“Good. Great, actually. Did you hear about the show?”

Fuck.

“The . . . show.”

“Yeah, the Adventure Channel show,” Colton barrels on obliviously. “Two fucking seasons, Olls. Can you believe—”

“Colt,” I interrupt him, holding up a hand. “I was hoping to tell Oliver about this myself.”

Oliver turns his smile on me and I’ve known him long enough to know that this is not an I’m-so-happy-for-you smile. This is the condescending smile he gives to someone who confuses Star Trek with Buck Rogers, or doesn’t understand the dynamic behind the Wolverine-Jean Grey-Cyclops love triangle. “Good plan, Finn. I like hearing things directly from the source.”

I reach up to scratch the back of my neck, waiting while Colton and Oliver catch up. I only tune back in when I hear Colton ask how long he’ll be here.

“Heading back tomorrow morning.”

Colton groans. “Why such a short trip? We could use your help next week when the mechanics descend and Finn is banned from the boats.”

“Very funny.”

“Listen, I gotta get back to the engine room; make time for a beer tonight, yeah?” Colton asks, walking backward.

Oliver nods. “Definitely.”

“Cool. Good to see you, man, we’ll talk tonight.”

We watch Colton round the corner and disappear out of sight. Oliver is the first to speak. “I like your brothers,” he says.

“They’re good guys. Really held things together while I was gone.”

“You know who I don’t like right now?”

“Ansel?” I guess.

He laughs. “Walk with me, Finn.”

Oliver steps back onto the dock and after a moment of hesitation when I wonder whether I could actually swim back to my house, I follow. On the surface, Oliver is about as laid-back as anyone I’ve ever met. He’s one of those people who keeps everything in, letting their emotions out in small, measured pieces. The fact that he flew up here to check on me without even knowing about the show . . . I think I’m in for a world of hurt.

Despite the sun high overhead, there’s a distinct bite to the air. The wind whips through the boats and it gets even chillier the farther we walk. A ship’s horn cuts through the silence and Oliver turns to me.

“I’m assuming this whole show thing has something to do with why you left? And with what was bothering you the entire time?”

I pull my cap off and run a hand through my hair. “Harlow tell you anything?” There’s a part of me that almost wishes she had. If Harlow’s already told him then there’s no need for me to, no reason to spill my guts out and onto the dock.

I am not that lucky.

“No, actually she said it was your story to tell. And I agree.”

The sound of the water, small waves breaking against the base of the pier carry up to us, amplifying my silence. I should have told him. I should have told Ansel.

“Finn, I know you’re not a big sharer. I get that. Hell, after spending time with chatterbox Ansel, I even appreciate it at times. But I love you, you’re my best mate and I wouldn’t have given you so bloody many chances to confide in me if I didn’t actually care what was happening in your life. Talk to me.”

“I don’t like discussing things until I know what I’m going to do.”

“I get that,” Oliver says, nodding. “But seeing as how I came up here to make sure you were okay, and I find out just now from your brother that you’ve already signed on to do a television show . . .” He waves his hand forward, indicating he doesn’t really need to finish making his point.

I point to a bench at the end of the dock, and we walk there in stiff silence. We sit down, and Oliver stretches his arms across the back of the bench as I lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring down. The dock is old and weather-worn, but I swear I could draw the pattern of grain in the wood from every plank from memory.

“The last few months, things haven’t been good,” I tell him. “Fish counts are down, the cost of fuel is at a premium. People are losing everything left and right. Dad was going to take a loan out on the house. I was pretty sure I was going to have to, too. And you’ve seen my house, Olls. You know we’re not talking about a huge line of equity, okay? We were scraping the barrel.”

“Shit,” Oliver mumbles.

“So,” I continue, “a month ago we got a visit from a couple of suits at the Adventure Channel. They wanted to film on the boat, document our lives and what we go through. Document us. My first reaction was that they were totally fucking with us. My second reaction, when I realized they were for real, was to say no, because it’s clear that the goal of the show isn’t about fishing, it’s to show us and our lives.”

“The lives of four eligible, brawny blokes up in Canada, you mean.”

“Exactly,” I say, rubbing my face. “But the guys—my brothers and my dad—they thought we should hear them out. They’re tired of fighting so hard, you know?”

Beside me, Oliver nods.

“We talked, and it was decided that since I was the only holdout—and believe me, I was dead set against it—I’d be the one to go out to L.A. and meet with the production company, get all the details, and come back. We’d decide together.”

“Okay,” Oliver says. “Hence the visit.”

“The more I thought about it, the more I knew I didn’t want to do the show. Even as I was driving down to San Diego, I knew. I didn’t want to make light of what people are going through up here. I didn’t want us to be some kind of a joke. But then I got to California and . . . one of the engines threw a rod and it was one thing after another and pretty soon, it was either that or lose it all. No way would any loan help us dig out of the mess.”

“But you didn’t tell me. You didn’t tell Ansel.”

I shake my head. “I didn’t.”

“You did tell Harlow.”

I take a deep breath and look out over the horizon. A seagull circles overhead before it swoops down, dipping its beak into the ocean. “Yeah,” I say finally.

“Should I be mad that you told her but not me? You were in a relationship with her for, what, twelve hours?” Oliver says. “We’ve been friends for over six years.”

“You’re right. But you and Ansel, you’re a permanent part of my life. Harlow was temporary.” Oliver lifts a brow and I quickly add, “At first.”

“And that made it easier to talk to her? Someone you barely knew, rather than someone you’ve known most of your adult life?”

“You don’t think that makes sense? I didn’t want you to know what was happening until I knew what was happening. I didn’t want it to change how you saw me.”

“You are a stubborn, prideful idiot, Finn Roberts.”

