CHAPTER EIGHT
“This is bullshit.” The day after meeting with the judge, Fin climbed the steps to Town Hall. Shifting the cell phone to his other ear, he swung the door open and got hit with a blast of air conditioning.
“Yeah, it is.” Wind created static, garbling Will’s voice. “But Steve said the judge had his mind made up before you even walked into his courtroom. He’s had it out for us for a while.”
Their family lawyer hadn’t been able to do a damn thing to get Finn out of his community service sentence. Six weeks? All of July and the first two weeks of August threw off his training schedule for the entire summer. And for what? Some asshole had punched him. Fin had only defended himself.
You’re twenty-three years old, Mr. Bowie. When you do you think you’ll deploy something other than your body to get through life?
As he strode across the lobby, he looked for a directory. “It’s eight hours a day. I don’t have time for this shit.”
“Steve said you shouldn’t have brought up your workout schedule. Apparently the judge thinks we’re full of ourselves. Whatever. We’ll plan our training around the schedule they give you.”
Fin found the glass-encased directory. Town Manager 2A. “I’m here. I gotta go.”
“You coming home straight after? Brodie and I are at the lake.”
“Yeah, I’ll be there.” Having three brothers home at the same time was rare, so it pissed him off to be stuck with community service instead of hanging out with them.
Disconnecting from the call, Fin headed up the stairs. The new building smelled like fresh paint and didn’t have any of the character of the original Town Hall, housed in the historic section of town.
He walked into the office and right up to the counter. Three employees worked at their desks. “Can I help you?” a middle-aged man asked.
“Good morning, Fin.” Mrs. Mallory, who used to drive the ice cream truck around town, got up, sending the guy a look that said, I got this. Holding out her hand for his court documents, she scanned it. Her gaze flicked up. “Six weeks?” As in, what the hell did you do this time? “He’s expecting you. Go on in.” She handed them over.
Damn, he wished he could take back that night. Should’ve kept riding his bike. He knew what he needed better than his brothers. “Thanks.” He walked into an office crowded with papers, plaques, and files. “Mr. Solheim.”
The Town Manager’s chair creaked as he got up and extended a hand. He took in Fin’s athletic shorts and damp T-shirt. “Fin. Good to see you.”
To keep up his training, he’d run into town, but in that moment he realized how disrespectful it looked to show up in the middle of a work-out. It wasn’t Mr. Solheim’s fault Fin had to be there.
He handed over the documents, and the manager took a moment to read them. Behind him, the filing cabinet held a bunch of framed family photographs, a beer stein, and a stuffed animal with a red bow around its neck, Best Daddy embroidered on its belly.
“All right.” Mr. Solheim sat down and, with three hip-pumps, pushed his chair closer to the desk. “I’ll be honest with you, there’s not a whole lot for you to do. We’re fully staffed in the high season.”
Cool. The less he had to do the better. Since the hashtag continued to grow, thanks to recent coverage on network news, he and Bram had thought about making another film—maybe taking a few weeks in Alaska to get the focus back on Fin, the athlete, and off the World’s Worst Boyfriend. But community service had shot that idea in the head.
“The good news…” Mr. Solheim leaned across his cluttered desk to pull a sheet of paper out of a plastic tray. “Is that we’ve found a use for the old Town Hall building, and I need to put someone on that.”
“Doing what, exactly?”
“Basic janitorial work. You can get the building ready for use and make a punch list of electrical or plumbing problems.”
Being alone in that uninhabited building meant he could run the stairs and do pull ups from the banisters. Lunch break, he could walk next door to Megan’s yoga studio and take a class. Yeah, this would work. “Sounds good. Doesn’t sound like it’ll take six weeks, though.”
“No, that’ll just be the first few days. After that, you’ll be helping out with the event.” Mr. Solheim put on his glasses and peered at the paper. “There’s some kind of exhibition going on this summer. I’ll bet Callie could use a hand getting that up and running.”
A hit of pleasure sped through him at the mention of her name. From the moment he’d stood before the judge and received his sentence, he’d been pissed.
