“I thought you could take it with you,” he said. “When you go back to . . . wherever it is in England you live.”
“Ah, that is the question,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
I bit my lip. I wasn’t sure whether or not to say anything. If I told Finn I technically had nowhere to go, that the girls and I were without fixed address, I’d wind up mentioning that I was sick. It just seemed easier to keep it all locked away. But Finn could tell that I was doing precisely that, and I could see him attempt to gently coax my secrets from me.
“You’re considering not going back?” he said lightly. “Well, I have to say, I’ll be only too glad to tempt you into staying on Lòn Haven. What we lack in the way of theater and art galleries we make up for in myth and murder . . .”
“Thank you,” I said, laughing. “I don’t know what my plans are, to be honest. I’m somewhat adrift at the moment.”
He stepped closer and moved a strand of hair from my face. “I’m pleased to hear you’re not rushing off in a few weeks’ time. There’s a lot more of this place to see, you know.”
“Is there?”
“Oh, aye. Hidden coves to explore, hidden treasures to discover. You might even find a handsome, red-bearded Scotsman with a fine set of abs who makes you want to stay longer than you thought.” He sucked in his gut. “Well, a red-bearded Scotsman. Forget the abs part.”
I laughed. His face was close to mine, and he kissed me, lightly at first, then deeper. I pulled away, and he looked embarrassed.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean . . .”
“I want to stay,” I said. “I want this. But . . .”
I couldn’t bring myself to say it. I think I have cancer. Every woman in my bloodline has died from it.
“Och, it’s fine,” he said, and I realized I’d stood there, staring and silent, for a long time. I could see he was upset.
“No, no,” I said. “It’s not you.”
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, stung. “Ah, OK,” he said. “It’s not me, it’s you. I get it.”
“No,” I said, but I already knew I’d made the situation worse.
He bit his lip, his eyes on the ground. I didn’t want to upset him, and it struck me then how much I really did care. No, he wasn’t my type. His dress sense was terrible, and his taste in music was beyond my comprehension. But he was gentle and bighearted, and I loved his eyes and his tattoos and he made me laugh. He could fix anything. Just not me.
I’d expected him to turn and walk out at this point, but he was already talking, uncharacteristically tripping over his words. “Look, I haven’t . . . I haven’t meant to come on too strong,” he said. “If I have, I apologize.” He took a step back, as if to create a more neutral space between us. A distance that marked friendship instead of romance.
“I wasn’t lying,” I said. “The thing is, I’m sick.”
“Sick of what?” he said. “Me? Men in general? What?”
I sighed and covered my face. The truth was, I didn’t even know how to begin to tell him. I hated being vulnerable, and I knew I’d start crying the minute I said it out loud.
Just then, he said, “I thought we were honest with each other.”
He sounded wounded and self-righteous, and I bristled. “I don’t think I’m the only one who isn’t honest.”
“I’m honest,” he said.
“Oh yeah? Why did Cassie’s mother leave?”