I adjust my hat on my head. “I’ve heard that before.”

“So what I’m hearing is, you left when you found out Harlow was doing basically the same thing.”

I pull my brows together, not understanding.

“She didn’t want to talk about her mother with you, you didn’t want to talk about your boat problems with us. You both wanted to keep things separate.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. Realization sinks in. He thinks I split town because Harlow didn’t tell me about her mother. Jesus. Do I really come off as that callous? “I didn’t leave town because Harlow didn’t tell me about her mom, Oliver. For fuck’s sake. That stung because of my mom, and because I told Harlow everything about my problems, and the night before we’d basically confessed our undying love. But if that was the only thing that happened I wouldn’t have just bailed.”

“Okay, clearly there is a lot more going on, and Harlow is just as tight-lipped as you are.”

I rub a hand over my eyes. “I left town because I had to get back here. And . . .” I pause, looking up at him. “I left town because I was pissed at Harlow for trying to find a way to save my business without talking to me.”

Oliver pulls back, shaking his head to tell me he doesn’t understand. “What?”

I explain to him how Harlow approached Salvatore Marìn without talking to me first. How she discussed details about my life that weren’t hers to share. How she offered something—access to my boats for months—when she wasn’t even sure I could deliver.

“So she didn’t tell you because she wasn’t sure it would work out, right?” Oliver asks, and his voice is gentle and curious as if he simply wants to know, but I can feel his laser-sharp point lurking just behind. “She didn’t want to share it with you before it was a real possibility?”

“Yeah,” I say, wary. “That’s probably what she’d say.”

“Just like you didn’t want to tell us about what was happening with the television show before it was a real possibility?”

I see the point he’s making, but it just doesn’t add up. “Oliver, the whole situation is messed up. Yes, I should have told you out of courtesy because you’re my friend. But Harlow should have told me out of necessity because it’s my fucking livelihood. These two aren’t the same.”

He looks out at the water and seems to consider this for a long, quiet beat. “Yeah, I get that.”

There’s nothing else for me to say. “Let’s go get a fucking beer. I can fill you in on the details of the show.”

He nods, standing beside me and following me as I walk down the dock toward my truck. “Are you happy up here without her?” he asks. “You feel pretty good going home alone every night?”

Laughing humorlessly, I tell him, “Not so much.”

“You think she must be a real asshole, I guess, to try to ruin your business. What a twat.”

“Jesus, Olls, she wasn’t trying to ruin it,” I say, instinctively protective. “She was probably just trying to find a way for us—”

I stop, turning to look at Oliver’s giant shit-eating grin.

Groaning, I say, “Go fuck yourself, Aussie.”

Chapter FIFTEEN

Harlow

I WAKE UP TUESDAY and immediately know I’ve gotten my period, which of course brings a huge wave of relief . . . which of course makes me pissed-off all over again that Finn just hopped in his truck and drove north, leaving the mess between us behind.

One of the things I appreciated most about Finn was the plain assumption he seemed to always have that he sees things through with work, friends, and family. Apparently, that didn’t apply to the fight he had with the girl he’d married for twelve hours, loved for a day, and potentially knocked up.

But remembering that makes it clear why I appreciated that about him: because it’s the way I was raised, too. Take care of your own. Don’t leave loose strings. Clean up your messes. And, as my father has told me countless times, “Worrying is not preparation.”

So I drive to my parents’ house at the break of dawn to check in, reconnect, or, as Dad would probably say, be a meddling worrywart.

Dad is already up, eating cereal and staring out the window in his typical pre-coffee zombie zone, so I jog upstairs and crawl into bed with Mom. I don’t want to get so wrapped up in my own internal drama that I forget what she’s going through and that, at the end of the day every day, she’s still a mom who needs cuddles.

She hasn’t lost her hair yet, but I already mourn it. I inherited my father’s olive skin, but my mother’s auburn hair, and hers spills out over her pillowcase, just as long and full as it was when I was little. Mom’s trademark during the peak of her career was her hair. Once she even did a shampoo commercial, which Bellamy and I love to give her endless shit about because there was a lot of shine and hair flipping.

“Morning, Tulip,” she sleepy-mumbles.

“Morning, Pantene.”

She giggles, rolling to press her face into her pillow. “You’re never going to let me live that down.”

“Nope.”

“That commercial paid for the—”

“The camera that Dad used to film Caged,” I finish for her. “Which got him lined up at Universal for Willow Rush, for which he won his first Oscar. I know. I’m just being a menace.”

But there’s the rub. Mom’s work paid for Dad’s work, which moved our family forward, and nowhere in there did pride come into play, even though Dad is one of the most prideful men I’ve ever known. Mom came from a rich family in Pasadena. Dad came from a poor single-mother household in Spain. He never cared that his career took off because of the money and connections Madeline Vega made first. Once he’d convinced the love of his life to marry him, only three things mattered to my dad: that my mother took his name, that he could make her happy, and that they both got to do what they loved for a living.

“Why are boys so stupid?” I ask.

She laughs. “I’ve literally never heard you sound upset over a guy. I was worried.”

“Worried I was into girls?”

“No,” she says, laughing harder now. “That would have been fine. I was worried you were a cold-blooded man-eater.”

“Dad’s a tough act to follow,” I explain, pressing my face into her hair. Beneath the scent of her shampoo and face cream, she smells the slightest bit different—not bad, but . . . different—a result of the chemo and all the other things they’re currently doing to her body. It’s not like I go even an hour without thinking about it, but it hits me in this moment like a physical blow, this reminder that my mom is sick and my world is different than it was just two months ago. It makes me miss Finn and the strength he provided so acutely, that for a flash, I can’t breathe. “It was hard to take anyone seriously before now.”