Slip of the Tongue (Slip of the Tongue 1)

“How come?”

“You look like an artist,” I said shyly, but it was the truth. I could see him in a paint-splattered smock or easily commanding a room full of models. “Maybe it’s the hair.”

His eyes brightened. “All right, then. I’ve been debating a haircut, but if you like it, that’s a solid argument against one.”

I blushed and glanced at the table. It wasn’t every day a man this good-looking noticed me, much less deferred to my judgment. There was a lot I wanted to ask him. When would he graduate? Had he moved here from somewhere? I wasn’t sure where to begin.

Before I could figure it out, banging against the window startled us both. A plump redhead pressed her breasts and palms against the glass. “I overslept,” she shrieked with huge eyes. It took a moment for me to recognize my classmate out in the wild.

“Becky?” I asked.

She bolted toward the door and blew inside the coffee shop like a hurricane. “I was supposed to get up early to finish my slides but I drank too much last night. I overslept. Please help me. Please, please—” She grabbed my arm and pleaded with the man across the table from me. “I’m sorry to steal her, but both of our grades are on the line.” She returned to me. “I need help finishing them before class starts. Bring your coffee. I need it.”

I didn’t know why I was already halfway out of my chair. Becky and I were presenting to our Ethics and Media class, but we’d decided to be responsible for our own parts. Her desperation, her I need, I need, sent peals of urgency through me, though, and it was true. My grade on this project was tied to her. “I’m sorry—” I didn’t know his name.

“Ah—” He looked between Becky and me. “You have to go? You’re sure?”

“Class starts in an hour,” Becky said. “We have to go. Now.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again, picking up my bag.

He handed me his coffee cup. “Take it. For her.”

I shot him a grateful glance as Becky hurried me out the door. I went back the next day around the same time. For months, I mistook other tall, honey-blond men around the East Village for him. I’d checked his coffee cup for a scribbled name with no luck. I thought of him often. But I never saw him again—until now.

I look back at Gisele, as if she has some magical answer to the storm brewing inside me. She’s restocking the pastries. She wasn’t even old enough to work here ten years ago.

“Hello again.”

We shared sips of coffee, flirtatious glances, and a dark chocolate pistachio croissant. Finn and I have met before . . . and he’s known it all along.

NINETEEN

In one hand, I balance a drink tray and Ginger’s leash. Between glances down the hall at my apartment, I quietly knock at Finn’s door.

He opens it shirtless. Mussed. His hair is one unruly wave over his head. He smiles widely. “Morning, beautiful.”

It’s been ten years. Now, he has crow’s feet that remain even after he’s stopped smiling. His shorter hair is darker, closer to the color of the beard he didn’t used to have. But his honeyed-green artist’s eyes, and his expressive lips—those are the same.

“Hello again,” I say.

He opens the door a little wider. “Come in.”

“I can’t. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Ah,” he says with a slight nod. He crosses his arms over his chest. His sweats, missing the drawstring, slip a little. “You’re feeling guilty about yesterday.”

“No.” I scratch under my chin. Because of the hair fringing his waistband, and the unmistakably long, ridged outline of his crotch, I don’t think he’s wearing underwear. I probably caught him naked in bed. “I mean, I don’t know.”

He follows my gaze down and adjusts himself. “Sorry. Morning wood.”

I’m suddenly hot in my coat and scarf. I look anywhere but at him. “Sorry.”

“Want to tell me why you’re here?”

“Right. Yes.” I straighten my shoulders, remembering myself. Finn has kept yet another crucial piece of information from me. Our conversation at Quench a lifetime ago was short but promising. Electric. I know he felt what I did that day. “Why didn’t you tell me about Quench?”

He looks from my face to the coffee and back. “You remember? Since when?”

“Just now.” Ginger sighs loudly and lies down next to us. “You should’ve said something, Finn.”

“Why?”

“Because—” My feet in socks and shoes, my neck wrapped in cashmere, I sweat. “You lied.”

“When? How?”

“You made me think we were strangers.”

