Page 56 of Spark
The vulnerability of moments ago vanishes behind the pinching of his lips into a firm line and the flattening of his brows. A flush of heat overtakes my head and neck. My muscles tense and my stomach hardens, like when I’m preparing to confront a troublesome patron at the club or dive in to break up a fight. We turn onto his street and I cannot wait to get out of this car.
Finlay pulls into the driveway, but stops in front of the garage and doesn’t reach for his phone to enter the code to raise the door. "Do you have your keys?"
I touch my front pocket to double check and nod.
"I’m going for a drive." He’s gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles have turned white. Every word is forced from a tight jaw. "I need to clear my head."
A tiny part of me shouts that strong emotions can lead to distracted driving. "You shouldn’t drive when you’re angry or upset."
"And you shouldn’t be playing rugby."
Drawing air into my chest, I want to point out how ridiculous he’s behaving. But I get out of the car before I say something I might regret. He immediately puts it in reverse.
Shaking my head, I walk toward the house and let myself inside. As I close the door, he drives down the street. As irritated as I am, I hope he’ll be safe.
The house holds the memory of the quiet morning we shared, of Finlay and me kissing while making breakfast, when the promise of the last free weekend I’ll have in a very long time stretched out before us filled with possibilities.
Pacing through the living room and kitchen, I relive our argument. Anger, frustration, and hurt battle for dominance. Maybe I should go for a walk. I need to burn off these feelings.
My gaze lands on the calendar hanging on the fridge and realization of the date hits me. "Damn it."
My loan payment is due today. I always try to pay it prior to the last day in case the payment doesn’t immediately go through. Going for that walk will have to wait.
Grabbing my laptop from the breakfast nook and the stack of mail I picked up during the last visit to my home, I settle in at the kitchen island. I’ve already paid the electric and water bills, the mortgage, and the car insurance. In addition to the loan payment, I still need to pay the hospital bills. They’re due in two weeks and how I’m going to swing covering them is a mystery to me. Hopefully, when I call the hospital’s billing department on Monday, I can work out a payment plan. If they won’t let me, then I honestly don’t know what I’ll do.
I log into my bank and over to the tab for the loan payment. The current amount due is showing a zero balance. Confusion swarms as I refresh the page. Still, a zero balance. I click on the payment history. A payment—substantially larger than the monthly installment amount—was credited to my account early last week.
The bank must have applied someone else’s payment to my account by mistake. A glance at the clock confirms the bank is already closed. I’ll have to wait until Monday’s lunch break to talk to someone about correcting the error. I’d planned to use that limited window of time to call the hospital, so now the hospital call might have to wait until Tuesday’s lunch break. The thought of pushing it back aggravates me to no end.
I go ahead with making my payment, wince at the meager amount left in my checking account, then log out and shut down my laptop.
Jitters agitate in my gut like the rumbling foreshocks of an earthquake. I push away from the island and resume my pacing throughout the first floor. I’m as stressed as the day I walked out of the hospital. First, the fight with Finlay, and now this…
Room to room, I roam, then return to the kitchen. The window beside the breakfast nook draws me. Squirrels are running through the yard and birds are chirping in the trees. I watch them for a while then study the plants and flowers. Nature is peaceful and I desperately need to feel centered.
The rumbling lift of the garage door heralds Finlay’s return home. My stomach clenches into a hollow ball and all of my muscles tense. Grasping hold of the windowsill, I face the door that leads to the garage.
I don’t know how to find common ground when he doesn’t want me to play and there’s no way I’m stopping. Or what our relationship will look like if he’s a ball of worries for eighty minutes every Saturday, and what I’m doing is the cause of those worries. But how can I give up that time with my friends? I get too much out of the experience to risk losing what it brings to me.
His footsteps carry him closer to the door. Raising my chin, I draw in a breath and wait for the door to open. I don’t want to continue arguing, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep my temper in check if he thinks he can change my mind.
Chapter Fifteen
Finlay
Thecoldoftheice cream seeps through my tee and chills my arm as I shift the tubs to my left and open the door. I stop short when I find Mateo, arms crossed, chin lifted, mouth turned downward like he’s preparing for battle. I hold up the two pints of ice cream, hoping he’ll accept the peace offering. “I got ice cream.”
“We had ice cream at the game.” The way he saysgame, theghard and unmoving, does not bode well for my attempt to make amends with tasty treats.
I shift around him, making sure not to touch him even though I want to wrap myself in his arms and never let go. Striding into the kitchen, I set the ice cream on the counter. I feel more than hear him follow me. The energy rolling off him is like the aftershocks of a bomb detonation, squashing anything in its path, and I blame myself for my part in his anger.
Not that I’m going to apologize for wanting him to stop playing rugby, I won’t do that. But after driving around and having a moment to settle down, I concluded that I definitely could have and should have handled the situation better. And for that, I’m sorry. Thus, the ice cream.
"We shared a Neapolitan cone. This…" I pull out two spoons and hand him one. "This is black raspberry chip and cappuccino crunch, apology ice cream." I remove the lids, dip my spoon into the black raspberry chip, and hold it to his lips. "Once you taste this, you'll forgive me for walking away."
Lips pressed together, mahogany eyes that have forgone their typical warmth and tenderness soften a fraction, and he opens his mouth. I hold my breath as he wraps his lips around the spoon. The lids of his eyes flutter shut as his powerful fingers wrap around my hand holding the spoon. Tension trickles from the face I search for in crowds and look forward to seeing at the end of the day. When he opens his eyes, weariness has replaced the guarded vexation, plunging into my solar plexus with a surge.
I chance a step closer. “I don’t want to argue with you.”