But just then things started to look up. “Are you telling me my punishment’s working with Callie Bell?”
The man nodded.
He grinned. “When do I start?”
The next morning Fin rode his BMX bike into town for his first day of community service. It gave him extra training and time alone with his thoughts.
He couldn’t take the trip to Alaska, but he needed to do something to shift the attention away from the meme. Maybe put up footage of him riding his bike on the Devil’s Rim? He got a lot of views from his tricks.
At least the story wasn’t about him anymore—although he had no idea why his name was the stand-in for every bastard who’d ever betrayed a woman.
Dirt kicked up and brush whipped his jeans. With every mile closer to Callie, he pedaled harder. He couldn’t wait to get to her.
Racing down the winding roads of his family’s ranch, he hit the back end of town. Two blocks ahead on Main Street, he could see early morning activity. Families headed for the diner, their vans loaded with camping gear. A crew of bikers gathered at the green, taking off their helmets.
A lively, old-fashioned Western town, tourists used Calamity as a base for their Teton and Yellowstone explorations. The population swelled from twenty-thousand year-rounders to over a million tourists during the summer and ski seasons.
He rode right up to the sun-splashed boardwalk in front of the old Town Hall. These historic buildings at the far end of town, built in the early nineteen-hundreds, still had the original advertisements painted on the sides, along with raised boardwalks.
With a punch from the heel of his running shoe, the kickstand hit the ground, and he swung his leg off the bike. His phone had buzzed a few times on the ride, so he pulled it out to check his messages. Aaron had left a voicemail. Without even listening, he called him back.
His manager answered on the first ring. “Fin.”
“Yeah, man, what’s up?”
“How important’s the cover to you?”
Very “I don’t know. Why?” He was nominated this year. He might not get it again. Look at Traci. She might be out for good.
“Because I’ve got some bad news.”
Tension clutched his spine. He’d already told his brothers he’d been nominated. He wanted to prove that he wasn’t just some adrenaline-junkie show-boater. The cover mattered.
“That connection I’ve got in the National Adventurer office? He heard the editor saying they’re not putting a ‘social media celebrity’ on their cover.”
“Good.” The word snapped like a twig. “Because I’m not.”
“Well, unfortunately, right now you are. The Worst Boyfriend thing was bad enough, but when your arrest hit the entertainment sites, it turned the whole thing into a shitstorm. They’re serious about their reputation and think putting you on the cover will dilute their brand. They only want ‘extreme adventure athletes who go where no one else has gone.’”
That’s what I do. A mix of anger and fear twisted in his gut. “Okay.” So a meme he had zero control over would kill his shot at the cover? That’s not right.
He wished like hell he’d waited to tell his brothers about the nomination. Now they’d never let him hear the end of it.
World’s Worst Boyfriend.
Jesus, Christ. How the hell had this happened?
Fin stepped into the shaded alley between the old Town Hall and Megan’s yoga studio. “Anything we can do?”
“You can ask Traci to get on her Instagram account and correct everyone’s impression of what went down on that trip. You hear from her yet?”
“Radio silence.” Since her accident ten days ago, she’d been transferred to a hospital in Colorado near her family.
“Okay, so get in touch with her.”
He made it sound so easy. “She’s recovering from surgery. Her career could be over. I’m not bothering her with this crap.”
“She started it. Why the hell did she put up that text anyway?”
“No idea.” Damn, why had he gone for humor? He should’ve been sincere. Worried about you. Will call when I land. That would’ve gone down a hell of a lot better. “I thought I knew her sense of humor.”
“How about this? I’ll talk to her manager and see if he can jump on her accounts and fix it.”
“Sounds good. I thought it would’ve died down by now.”
“Yeah, but it just keeps getting bigger. Listen, if it were me, I’d have put an end to it a week ago. My best advice: call Traci. She’s good people. If she knew this was happening to you, she’d shut it down. And if you don’t want to call her, at least get a message to her people. She’ll kill it. I know she will.”
He knew her well enough to know if she was all right, she’d be talking to her concerned fans. She had to be in pain and freaking out. “Not gonna bug her about some stupid meme.”