“We were.” His cheek dents with one dimple. “I wanted you to remember on your own.”

“Why? What difference does it make?”

He takes the tray from me. “Come inside.”

“I can’t. That’s for Nathan.”

“Sadie—” He sets it on the ground next to Ginger. “Do you believe in fate?”

“Not really.”

“No? Not even a possibility it could exist?” With his tilted head and small smile, it’s as if he knows something I don’t. “Maybe we have to go through certain experiences in order to get where we’re supposed to be.”

“And that place we’re supposed to be is predetermined? By who?”

“I don’t really think fate has to mean we have no control. Our decisions lead us along a path, and that’s a kind of fate. Isn’t it?”

I look down. His bare feet are inches from the toes of my sneakers. I can’t tell if he means what he says, or if he’s justifying what we did.

“Why did I choose Quench that morning when I could’ve gone to Starbucks by my place?” he asks. “I don’t know. But I did. Why’d you let me sit with you?”

I shift feet. “You know why.”

“You were attracted to me?” he asks, and then answers himself, “Yes. As was I to you.” He nudges his toe against the sliver of exposed ankle between my sock and jeans. It tickles in a hair-raising way that makes me want to peel his sweatpants off. “Were you with him back then?”

I raise my eyes to his. “Not yet.”

“I wasn’t with Kendra. You and I—we met first.”

We share a moment of quiet while I let myself get caught up the same eyes and lips that mesmerized me back then. Finn and I, we did meet first. If we hadn’t been interrupted, where would we be today? “I went back the next day to find you.”

“So did I.” He shrugs. “I guess our timing was off back then. But now . . .”

He has me on his hook. I want to know what happens next. He’s had two weeks to think this over to my twenty minutes. “Now?”

“Now, we get to make things right. I know it seems like I’ve been pushing, but it’s because that moment in the hallway struck me like lightning. I wanted you to experience that on your own.”

I frown. “Is getting struck by lightning good?”

He adjusts his stance and gestures between us. “Isn’t it possible that Kendra and,” he looks past me, “Nathan were simply instruments to bring us together? That we’re supposed to be having this conversation?”

Do I believe an otherworldly force has led Finn and me to each other at the expense of Nate and Kendra? No. I can almost see, though, the poetry of how we got here, standing in front of each other, when we have good reason to be elsewhere. I’m afraid to think I could’ve loved him the way I do Nathan if only Becky hadn’t overslept

and botched our presentation.

I take a step backward. “I have to go.”

“Come back later?” he asks hopefully.

“I can’t.”

He blinks directly to the pastry bags sticking out of my purse, as if he’s been trying not to look. “Pistachio?”

I hesitate and nod. “My favorite.”

“I know,” he says softly. He takes a strand of my hair in his thumb and forefinger. “Come back here.”

It’s hard to say no. Because I’d like to snuggle into his warmth. Because his built body is divine-like. I want to learn to sculpt so I can put him on my dresser. Heat billows from behind him. I get closer. He slips a crinkled bag out, reaches inside, and holds up the croissant. “Open for me.”

I’ve heard those words before, in this same apartment. He’s so sure I’m opening more than my mouth to him. He feeds me some of the pastry, then takes his own bite. We lock eyes and chew. With an “mmm” he kisses my cheek. I should pull away. I can feel each of his beard hairs on my cheek, stiff but soft, tickling but sharp. And last night’s musk sticks to him. And his pants are tented. I put my hand on his chest and push. He’s immovable.

“Your hair’s still curly,” he notices.

“I haven’t . . .” I sigh, frustrated that words don’t come out like I want. That my hands and feet don’t act how they should. “Last night, I didn’t—and this morning, I just ran out for a minute . . .”

He slips an arm around my waist and hides me in the doorway. He brushes his lips over my temple. Ginger’s sleeping, but it feels like she knows everything.

“I’m still everywhere on you then,” he says, grazing the tip of his nose along my jaw, under my ear. “I haven’t showered, either. I want you in my bed. I want my sheets to smell like us.”