Chapter 28
I’m lugging suitcases and giant boxes of my belongings down the stairs, wishing I would’ve taken my phys ed teachers a little
more seriously when they talked about the importance of muscle mass. I may have spaghetti arms now, but by the time I set
up in my dorm at Northwestern, I’ll be jacked.
When I reach the front foyer, I catch a glimpse of my parents seated in the living room.
“No, no, don’t get up,” I say sarcastically, out of breath. “I’ve got this.”
“Can you come in here, Tinkerbell?” my dad says, ignoring my tone.
Oh, lord. They’re finally going to announce their divorce, I think, slightly stressed about fitting everything into my car.
I flop onto the couch. I’ve been home for a month, and in that time, I’ve filled my days with volunteering at the library and working on my manuscript (I’m closing in on the third act; I just haven’t decided how it should end).
What I haven’t done is spend much time with my parents.
Looking at them now, I can see how tired they both are, the worry in their eyes.
“I’m going to be okay, you know,” I say preemptively, just in case this isn’t a we’re-getting-divorced talk and it’s actually
a please-be-a-responsible-college-student talk.
“We know you will be,” my dad says.
“You’re going to be more than okay,” my mom adds.
It hits me in this moment that, as much as I’m ready to have my independence and get away from the toxic dynamic between the
two of them, I’m going to miss my parents. For all their faults—for all the ways they pushed me to grow up faster than I should’ve,
for the ways I was forced into being organized and structured because they didn’t have their shit together as people or as
a couple—they did their best and they love me.
“What’s this about, then?” I ask, since they’re both fidgeting, exchanging looks.
There’s a pause before my dad speaks. “We weren’t there for you when everything happened with Dean and Gigi,” he says slowly.
“And we—”
“But that’s because you didn’t tell us about it,” my mom interjects.
My breath catches in my chest. I wasn’t expecting this. I knew my mom would eavesdrop. Since thinking about Gigi and Dean doesn’t sting anymore, I’m basically just caught off guard. But then a frustration I’ve been bottling up about all this explodes out of me.
“It’s hard to tell you two about stuff when you won’t stop complaining about each other to me,” I point out.
“Well—”
Whatever excuse my mom is about to give me, I’m too tired for it. I love her and she needs to hear this.
“You two have a lot of great qualities,” I say evenly. “But I have to carry all my baggage and yours some days. You both rely on me as your sounding board, I’m the person you vent to. That isn’t fair, especially since
I am very much in the middle of you two.” When neither one of them responds, I add, “Scotland gave me a break from all that
and made me realize I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t want to be the one in charge of keeping you two together.”
My dad swallows hard, and my mom’s face goes pink. I’ve hurt them. It’s unpleasant. It also feels necessary.
“I’m not your marriage counselor,” I tell them. “I’m your daughter. I love you both and I need you two to figure things out
while I’m away this year.”
They still aren’t speaking, whether it’s because they’re shocked or ashamed, I don’t know.
Because I’m not a total monster, I give them each a hug and tell them I love them.
Then I go back to the task of hauling all the stuff from my room and the kitchen supplies I’ll need to the front door.
They stop me at the entryway to the kitchen.
My dad takes the box containing a mash-up of random dishes, cutlery, and a couple of small appliances out of my hands. My mom comes in for an awkward hug.
“I’m so sorry, sweetness,” she says, giving my back a rub.
My dad wraps his arms around my mom and me and says, “We both are.”
I let them hold us all together like that for a beat before I say, “So what are we going to do about this dysfunction?”
My parents exchange a look. I don’t know what I’m expecting them to say. That they’ll give counseling another try? That they’ll
divorce? That they’ll have an open marriage and I should be expecting larger Thanksgiving gatherings from here on out?
Finally, my dad speaks. “I don’t know. I really don’t.”
Mom takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. Addressing only him, she says, “Maybe it’s okay to not know.”
I sigh. These two bozos are lovable, despite everything. Maybe it really is okay for them not to know now. “Tell me when you
figure it out, will you?”
“You’ll be the first to know,” my mom says.
A weight I’ve had on my back for years lifts. I told them a truth, they told me a truth. It’s enough for now.
“Let me go get my outdoor shoes and I’ll give you a hand taking all this stuff to the car,” my dad says.
“So will I,” my mom says.
They’re clearly feeling guilty. I can’t say they don’t deserve to.
I lift one of the bigger tubs of clothes, knowing I should probably put it in my car first and pack around it. I manage to
push the handle on the front door and pull it open. And then I drop the tub of clothes on my feet because Finn is on my doorstep.
Finn.
Is on.
My doorstep.
“What are you—why are you—when did you—why are you—” Words won’t come out, but, embarrassingly, hot tears flow freely. I’ve
missed him more than I’ve allowed myself to acknowledge. Plus, I just really hurt my toes by dropping the tub on them.
“My American Hannah,” he says, his voice soft, sad. “I’m sorry for surprising you like this. Are your feet okay?”
