Only in Your Dreams (The Mountains are Calling #2)

15. Grey

I would have dreamed of Finley last night if I’d been able to sleep. I know I would have. But the fact remains that I didn’t sleep, and now I have a twenty-four-hour shift ahead of me, and I think I actually might die.

The day goes by excruciatingly slowly. We have almost no calls, so I try to work out to avoid thoughts of Finley. Of kissing her. Of her asking me to kiss her again. It doesn’t work.

I try to nap, much to the humor of the rest of my company. Heather offers to tuck me in like she does with her toddler. Nothing helps. I don’t sleep, and there’s a restless energy pulsing beneath my skin. I want to see her, but in another, much more real, sense, I hope I never see her again.

The fire station smells like Lysol, and there’s a sterility about it that usually doesn’t bother me. But right now, it’s making me itch, like my skin is cracking and peeling. The kitchen looks too cold and impersonal, all stainless steel and white tile. The recliners I usually find comfortable suddenly make my back hurt. The overhead lighting feels harsh, making a headache form between my eyes. I feel everything too much, like even the walls around me are squeezing closer.

“What’s wrong with you?” Jacob asks when I start pacing the living room. He’s watching TV from his recliner, already finished with his chores for the day. Heather is working out in the gym, and I think Tom is still mopping the dorms, so it’s just us out here.

“Nothing.”

“Well, that’s bullshit.” He doesn’t turn the TV off, but he mutes it, a good enough sign that I’m not getting out of talking to him.

How exactly do I tell him I’ve been in love with my girlfriend for the last fifteen years, and, oh yeah, we’re not actually dating? Jacob and I aren’t friends really. Just work friends. For as well as we get along on shift, I know as little about the details of his personal life as he knows about mine.

“It’s just a problem with Finley.”

He makes a humming noise in the back of his throat. Takes a sip of his soda. “She upset about Charlie trying to get you to move to Maine?”

I stop pacing, stare at him, unblinking. “What?”

Jacob shrugs, kicking his feet out on the recliner. “You got a text from him the other day with a house listing in Maine. I accidentally read it, thinking it was my phone. Put two and two together.”

My shoulders sag, and I kick the corner of the cinder block wall with the tip of my shoe. “No, she doesn’t know about that. But I guess that’s part of it.”

His brows lift on his forehead, surprised. “You haven’t talked to her about it?”

I shake my head, considering how much to say. “No, things are…complicated between us.”

Jacob nods, as if he understands, and for the first time, I’m curious about his personal life. I know he’s married, no kids. When we first started working together, he and his wife, Amelia, were dating. I wasn’t invited to the wedding, but I didn’t expect to be since it was just a small backyard ceremony with his closest friends and family. He’s always seemed happy, settled. Maybe that’s why I haven’t gotten to know him too much better outside of work. I can only be surrounded by everyone else’s contentment for so long before I start to spiral.

But now I wonder if he could be a friend if I tried. If I should even bother trying to form another attachment to someone I might leave in a few months if things with Finley don’t work out.

I wonder if Jacob is going to continue, if he’s going to offer me sage advice from one happily married man to a very unhappily single one, but instead, he just turns the volume back up, says, “All the good relationships are complicated, Grey. If they’re not, there’s no reason to fight for them.”

His words feel like shrapnel, hitting all my vulnerable parts, and I think maybe he knows that, that he knows me better than I thought, because he doesn’t look at me as I swallow against the lump in my throat. He gives me space to process, his attention squarely focused on the TV.

I need air, so instead of continuing my pacing, I head for the door and let myself out into the muggy evening.

Surprise shudders through me when I see Finley outside, climbing out of her car, looking as shocked as I am. Like she pulled up to my place of work and didn’t expect to see me here. There are flowers in her hand, another delivery, probably for Heather, and my heart squeezes. I desperately want someone to think of me, to love me, like that, enough to send me an I’m thinking of you gift when I have a shitty day.

“Hey,” I say when she gets close enough. She’s wearing white linen shorts that show off her long, tan legs and a gray ribbed tank that hugs tight to all her curves. I know what they feel like beneath my hands now, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at her the same.