“Even if it costs you ‘Adventurer of the Year?’”
The words sat like a wet blanket on his shoulders. Fin shifted, wondering how else to kill it.
“You know the endorsements you’ll get from that?” Aaron asked.
A shit ton. And with that money he could take more trips. Even build out his family’s training facility, just the way he’d like.
“You know what else I think you’ll get from it?” Aaron asked.
Fin waited, a hand braced on the wall, his finger rubbing the rough, aged wood.
“A contract.”
A blast of excitement shot through him. Braverman.
“Braverman hasn’t signed anybody new in the last two years. You make this cover, and I’d stake my career on him reaching out to you. Think about it, Fin. You’ll get free rein to choose your own locations with his top crew and the force of his marketing and publicity teams. That’s why this cover matters.”
One of the first skiers to break away from the competition circuit in the 1960s, Walter Braverman had pretty much invented freeform skiing. Like Fin, restrictive rules and groomed courses bored him. He and his buddies used to film each other to critique and improve their techniques, and he eventually turned his hobby into a business. Now he ran the biggest, most respected production company for big mountain skiing and snowboarding films. He only signed a few athletes at a time and only the very best in their field.
A contract with Braverman was the brass ring in snowboarding.
“I can’t see your face, but I know what it looks like.” Aaron paused. “You gonna call Traci now?”
He and his brothers didn’t touch their dad’s money. They benefited from it, obviously, by living on a three hundred thousand acre legacy ranch with enough staff that they didn’t have to manage daily operations, but they supported themselves off the wages they earned from their livelihoods.
Fin funneled his income into his backcountry trips. His website with millions of subscribers ensured he had sponsors, but he traveled to remote locations with a crew of six. Travel, insurance, supplies… it all added up.
A contract would change his life. Money, better exposure, and the highest quality production team. It would blow his brothers’ minds.
But the image of Traci in a hospital bed replaced the one of their proud expressions. “Now’s not the time to talk to her. Go ahead and call her manager. In the meantime, I’ll get some sick footage of me on my bike. Or maybe my brothers and I can take the heli to the Widow’s Spine—”
“You’re not getting it. They’ve already chosen you. Everything you’ve done the last six years got their attention. It’s the meme that’s getting in your way. Putting up film of you on your bike isn’t going to change anything. You have to kill the meme.”
He wanted to punch the wall. Get back on his bike and ride out the rampant frustration. Fuck community service. The only reason he’d report for duty was to see Callie. “Just…start with the manager. Find out how Traci is. If she’s doing okay, I’ll give her a call. If not…”
“If not, we’ll come up with something else.”
“Thanks, man.” Fin disconnected and shoved the phone into his back pocket. He tipped his head back, taking in the slice of blue sky between the buildings. Who did he know who could get a message to her? They had a lot of friends in common.
No. He couldn’t do it. Not when Traci was lying in a hospital bed, her career on the line.
“Fuck.”
“You use that mouth to kiss your two hundred and thirty thousand ex-girlfriends?” Megan smiled at him as she turned the key in the lock of her studio.
He gave her a chin nod to let her know he appreciated her support. Her humor meant she didn’t buy into the meme’s crap about him. As he crossed the boardwalk, music rattled the walls of the old Town Hall. Callie. The tide of negativity turned, and anticipation rushed in.
Pulling the door open, Fin was hit by a wall of guitars and a gravelly voice.
Van Halen. The familiarity of it shot him way the hell back in time to when she’d rock out to Sonic Youth and Guns N’ Roses. Sometimes he’d watch from the basement doorway as she painted with music blasting. He panned the room, expecting to see her head-banging with an air guitar.
Rows of square columns, three deep, bisected the large, rectangular first floor. Rough wooden beams lined the low ceiling, and the stucco walls had yellowed with age. In the center of the room sat a sturdy oak table covered in brightly colored pieces of paper. Scissors, glue, double-sided tape, and stacks of clear Plexiglass frames lay scattered across it.
