When The Rain Falls

4. Burning Things

4 BURNING THINGS

FINN

I check my watch. Great. Fucking great. I'm late for my first law school class. I take the stairs two at a time and walk up to a room that is marked with the number 203. This is it. At least, I think this is it.

I peek in the window of the door. A tall, grey-haired man in a suit appears to be addressing a large classroom. Shit. I don't want to walk in and cause a scene. Through the window, I look for the closest empty seat. I find one about three rows from the back. I note that I'll have to climb over two people to get to it. Ok, I can do this. Deep breath. Now or never. I open the door as quietly as possible, closing it softly behind me. The professor stops talking mid-sentence and watches me. The whole class turns to see what he's looking at. Perfect. All eyes are on me.

"Sorry," I say.

"This is law school, not high school. No one's going to hold your hand. It's your dime if you're late," the professor barks out. Ok, dick. It's only my first class and I already know this whole law school thing is a shitty idea. I'd heard the rumors about dick-head professors who live for sending even the best and brightest students to their groveling knees. I just didn't think I'd be lucky enough to meet one on my first day.

I excuse myself as I walk behind the two students between me and my chosen seat. I slip into my chair, set my bag under the table, pull out my laptop, and power it on. The professor is in the middle of quizzing some unfortunate soul in the front row. But the student provides a quick response, using phrases I don't understand such as "operative nucleus of facts" and "ancillary jurisdiction." I take a moment to sweep my gaze around the room. My fellow students are strangers. A lot of them look older than me. All of them sound smarter. It feels like I've walked onto a field in the middle of a game where I don't know any of the rules. Yeah, this was definitely a mistake.

I pull out my textbook and realize I have no clue what page the class is on. I flip the pages absentmindedly, silently praying the book will magically open to the correct spot.

"Page 21," the student next to me whispers.

"Thanks," I whisper back. I find that page before turning to look at her. She is knock-out gorgeous. She has shiny, dark hair, warm, caramel eyes, and a delicate nose. I'm absolutely gone. Poof. I no longer exist as a separate entity. I exist solely in relation to her. She catches me looking at her and gives me a shy, bright smile.

My uncertainty and my doubt immediately fade away. I'm completely anchored to her presence. It's the only thing I notice. The only thing I care about. The only thing I think about. Fuck this law school shit, but I will absolutely attend this university for three whole years and pay the full price of admission to graduate if it means I get to share a class with her multiple times a week.

I notice the way her hair keeps slipping from its tucked position behind her ears and falls like a sleek curtain in front of her face. I'm mesmerized by the way her wrist flicks when she brushes her hair back into place. I'm obsessed with how her hands fly confidently over her laptop keys. I pay attention to the fact she tucks her fingers into her sweatshirt sleeve between bouts of note-taking. She must be cold.

At one point, she turns to her blonde friend, points to her computer screen, and chuckles about something. That chuckle seeps into my soul. It reverberates in my head for the next forty-three minutes. I don't take a single note from the lecture. I couldn't tell you what the topic was. I don't even remember what class I'm in.

“What’s happened to your face, son?” my dad asks from behind some RV and trailer catalog. I reach a hand up to touch the mark on my bottom lip. That girl left a giant welt. I’ve been trying to hide it in the shade of a baseball cap, but it’s not working. I’ve also been trying to forget her long, wavy hair and tight jeans. And that mouth that’s always slightly parted as if an invitation.

She was something .

“I ran into something,” I tell him. Well, I tell the magazine cover in front of his face.

“Something with teeth?” he quips. I blow a long trail of air out from my nostrils. Fucking hell. I came over to help my mom install a shelf in the living room and my parents have done nothing but harass me since I got here.

"Shelf’s crooked," he announces. I back up to examine my work and nearly trip over a toolbox. I measured and re-measured this damn shelf multiple times before I screwed it onto the wall as my dad gave helpful suggestions from his spot in the chair. There's no way it's crooked.

"How’s that crooked?" I ask, pointing to the shelf. "It's damn near perfect."

"The left side is too high," comes his quick response. His face is still buried in his catalog.