Pink colors her cheeks, like she spent all day in the sun, but I wonder if it’s maybe embarrassment instead. “Hey.” She pauses, the green in her eyes swallowed up by amber today, the color of the expensive whiskeys Holden keeps in his bar cabinet. “I brought flowers for you.”

I stare at the vase in her hand, sprigs of eucalyptus and wildflowers in shades of light blue springing up out of it. “Why?” My eyes snag on hers, and a smile twitches at the corner of my lips at the consternation that flashes over her expression. “I mean, thank you. They’re beautiful. But also, why?”

The color in her cheeks deepens, and this time, I’m sure it’s a blush and not just time in the sun. She looks away from me, drumming the fingers of her free hand on the spot on her thigh just below the hem of her shorts. “I felt bad. About last night.”

I’ve felt a lot of things in the last twenty-four hours, but bad isn’t one of them, and my confusion must show on my face, because she says, “About pressuring you. When that’s not what you want.”

She has no idea the things I want, and frankly, it’s a very good thing. But right now, I want to reassure her. I don’t want her to think she was alone in how she was feeling last night. “Fin,” I say, then wait for her gaze to fasten on mine. She looks vulnerable standing in front of me, and if my self-control weren’t absolutely shredded, I’d reach for her. “You didn’t pressure me. I felt the same way you did.”

Her throat bobs in a heavy swallow, and I can’t help it; my eyes track the movement, settling on the spot on her neck I’ve dreamed of kissing, tasting. The thing is, I know how she’d taste now, that she’s every bit as sweet as I always imagined she’d be, and my bones quake with the need to touch her.

Surprise settles over her features, along with something that looks like want. “Then why…?” She trails off, like she doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. Why did you leave? Why didn’t you kiss me? Why didn’t you touch me how you wanted?

I step in closer, until there’s only a breath of space between us, so close that she has to tip her head up to catch my gaze. I lower my voice to something barely above a whisper when I say, “I wanted it too much. I wanted you too much.”

It’s as honest as I can be without pulling my heart out and pinning it to my sleeve.

Her eyes blow wide, the pupil devouring her iris, until her gaze has gone black, heavy with something usually reserved for somewhere with more privacy. Not the oversized driveway of a fire station.

“Oh,” she says, and it sounds as breathless as I feel.

I swallow, nod.

“Then why?” she asks again.

I search my fuzzy brain for the words, my eyes settling on all the places on her face that I want to touch. The flush staining her cheeks. The freckles dotting her nose. The arch of one eyebrow that always reaches higher than the other, making her look perpetually curious. The deep Cupid’s bow of her top lip. The curve of her ear, the spot I brushed with my lips, eliciting a shiver from her.

“We should take this slow,” I finally say, my hands flexing at my sides into fists and then out again, resisting the urge to reach for her. “Make sure this is what we both want.”

We had this conversation last night, but I feel more articulate in the light of day, when we’re not so painfully alone. She, too, seems to be more clearheaded, because she nods as if this makes sense.

“Right,” she says. “Make sure this is what we want.”

“I don’t want to mess anything up between us.” It’s the truth, but there’s more than that, of course. Hope clings to me like dew on grass, and Finley has the potential to be my sun, burning it all up. She’s attracted to me, sure, but she might never want me the way I want her, and I will never recover if I get a piece of her, only for her to discard me when she realizes I’m not what she’s looking for.

I can’t bare my heart to her if she’s just testing us out, trying me on for size before she finds the person who fits.

She nods, and some of the heavy want leaves her expression and is replaced with something softer. It’s the way she looks at her mom when she’s dancing in the kitchen while cooking family dinner. It’s how she watches June when she’s telling a story, and gazes at Holden and Wren when they’re lost to the world, focused only on each other. She looks at me like I’m someone important to her, like I mean as much to her as the people she loves most.

“You’re right.”

A smile stretches across my face. “Would you mind if I got my phone so I could record that? I’d like to make it one of the positive affirmations I listen to in the morning.”

She rolls her eyes, the tension leaving her. “You don’t listen to positive affirmations.”

“No, but if you’d like to make some, detailing everything you like about me, I would.”

“The list would be short.”

My grin widens, so broad it hurts. “No, it wouldn’t. You can’t pretend you hate me anymore, Fin. I know you want me.”

“You’re making it remarkably easy to let go of.”