He noticed a tall ladder, and feminine legs encased in black leggings standing at the top. Callie. He headed toward it. A shower of colored paper dangling from clear fishing line hid the rest of her body. Once he’d gotten a grip on the frame, he punched the button on her laptop, killing the music. She swung around so quickly, she had to crouch and grab the ladder to keep her balance.
Her eyes went wide in fear. Until she saw him. “What’re you doing here?”
“You shouldn’t work alone on a ladder this size. You either need a taller one or someone to stabilize this one.”
“Says the man who races down the spine of a mountain on a board.” She nodded toward the laptop. “Turn it back on.”
“Not until I get you a better ladder.”
“I think I can handle it.” She rolled her eyes. “What do you want, Fin?”
When he realized she had no idea he’d been assigned to her, he grinned. “I’m here to help you.”
“I’m good. Thanks.” She tipped her chin to the door. Run along.
He pulled his phone out. “Nah, man. I got your SOS loud and clear.” He hit the first song on his playlist. “I’m here to rescue you from the seventies with some Arcade Fire. For the next six weeks, I’m your court-ordered DJ.”
“But what if one of your brothers calls? I think I’ll stick with my laptop. It’s more reliable.”
He shut down the app and shoved his phone back in his pocket. “You might want to get some new material. Those lines are pretty old.” Though they carried more weight than he’d admit to her.
“Fin, I don’t have time to fight with you.”
“Yeah? Well, luckily for me, I’ve got all the time in the world to fight with you.” He gave her a cheerful smile. “Specifically, eight hours a day for the next six weeks.”
She stilled, eyes narrowing.
He grinned. “This is going to be fun.”
“What’re you’re talking about?”
“Judge Pilson assigned me to you.”
It took a moment, but awareness dawned. “You just got back from a trip, and you’re in trouble already?” When the clarity struck, her eyes went wide. “Wait, he gave you community service with me?”
“You’re the only one in town who needs my help.”
Strangely, she didn’t look annoyed or angry. She looked worried. “That’s…not a good idea.”
Because of her ex? Jealousy twisted through him. “Why, did you get back with Man-Bracelet?” Not a chance would Fin work here if that asshole planned on showing up. He’d rather sit behind a desk for eight hours a day in an airless room than watch his girlfriend with another guy.
My girlfriend? Where the hell had that come from?
“No, that’s never going to happen. But you’re not going to…” She let out a huff of frustration. “This is an art installation. About broken hearts.” She shifted on the ladder. “It’s not your thing.”
You’re my thing. “I’m not here to draw pictures. I’m here to help you get your museum up and running.” He clapped his hands together. “So. Let’s do this. Tell me what we’re doing and when we’re opening.” He knew she had an interview in New York at the end of August, so that didn’t give her much time to pull this place together.
“It’s an exhibition, and I need it to open as soon as possible.” Now she looked conflicted.
“Then you need help.”
“Of course. But it can’t be you.”
Awareness struck like the jerk of blinds, and light flooded in. Because he’d broken her heart. And she just wasn’t going to let it go. “Like I said, I’m not here to be creative. I’m here to help you get the building cleaned up and the art on the walls. Now, I can either stand here and hold the ladder or you can tell me what you’re doing and let me take over.”
“I only have a few more to hang, so let me just finish this batch. Since you insist on hanging around, maybe you can jog in place or do some lunges or something.” Hesitantly, she turned back to her project.
She attached a rope of transparent fishing line to the ceiling with a screw-in hook. An origami-style bright yellow piece of paper dangled off the other end, held onto the line with a tiny silver paperclip.
He noticed a pile of similar papers on the table, so he grabbed one.
We’d dated four and a half years, lived together for one and a half. I had an eight year old kid from another relationship. Fin was basically a father to my son.
Fin? A chill swept through him. He kept reading.
For my son’s birthday, I took him to Harry Potter World. Fin couldn’t come. He said he had work. My son and I came home from a great weekend only to find our house cleared out of Fin’s things. No note, nothing. I called everyone I knew, his friends, his parents. No one took my call. Fin just disappeared. On me. On my son. A few months later, I ran into his sister at the mall. She marched right up to me and said, My brother’s an ass. You should know he met someone at work and is living with her. You should also know your son is better off without a coward like Fin for a role model.