“They’re fine,” I say, having no idea if they are. I may have ten broken toes and not know it because Finn is on my doorstep.
Finn’s fidgeting; he’s more nervous than I’ve ever seen him. He clears his throat. “I’ve recently spoken to Caro, and she
said you were heading off to uni. I wanted to catch you before you got there.”
“Why?” I ask, still in shock. My body is buzzing, and my mind is blank, and I can’t help but think this must surely be a dream.
“Well . . .” He scratches the back of his neck. “Once you get there, you’ll be surrounded by beefy footballers and academic
charmers.”
A small laugh escapes my lips. I’m desperate to reach out, to grab him and hold him and not let him go. But there’s nothing
about us that makes sense. Nothing’s changed in that regard.
“So anyway,” he goes on. He clasps his hands together, probably so he’ll stop fidgeting. “I’ve had several chats with members
of your fan club, determining whether showing up here was a good idea or the most terrible idea in the history of Great Britain—”
“Good idea. It’s a good idea,” I interject. That grants me a crooked, albeit still nervous, smile. “Wait, who’s in my fan
club?”
“I don’t mean to inflate your ego, but pretty much everyone you met whilst in Scotland. Bethany, Mhairi, Callum; Caro and
Duffie of course; and Ethel and Beverly; and my sister Poppy; and Tina . . . shall I go on?”
“Tina’s a fan of mine?” I try to remember her reaction when I hugged her. It wasn’t particularly warm.
“She is. In fact, she told me a very interesting story about a chat she had with you mere moments before you fled the castle.” He looks down at his feet.
When he lifts his face, his eyes are shining with tears.
“She felt quite bad about it, actually. She thought she was doing both of us a favor, but after seeing me absolutely shattered and talking to me about my feelings for you, she wanted me to pass along a message.”
“Really?”
“I believe her exact wording was ‘I was wrong, Hannah, buck the system.’ ” He tilts his head. “This is rather impressive as it is the first time in history that Tina has ever admitted to being
wrong about something.”
I let the words and all my feelings stretch between us like taffy, waiting for something to snap. He’s here. He’s here. I can only imagine how much trouble he must be in.
“Do your parents know what you’re doing right now?” I ask.
“My parents have an idea. Speaking of which, I can see yours are obviously aware I’m here.” He looks over my shoulder and
waves. “Hello, Hannah’s parents. I’d love to meet you properly; I just have to convince your radiant daughter to take me back
first.”
Without looking back, I step outside and close the door behind me. I want to wrap my arms around him, but I’m too scared.
Instead, I sit on the stoop. Finn sits down beside me, his palm up. I can take his hand if I want to. I really want to.
But.
“I can’t be a fling for you,” I tell him.
“I don’t want a fling. Clearly. I mean, I did just fly across the Atlantic.”
“Yes, that’s an excellent point. I live in the US, and you live in the UK.”
“Flying is very affordable for me,” he says. “I’m voracious about collecting travel points.”
I leave that one because I’m not sure if he’s teasing or how finances work for him when he wants to go somewhere or buy things.
I move on to the most insurmountable issue.
“You’re a prince. You’re supposed to be with someone special.”
“You are someone special,” he says softly.
“You know what I mean.”
He sighs and takes away his outstretched hand, rubbing both palms against his slacks. “Do you remember the first time you
rode Rosie?”
I nod, recalling how incredible it was to face a lifelong fear and experience the thrill, the freedom, of riding. He was patient
with me and kind. That was the first day I knew there was so much more to him than staggering good looks and charisma.
“You trusted me enough to face your fear. That was the moment my crush on you turned into something more, something deeper.
And I promise—if you place your trust in me again, I won’t let you down.”
The look in his eyes somehow gives me chills and makes me melt all at the same time. He means every word, I can tell.
I know what I want. I know what I need to do to have it.
“Finn?” I say.
“Hannah?” he replies, worry etched all over his face.
I put my hand out between us, my palm up. I’m wordlessly asking him to take my hand. He doesn’t hesitate and soon his warm
hand is engulfing mine. He brings it up to his lips to kiss it.
“I have a lot of things I want to tell you.” I lean my head on his shoulder. “I want you to know how much I’ve missed you
and how I’ve thought about you every day, every night, and—”
“Hold on,” he says, his voice dipping low. “Let’s not skip over the part about you thinking about me every night.”
I smile and lift my face to look at him. “But most of all, I want to tell you that I’m in love with you.”
He reaches out to brush my hair from my face so that he can press soft kisses to my cheek, my temple, my forehead, my nose,
and finally my lips. The kiss is full of desire, of promises. It’s sweet and powerful all at once and I can’t remember why
I ever thought I could live without this person.
When we reluctantly pull apart, he says, “In case that reaction muddled things, I’m very much in love with you too.”
“So what do we do about that?” I ask him, internally soaring even though I’m still scared of the unknown.
“We figure it out together.”
“Together,” I agree.
There, sitting on the porch, hand in hand with the sweetest boy I’ve ever known, I already know that the messiness to come
will be worth it for him, for me. For us.