I shake my head. “No, the secret’s out. You like me.”

Finley rolls her eyes again, but the hope blooming inside my chest grows bigger when she doesn’t deny it. Maybe hope won’t be dew on grass. Maybe it will be a sunflower, and she’s the sun that I turn my face to, blooming for her.

“You brought flowers for me,” I say.

She finally seems to remember them and extends them out to me. The glass is cool against my hand and heavier than I expected. “No one’s ever given me flowers before.”

She cocks a brow. “Not even a corsage?”

“My prom date only wanted to go with me to make her ex-boyfriend jealous. She left me in the middle of the dance to get back with him.”

Her mouth pops open. “That’s terrible. How did I never know that story?”

I lift my shoulder in a shrug. “I was embarrassed, probably. I didn’t talk about it.”

“Well, you should have,” she says. “I would have made you a corsage from one of the flowers in our garden.”

A smile curls one corner of my lips. “I would have liked that. I’ve always liked your flowers.”

Her cheeks grow rosy again. I like this side of her. One I haven’t seen much of before. I like how easily she responds to me, and my mind grows dizzy with possibilities.

“I picked light blue,” she says, fingering one of the petals. “To match your eyes.”

My heart softens, melts, like butter in the microwave. “You must look at them if you can match them so easily.”

There’s still pink staining her cheeks, but she doesn’t look as embarrassed now as she stares at me intently, like one of her flower arrangements. “They’re so pale. I’ve never seen eyes the color of yours. But the ring around them is such a deep blue.” She touches one of the other flowers, this one darker, with a deep orange center. “Then there are the flecks of other shades of blue, ones you wouldn’t be able to see if the iris weren’t so light.” She points to the other flowers, naming them. “Cornflower. Hydrangea. Thistle. Oxford.”

Her fingers settle on a particularly light one, a remarkably similar shade to what I see when I look in the mirror. “But I finally figured out what they remind me of. Himalayan blue poppy. My favorite.”

My side itches, and I resist the urge to touch it, to break the moment with Finley looking at me like this.

“Thank you,” I say, barely above a whisper. My throat feels tight. I can imagine her in her shop, putting this arrangement together. I always wonder what she’s thinking about when she works, when she’s so in her head that she seems to forget the world around her. I imagine her thinking of me today, and it’s humbling.

She smiles, something soft. “You’re welcome.” After a long pause, she says, “Well, I better get out of here.”

But she doesn’t sound like she wants to leave, and I know I don’t want her to, so I don’t think before saying, “Stay for dinner.”

Her eyes brighten, and I wonder if she’s going to hesitate, make an excuse. But she doesn’t even blink. “Okay.”

She follows me inside the station, and when we enter the main area, everyone is back. Tom must have finished cleaning, and Heather must have finished her workout, because they’re both in their respective recliners, fighting for control of the remote with Jacob.

“I won rock, paper, scissors fair and square,” Jacob is saying.

My lips curl as I look over my shoulder at her. “In case you were wondering how your town’s heroes settle arguments.”

Her brows lift. “Town heroes, huh?”

“It’s what the calendar said.”

Her laugh is warm and bright, drawing the attention of the group away from their argument.

I nod in Finley’s direction. “Fin brought flowers for me, and she’s staying for dinner.”

Color splashes across her cheekbones, but she looks directly at Jacob and says, “How do I get in on the remote-control contest?”

I hook an arm around her shoulders, leading her away from the living area and into the kitchen, which already feels more alive with her in it. “Oh, no you don’t. It’s my night to make dinner, and you’re going to help me.”

“Now I see why you really invited me.”

I nod and open the pantry to pull out a Fontana Ridge Fire Department apron from the back of the door. Slipping it over her head, I say, “Plus, I thought you’d look hot in the apron.”

She watches me as I wrap my arms around her middle to tie the strings behind her back. “Do you have some kind of thing for housewives?”

I’m so close to her that I barely have to tip forward to speak directly into her ear. “No, just a thing for you.”

I’m showing my hand too much, but I don’t even care. Not when she smiles the way that she does, like she’s warming from the inside out.

“So what are we making?”

“Pasta.”