Tossing that one aside, he picked through more papers. Each one had his name. What the hell did the comments from Traci’s Instagram page have to do with her museum?
It’s about broken hearts. It’s not your thing.
He looked around the room, noticing a few items mounted in Plexiglass frames on the far wall. A shiny black high heel, a box of blueberry PopTarts, and a smashed cell phone.
What was going on? He opened his mouth to ask, when he noticed a long, rectangular LED message screen. “Callie?”
“What?” She snapped right back at him.
But he didn’t give two fucks about her attitude. “Hold onto the ladder.”
She followed his gaze, worry tightening her features.
Which only pissed him off more. He crouched under the table and plugged in the cord.
“Wait. Fin.”
He didn’t want to hear anything she had to say. Red lights blinked several times before words appeared.
Thanks for a great time. :) Gotta jet. Talk soon.
Like a toy train circling a track, his text message scrolled continuously across the screen.
Anger fired him up like a blowtorch. He couldn’t believe she’d stab him in the back like this. “Your museum’s about the damn meme.”
She let out a shaky breath, but any concern she might have had settled into determination. “No, it’s about broken hearts. This one, the central installation…yes, it’s about the meme. But it’s important.”
“You know what’s even more important? That you don’t fuck up my life.”
“I’m not doing anything. The meme’s already out there, and I had nothing to do with it. Besides, it stopped being about you a long time ago. Look, I don’t know why this happened, but your text tapped into something big and important.” Climbing down the ladder, her little black ballet flats clacking on the steel plates, she flipped the LCD switch off, killing the display. He noticed the tightness in her shoulders which told him, no matter how sure her tone, she had doubts. “This exhibition’s going to help people heal.”
“Cool. Do it. Do everything you’d planned on doing.” His finger stabbed at the LED box. “Except that. You don’t need the meme to talk about broken hearts.”
“Yes, I do. It’s a cultural phenomenon. A single text message triggered a tidal wave of reaction around the globe. It’s big, and it’s important. And, I’m sorry, Fin, but The World’s Worst Boyfriend’s going to be the central installation.” That regal voice, calm, haughty, sent his pulse skyrocketing.
He held her gaze. “Find something else.”
“I can’t. It is the story. Look, I swear it’s not about you anymore. I have no idea how it ballooned, but it’s somehow giving a voice to people who’ve been living with a terrible pain they can’t get rid of.”
“They can pay a therapist for the same result.”
“You’re not getting it. Talking to their friends or sisters or therapists hasn’t worked. I think this meme is working because it’s helping them see that they’re not alone. That—”
“That asshole boyfriends are common? Call it what you want, but this is nothing more than a mob mentality. You’ve got a bunch of angry women gunning for the bastards who hurt them.”
“That’s not what it’s about at all. Read the comments. It’s not just women. It’s gone beyond gender or age or anything. It’s people sharing their stories and finding a community of support. It’s healing them.”
She obviously wasn’t going to budge, and he wasn’t going to argue. “You don’t have my permission to use the meme.”
“I don’t need your permission. Look, it’s gone viral for a reason, and the fact that it’s still going strong tells you it’s touched a nerve. That means something important, and I’m going to explore it in this exhibition. I swear, this is not about Fin Bowie.”
“Every fucking comment has my name.”
“But it’s not you. Everyone knows that. It’s a placeholder that stands for the source of pain.”
“That’s great in theory, Callie, but it’s affecting me. We had to shut off comments on my website. I had to deactivate my social media accounts. I need this thing to die down, and what you’re talking about—showcasing it in my hometown? You’re dumping gas on a burning building.”
“The building’s already burning, and the whole world’s watching. I’m just one person out of millions talking it about in a tiny little town in the Tetons. Nothing is going to come of my little pop-up exhibition.”
As much as he wanted to throttle her, he understood her point. Her museum meant nothing in the scheme of things.
