Counterfeit Love

Eventually, he had declared to the salesperson that he would be getting the lime green couch, but that it was very important that he get both gray and brown throw pillows to go on it because 'that's what the lady wants.'

I was pretty sure half of the reason I was having trouble sleeping at night was knowing there was a lime green sofa in his living room right then, as we spoke, with mismatching brown and gray throw pillows on it.

And that nice, sleek, real wood rustic coffee table we'd picked out? I just bet he never used the coasters I had picked out for him. There were probably beer rings on it.

In the week and a half since the six-hour marathon event that had been picking out his minimalistic furniture for his small space, Finch had managed to con me into seeing him on three separate occasions, and called or texted every single day.

Under the guise of work.

But I was pretty sure the man hadn't made a lick of progress on procuring any of the items he claimed he needed to print his fake money.

And he certainly did not need to see or speak to me to do any of the things he needed to do to get his business up and running again.

I should have been telling him exactly that each time he called or texted.

The fact that I never did seemed implied that I wanted to interact with him, didn't it?

It wasn't so crazy.

I spoke to and enjoyed the company of men in my life. Men at Hailstorm. People in Ferryn's and my extended family.

Never, though, a man who I wasn'trequired to be in close contact with.

I didn't need to interact with Finch. We had our agreement.

So picking up over and over meant something.

I wasn't entirely sure what yet.

All I knew was, on a crummy day, hearing his voice, with his lighthearted charm and loaded arsenal of cute--or even outlandish--pet names, never ceased to improve my mood.

"I had a nightmare," I admitted, surprising myself.

I talked about the nightmares. But only to those who would truly understand them. Ferryn. My therapist. An aunt of mine who had been through something equally horrific when she had been young. Even then, rarely did I bring them up anymore.

It felt like overkill to keep bringing them up. It would be like saying my hair was blonde over and over. Anyone who knew me knew that. Just like everyone who knew me knew I got nightmares. There was no reason to mention it.

But Finch was new to me. And Finch hadn't heard my nightmare stories a thousand times before. It was unexpectedly cathartic to be able to say those words to him, to admit that little part of myself to him.

"A nightmare or a memory?" he asked.

See, that was the thing about Finch.

If you spent a little time with him, you would think he was just light and casual, someone laid-back, someone slow to anger and quick to toss a compliment or tease you.

You wouldn't think there was anything deeper. Because he didn't want you to. Why--I wasn't sure. But I had spent enough time with him now to understand there was more underneath all that superficial charm.

He was smart.

And observant.

He was uncommonly wise for someone still somewhat young, for someone who'd insisted on picking up a retro Alf t-shirt he'd seen as we walked past the clothing shop on our way to the furniture store.

He caught you off-guard at times because of all the top layer stuff that made it easy to forget there were a complex layers underneath.

"Memories," I admitted, turning on the bed to face the wall, pulling my knees up to my chest to try to ease the clenching discomfort in my belly at that admission.

I remembered this sensation all-too-well. It was there on the night I had finally told a woman who would become my mother about what had happened to me in that basement and the rooms above.

It had been there when I told my Aunt Janie because she'd been through something similar.

It had been there when I finally got into therapy to help me cope with my crippling anxiety, my bone-deep fear of every man I came across, including my adoptive father, Cash.

It was there in quiet moments too. When my defenses were too low. In the moments right before sleep and right after waking especially. Or even, at times, when I saw handcuffs or basements or certain foods, beds with metal headboards.

"What's wrong with metal headboards?" Finch had innocently asked in the bed department of the furniture store a few days before.

"Finch," I said, voice a pained hiss, drawing his gaze, making the easy smile fall from his lips. "No metal headboards."

He didn't even ask. Anyone else would have asked, pressed, demanded an explanation.

Not Finch.