sundown—taking a break only at lunch to call the producers with my brothers and my dad and tell them, finally, that we’re in—and it feels so damn good to wear myself out and work until I can hardly stand, too tired to worry or even think.

  It’s only the middle of the night
that the mental clarity goes to shit. I wake from a dream that was too real. It was Harlow, over me, laughing at something I said. Her bare skin was only half visible in the moonlight, and waking without that sight sends a spike right through my gut.

  It’s easier to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling than risk going back to sleep, where I might dream about her again. I’m not sure whether Harlow cemented the impossibility of a relationship when she went behind my back to talk to Salvatore Marìn, or whether I did just today when I agreed to do this show, but however it happened, I have to accept the fact that there’s no future for us.

  Despite what I thought, I know now that I’ve never loved someone before and I’m beginning to realize that I have no idea how to get over it. It’s terrifying to wonder if I’ll always have this carved-out feeling beneath my ribs, like I left something vital behind in California.

  IT’S BEEN FOUR days since I’ve seen her, and anyone who says it gets easier with time can go fuck themselves. I’m not sleeping well, I’m not eating enough, and I’m working myself into the ground.

  I’ve tied up the loose ends with Salvatore and put our smallest boat up for sale so we can focus on the two larger boats. The show is sending a crew of mechanics to get to work on the Linda in a week or so, but it’s impossible for me to be still and not try to tackle some of it on my own while I can. I’m the first one at the dock every morning and the last one to leave. By Wednesday, we’ve torn apart the entire engine and finally come to the conclusion that this particular problem is too big for us to handle on our own.