“Please don’t make us listen to Frank Sinatra while you cook,” Jacob groans from his recliner, finally relinquishing control of the remote to Heather, who beat him in a final round of rock, paper, scissors. She turns on some reality show about people living in the Alaskan bush, which makes me smile, since she knows no one but her is interested in it.

Finley looks up at me, brows inching up her forehead in question.

“Your mom inspired me. Everyone hates it.”

“It’s worse than Heather’s taste in TV shows,” Jacob replies. Heather retaliates by turning up the volume.

Finley’s smile stretches wider as she watches the lot of us. I wonder what she’s thinking. She looks stunning like this—hair pulled back in a clip, little pieces falling out around her face, body covered in an oversized apron that hangs to her knees.

I sidle up next to her, bumping her shoulder with my own. “C’mon, let’s make dinner. I’ll just sing Frank instead.”

“God, no,” Jacob yells.

She smiles up at me, wide and unfettered. It makes my heart swell until it’s too large for my chest.

We’re quiet as we cook, falling into a rhythm that we have many times before in her mom’s kitchen, helping Jodi cut vegetables or toss salads. We both seem to know what the other one is going to do next without talking much, and the station is filled with the sounds of the TV and Tom, Jacob, and Heather arguing about what the reality characters should have done instead.

Before long, the kitchen smells of garlic, tangy tomato sauce, and sauteing meat. I’m draining the noodles when my phone vibrates on the counter with an incoming call. My eyes snag on Finley, where she’s sawing through a loaf of crusty bread from the bakery down the street.

“Could you answer that for me?”

A look of surprise crosses her features for a second before she dusts her hands on her apron and swipes open the call.

“Hello,” she says, then pauses. “Oh, hey, Mrs. Sutton. This is Finley.”

My attention snaps up to her, and I have to hold back a wince. It’s not something I’m proud of, but I usually let my parents’ calls go to voicemail so I can see what they want before I call back. It keeps me from having to respond on the spot.

It also doesn’t go unnoticed that my mom is Mrs. Sutton to Finley, but her mother is Jodi to me. It only emphasizes the divide between the family I was born into and the one that welcomed me as their own. Finley, Holden, and Jodi have met my parents plenty of times, but they don’t have the familiarity with them that I have with the Blankenships.

When I was younger, I used to imagine my parents becoming friends with Jodi, even though they’re a few years older. I dreamed of inter-family barbecues where Holden and I would play video games on his couch while our parents sat outside on the back porch, sipping margaritas together. I thought maybe they’d spend time there and see what family dinners could be like. That they didn’t have to be quiet or stilted. That we could all sit together at a table instead of in separate rooms of the house. That we could argue over mundane things but never get mad. That we could talk about our days and actually be interested in how the other person spent it. That we could be together and like it.

It never happened, obviously, and I realized quickly that it never would. At first, the Blankenship house was just a fun place to hang out, but it ended up being a haven, a place I spent more time at than my own house. If I couldn’t have what I wanted with my parents, I was going to jump at the chance with another family and hold on for dear life.

Suddenly, I know what my mom is going to ask.

By the time I turn back to Finley, she’s already watching me, nodding, even though my mom can’t see her. “Of course. I’d love to. Friday works for me.”

I wince, and she clocks it, starts backpedaling. “Actually, I might have plans then that I forgot about. Let me double-check, and I’ll let you know in just a bit.”

She ends the call and moves closer to where I’m returning the noodles to the pot, her eyes assessing me. “You don’t want to go.” She doesn’t phrase it as a question.

I shrug, looking over her shoulder to where the rest of the crew still have their attention focused on the TV before responding. “Not really, no.”

She sees too much. I know she does by the way her face softens. “Okay, we won’t go then.”

I like the way she says we. Like we’re a team. It settles something inside me, and I let out a deep breath before saying, “No, let’s do it. Get it over with, or she will keep bugging me about it. As long as you’re okay with it.”

I watch her face closely, knowing I’ll back out at any hint of hesitancy in her expression, but it doesn’t change. “I’ll go to your parents’ house with you, Grey.”

The way she says it feels meaningful, like she knows it’s not that I don’t want to take her there, but that I don’t want to be there at all. And again, it makes it feel easier, more manageable. So I nod, pluck the phone from her hand, and call my mom back.