This shelf is the latest in a long, long list of home improvement projects my mom's taken up since she and Dad both retired last year. Mom was a part-time high school teacher. Now she's a full-time busy body who dabbles in redecorating her home and meddling in my business. I swear that she only takes on these home improvement projects so she can ask for my help and keep an eye on me.

"Don't listen to him," Mom says as she steps into the sunken living room. "He can't even find the ketchup in the fridge." She comes to stand beside me. "It looks great. Five stars." She beams in my direction. Five stars. That's what she used to say to us in grade school. When I hit a solid grounder at a ball game, or got a good grade on a test, or brought home the world's ugliest art projects, it was always five stars. I'm not sure what it would take to get less than a five star rating, because that's never happened once in Hudson family history. She’s my biggest fan. But also, the biggest pain in my ass.

"Believe her if you want. But it's crooked," my dad repeats, putting down his magazine. He watches me behind thick, grey eyebrows. Dear God, I better not have eyebrows like that when I'm his age. I blow out an exasperated breath at him.

Twelve-year-old Vivian bounds into the room. Her long hair floats around her head as she lands on the overstuffed, floral couch with a bounce. Two lanky legs contort into a pretzel as she settles into a cushion and pulls a pillow across her chest. She has Laurel's eyes with their delicate, almond shape and rich caramel color. She has me to thank for everything else.

"Are there any more cookies? I'm starving,” she asks.

Everything, including her bottomless stomach.

"You're always starving," I retort as I grab the level from my dad's toolbox. I set it on the shelf and the little bubble floats to one of the black marks. Ok, fine . The shelf is off. But just barely.

"Finn, are you feeding the girls enough?" Mom asks. "Vivian looks so skinny. Vivian, what did you have for breakfast?"

"Viv, tell your grandma that I feed you or I'll never hear the end of it," I mutter. I unscrew one side of the shelving unit and readjust it.

"He feeds us. But that doesn't mean it's edible. He burnt your casserole last week. And his cooking is borderline child abuse." Vivian throws her head back in feigned drama.

"You didn't say that when you were scarfing down my pancakes, you brat," I scold her playfully. I can’t fault the kid. She hasn’t said anything that’s not true. Cooking is not my strong suit. I blame it on the fact that messes make me twitchy. And it’s nearly impossible to cook without making a mess.

I can stand up in a courtroom full of people and argue logic and reason until my voice goes hoarse. I can look jurors in the eye and convince them, with very minimal glaring, that my client is entitled to half a million dollars. And sure, my partner Rebecca might be right that my success might just happen to coincide with how many women are on the jury. The point is, in the courtroom, I get excellent results. In the kitchen, not so much.

"Finn," my mom goads me. "Didn't you see my reheating instructions on the casserole? Next time I'll use a Post-it note. You’ll probably lose that, too. Oh, for Pete’s sake, I’ll just have to come over and cook it for you." I try not to roll my eyes. If Mom had her way, she’d be at my house every day, taking over the goddamn place. Last time we had family dinner, I caught her swapping out the utensil drawer for the oven mitt drawer.

"I did see your instructions, Ma , " I mutter. "You just underestimate my ability to burn things." Burning things is my specialty. Meals, my career, my life, etc.

"Well, sweetheart," Mom says, turning to Vivian, "you can have all the cookies you want. I'll pack the rest for you to take home." Vivian's eyes light up as she bounces off the couch and races for the kitchen. I try not to groan at the idea of bouncing, spritely Vivian with half a dozen cookies in her system. I might stop by the track and make her run laps on the way home.

I finish up the shelf and stand back to admire the result. I look to Dad for the verdict. But he’s moved on to something else.

“What’s going on with the bar complaint?” he asks, eyeing me critically.

I sigh and start organizing tools in the tool box in front of me. “Not sure yet.” A couple months ago, I lost my cool in a courtroom and it resulted in a bar complaint. It was all a big misunderstanding, but the misunderstanding has to work its way through the system, apparently.

"Oh, never mind that. Tell us about last night,” Mom cuts in. She’s practically rubbing her hands together. Jesus. It’s a firing squad this morning. “Did you meet anyone nice?” Her voice is expectant. A nauseating smile spreads across her face. I can't wait to deflate that obnoxious hope.

