When The Rain Falls

38. What If

38 WHAT IF

FINN

"You got a text," Tyler says from the bottom of the ladder. I walk down slowly, balancing a box in my hands. Mom sent us to fetch the good china in light of our special guest. What she doesn't know is that the good china is just an unopened box of dishes Laurel and I received as a wedding gift. They don't look any fancier than the normal dishes we use, other than the fact that they've never been used.

Tyler takes the box from me and I slide the ladder back up into the attic. Then he hands me my phone. I don't remember him having it to begin with. I read the notice displayed across the screen saver. It's from Aimee. It says, " Hey, big boy, I'm thinking about you as I wash these eggplants ," with a winky face. Aimee must have gotten roped into helping Mom with dinner.

I look up at Tyler and eye him suspiciously.

"Did you read it?" I ask.

"I never read other people's texts…" he says. I nod in understanding.

"…big boy," he adds. My face instantly becomes a furnace. "She's fun. What's the real scoop there, Mr. No-More- Ambushes?" Tyler quirks an inquisitive eyebrow at me while I picture holding his head in a toilet bowl.

"No scoop. It just happened,” I say quickly as I pocket my phone.

“Uh-huh.” Tyler gives me a look like he thinks there’s more to the story and he wants to drag it out of me. “You remember how to date, right? You might want to ease up on the scowling and maybe give a compliment or two.” When I look at him, there’s an unusual sincerity in his eyes. The asshole is actually trying to be helpful.

“I’m managing just fine, thanks.” I take back the box of china and start to walk down the upstairs hallway. Tyler doesn’t follow me. Instead, he leans his backside up against the wall. That’s when I realize this conversation is going to be lasting much longer than I’d like. I mirror his pose on the opposite wall and face him, box still tucked under my arm.

“Ok, so, where have you taken her? Please God, don’t tell me that nasty drive in of yours. What’s it called? Shady’s?”

"We haven’t gone on any dates,” I confess.

Tyler won’t stop looking at me like he’s peeling my skin back with his eyes. “So, you’ve just been…” He looks to me to finish the sentence.

“Hanging out,” I say. But the real answer is more complex than that. Hanging out with Aimee isn’t just hanging out. We talk. We cook. We laugh. We’re living. She makes me want to do all the things I never imagined I’d ever do again. I mean not really do. Not like this. Not on purpose. With joy.

“Sure, hang out with your thing out ,” Tyler teases. I hike the box of china higher on my hip. I love my brother. But God, I hate the man sometimes.

“You’re so immature.”

Tyler fake coughs. “From the guy who hides women in his pantry.”

"Give me a fucking break. Woman . One woman. And I get it. You thought that was hilarious. Can we all move on now? Next time, warn me before you drop by early.”

“You’ve been acting weird as balls about us all meeting her today. So you must really like her.”

I grunt. Because there's a whirlpool of feelings swirling around inside me and I can't seem to sort them all out. I feel like a tangled mess of excitement, and nerves, and anxiety. Because things with Aimee are good. Too good. Too perfect. And I can’t shake this slowly growing sense of foreboding.

"Nonverbal. Yeah. You've got it bad." Tyler chuckles.

"Tyler.” I feel my shoulders sag. The box of china suddenly becomes unbearably heavy. “Life keeps fucking me over. And I’m starting to think it’s me. That I’m the problem. What if I fuck up with her? The way I fuck up everything else?"

The levity and humor falls from Tyler’s face. He pushes himself off the wall and takes one giant step towards me. He grips my shoulder and gives a reassuring squeeze. "Dude, you don't fuck up everything.

"Feels like it," I mutter. My hands begin to shake and I can feel the box vibrating against my knee. Tyler notices it, too. He takes the box from my hands. But I don’t feel any lighter.

"Not everything in your life has gone according to plan. I'll give you that. But you didn't fuck anything up. Nothing was your fault. The shoulder injury in college that ended your pitching career. Not your fault," he says. I lean my head against the wall, which suddenly feels like the only reason I’m standing.

" Laurel was not your fault," he says quietly.

"Tyler. I should have?—"

"No," he cuts me off. "No should haves. Laurel wasn't your fault. The baby wasn't your fault."

"It was a boy…" I finally disclose. The words are just coming out now. Years of words pouring to the front of my brain. "We found out at the last hospital stay when they were running tests."

"Finn…" Tyler squeezes my shoulder again.

"I hated that they told me. I was furious that they told me. It made it all harder. That's all I knew about him. That's it. Not his eye color. Not whether his nose had Laurel’s curve. I hated them for that, the doctors."

From my spot against the wall, at the top of the stairwell, I watch the late September sun filter through the front windows, creating bright spots on the carpet. I focus on the pattern, focus on my breathing, and wait for the discomfort in my chest to fall away.

"Finn. I don't want to make light of what you went through. But, it was nine years ago. You can't keep living back there. You gotta be here. Now. The girls need you here."

"I know. Fuck, I know," I say.

"Most importantly. You need you here."

I run my hands through my hair and think about what he just said.