“I don’t mean to upset you.” Underneath her tone of conciliation he heard a slab of resolve.
And that pissed him off. “You sure about that?”
“Oh, come on. You can’t seriously think this is some kind of retribution?”
“Don’t bullshit me. On some level, you know it’s exactly that.”
“This is what I do, Fin. I’m a modern art museum curator. It’s my job to explore the cultural ethos.”
Okay, he’d had enough. “You can fuck right off with your cultural ethos bullshit. I don’t need this kind of crap in my hometown.”
“Then guess what? If you don’t like when shit blows up in your face, quit crapping on the people you’re supposed to love.”
“Are you talking about you or Traci right now? You’ve got them both so twisted up I can’t tell.”
“I’m not doing this to get back at you but, of course, it has something to do with you. The whole reason I’m fascinated by these stories is because of what happened to me. I don’t think you understand. What you did…Fin, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever gone through.”
“I know that.” His voice bounced off the low ceiling and slammed right back into him. “You think I don’t know that? But, Jesus, I was a seventeen year old kid. I’m a man now, and I wouldn’t make that same mistake today. I’m sorry, Callie. I’m so fucking sorry, but…” How did he get through to her? “You have to let it go.”
“I’m trying. Do you think I want to feel all this…this anger?” She turned away from him, and he watched her features settle into something new. It took her a moment to speak again. “It isn’t anger. It hasn’t been that for a long time.” She sounded defeated. “It’s hurt. I’m so incredibly, overwhelmingly hurt by what you did. I want to let it go. More than anything I want to…flush it all out of me. But I can’t. I just can’t.”
Tears glistened in her eyes, and he couldn’t stand it. He took a step toward her, but she held up a hand to warn him off.
“This meme…the comments…I can’t explain it. I guess it helps to know it’s not just me who can’t let this kind of hurt go. That there are literally hundreds of thousands of people who’ve been damaged in the same way.”
He’d damaged her, the woman he’d loved more than anything or anyone. He had no words, only a blistering wound of remorse. He couldn’t stand the distance—the inability to make her feel better—so he reached out and touched her fingertips. This time, she didn’t jerk away.
They stood so close he could feel her body heat. The pain in her eyes gave way to something else…something hopeful, and his pulse kicked up. Desire burned in his core, and he thought maybe this was the moment he could make things right between them.
Yes, he was angry with her—for not forgiving him, for using the meme for her own gain—but at the same time he just fucking yearned for her. He could see Callie peering at him through Calliope’s eyes, and he needed…he needed her so much his body couldn’t take it.
But when he leaned closer, catching a whiff of her sweet, feminine scent, her expression turned guarded. And so he forced himself to take a step back. She didn’t want him like that.
Drawing in a breath, she reclaimed her composure. “The point is that, without an outlet, a…resolution for the pain, it just lives inside you.” She snatched a few sheets of paper off the table and shook them at him. “These stories free people from the heartache they’ve been living with.”
You don’t need the meme. You just need to give me a chance to fix it. “I hate how I handled it, Callie. I think about it all the time. I would do anything to go back and change how I handled the situation.”
“I believe you, I do. But you can’t change what happened, and putting together this exhibition might give me the closure I need.” As she turned toward the table, taking in the heap of colored paper, the doubt hardened into resolve. “Look, I don’t want to make things worse for you, but I have a very tight timeline here and I have to get back to work. So, if you’d like to grab that taller ladder, that’d be great. Otherwise…” Her chin lifted to the door behind him.
Was she dismissing him? Oh, hell, no. “Because the judge ordered me to, I’ll help you with your museum”—he waited for her response to his word choice and got a nice hit of satisfaction when her nostrils flared and her shoulders tensed—“but you’re getting rid of anything to do with me.” Not waiting for her response, he swept past her to find the janitor’s office.
“This exhibition…”
Her cold, professional tone stopped him cold.
“…is my ticket to the fellowship. And it’s the popularity of the World’s Worst Boyfriend that’s going to get it for me. So if you’re going to have a problem with it, you might want to choose another assignment. Because this is going to happen.”