“My memories of her don’t paint the best picture.”
“Why do you say that?”
She leans back to meet my eyes. “Dad was an amazing parent. He would have done anything for us. He mortgaged the property the first time to pay for my ice skating lessons and choreography. I would never have made it as far as I did without him. He loved us with everything he had, did everything he could for all of us, and no matter how much we screwed up, we never doubted that fact.”
“He died shortly after Aria?”
“Yes. He never quite recovered. Then he was diagnosed with prostate cancer and . . . he just withered away.” She swallows. “I wouldn’t have gotten through that time without Jacob. He took over most of Dad’s care.”
“So much loss.”
We’re silent for a moment, sitting there, breathing. After a minute, she speaks. “You know, I don’t know if I ever really dealt with any of it. After Aria died, I was busy taking care of Dad and the rest of the family plus keeping the business alive. I just threw myself into trying to fix everything and never really stopped to process.”
“Sometimes we do what we have to to survive.”
Her eyes search mine. “I suppose you understand that better than most.”
“Grief is universal. No one is immune.”
She blows out a breath. “I was lucky to have him while I did. Mom was very erratic. If we had ended up with her or if she had stayed and they had just divorced or something, it might have been worse. I knew some kids whose parents split and shared custody, and it was rarely amicable. A lot of times, the parents would use the kids against each other.”
Something about the words “shared custody” worms into my mind and blends with the thoughts and ideas that have been swirling there over the past week.
Shared custody.
And then it clicks into place.
Oliver and Finley could form a shared partnership.
“How did you get this scar? I keep meaning to ask.” Her finger traces over my eyebrow.
“Bar fight.”
Her eyes widen. “Really?”
I chuckle. “No. I ran into a swing set.”
She laughs. “The bar fight story is better.”
A drop of cold water hits my forehead. Then another falls on Finley’s cheek.
Her head drops back as she examines the sky above us.
“Rain.”
As if the word summons the deluge, the sky opens up.
She yelps and leaps from my lap.
Together, we grab the chairs and food and put them back in the car.
I throw the cooler back into the trunk and then make sure the fire gets completely put out and we haven’t left behind any trash. We leave the targets behind—I can get them later—but everything else gets packed up, and we make it back over the hill before the road turns into a muddy mess.
We’re silent on the short drive. I’m not sure what Finley’s thinking, but my thoughts are whirring through possibilities and ideas. I pull up to the side door of the main house to drop her off.
“Thank you. I had a great time. I’ll see you tomorrow?” She searches my face.
I nod. “Yes. See you tomorrow.” Then I wait while she runs inside. I want to follow her. I want to have the right. Despite how much we’ve shared, I can’t even consider it, not unless she makes the first move. But it’s getting harder and harder to resist, to keep my feelings inside and my hands to myself.