Before I can answer, she continues. "Did you get along with Brook? Her family goes to our church. They're the nicest people." How did she know about Brook? Something hot trickles up my esophagus. The way she's grinning expectantly at me, I can only assume the whole thing was her idea. I feel a little guilty for the way I blew off Tyler now.

"Oh, just tell me already," my mom scolds.

"I said hi," I tell her. "And that was it."

And then I had a temper tantrum at the bar.

Mom's face drops in disappointment and she sighs. I know she just wants me to be happy. But fuck, she's just like everyone else. Everyone wants me to move on. They can't wait to brush the ugliness of loss under the rug and pretend it doesn't exist. But it exists for me. Every fucking day.

"Finn, dear, you need to start going out more,” she says with a gentle scold. "You need to go with Tyler to bars. You need to meet a nice girl.” If I don’t stop rolling my eyes, I might strain them.

Since Laurel died, I’ve only dated one other person. Nicole . Everything was fine. Until we tried to sleep together and I couldn’t stay hard. We tried a couple times. Then she gave up and left.

That’s right. I’m a fucking catch. An asshole, single dad, who can’t perform in bed. Women might be willing to overlook a lot of things. But not that last one.

"You don't meet nice girls at bars.”

"Well then,” she huffs impatiently, “meet a mediocre one."

Jesus.

"Way to set the bar high," I mutter.

"Lars, honey,” my mom looks to my dad. “What's the male version of a spinster?"

" Jeeesus ." I narrow my eyes at her. But my glaring and frowns don’t phase her anymore. My family is entirely immune to it all.

"Leave the poor guy alone,” my dad scolds. “Have you seen his lip? He’s trying his best.”

I raise my face to the ceiling and glower at it. What’s that supposed to mean?

"If he had a woman in his life, he'd have help with the kids,” my mom continues. Did they forget that I'm right here? "He takes care of everyone. He needs someone to take care of him." Ironic statement considering why I'm here in their house right now.

My dad hides his face behind his catalog again. I’m pretty sure to hide his eye rolling. I stopped bothering to hide mine years ago.

"Oh!" Mom exclaims suddenly. She picks up a stack of paper and rifles through it. "That reminds me." She pulls out a single piece of construction paper and hands it to me. "This was at the bottom of our bin of fall decorations."

It's a white paper with three different colored handprints cut out and glued to the front. The hands are upside down and someone drew long, hooked handles on them. I realize they're supposed to be umbrellas. One handprint is larger than the other two. My breath hitches for a moment. My eyes sting as water begins to rise behind them. One handprint is labeled Mom . The other two handprints are labeled Ruby and Vivian . It's clearly Laurel's handwriting. I'll never forget her graceful, looped script. She must have given this art project to my parents the year before she died, judging by the size of the hands.

I grip the paper tightly between my fingers.

"Thought you might want it," Mom says softly.

"Thanks," I say, staring down at the paper. It's light and flimsy. But it packs a heavy punch. A punch right to my gut.

"Oh, wow." I recognize Vivian's voice behind me. I don't remember her coming back into the room. She peeks over my shoulder. "Can I have it, Dad?"

I thrust the paper towards her and walk down the hall.

"Did you celebrate your mom's birthday yesterday?" I hear Mom ask Vivian.

"It was her birthday?" Vivian asks. Fuck. I was so busy wallowing in my own pain yesterday that I didn't even think that the girls might want to do something for her.

At the end of the hallway, I turn my back, desperate to stop my eyes from filling with tears.

Vivian and Mom continue to talk about Laurel. I stare at a spot on the wall, take deep breaths, and count to ten.

Grief is a funny thing. Most days are just fine. Fine, normal days. Well, not normal , normal. But a new normal. And then, every once in a while, without warning, the gravity of it all hits me hard. It's not just my loss. It's their loss, too. My daughters. Daughters who will never really know their mother. Who will never benefit from her sage advice, or feel the warmth of her love, or the brightness of her smile, or the gentleness of her spirit, or the generosity of her heart. In some ways, I think their loss is greater than mine. In other ways, I think they're better off. At least they don't really know what they lost.

When I finally look over my shoulder, I see Vivian clutching the paper closely. Fuck. Fuck absolutely everything. My daughters should have their mom, not just her handprint.