5. Finn
Finn
S he says it so plainly, I almost don’t catch it.
Today was supposed to be my wedding day.
That’s not something you expect to hear from a girl sitting barefoot on your porch with a borrowed blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
I don’t know what to say at first. My brain scrambles to connect what I’m seeing with what she just said.
This girl—quiet, anxious, polite to the point of disappearing—is a runaway bride.
“Shit,” I say, because it’s the only word that surfaces. “That’s heavy.”
She laughs. Or tries to. It comes out half-formed, like it surprises her on the way up. Still, the sound eases the tension that’s surrounded us since her confession.
I don’t move, just stay where I am, leaning against the porch rail, watching the trees.
“You run?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Yes.”
I nod. “Did he hurt you?”
She shakes her head slowly. “No. Well, not physically.”
“Were you in some kind of danger?”
“No,” she says, and the word is softer this time. “He never touched me without permission. He never even yelled. He didn’t have to.”
I don’t interrupt. I’ve learned not to fill the silence when someone’s trying to figure out what they need to say out loud. And I think she has more to get out.
“It wasn’t fear. Not the way people think. He wasn’t cruel exactly. He was...formal. Kind, in the way that gets praised at dinners and family gatherings. My parents love him.”
“But you don’t. Love him, I mean.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t even like him.”
Her voice isn’t bitter. Not exactly. It sounds like the kind of tired that doesn’t come from just one sleepless night.
“Then why were you marrying him?”
Her eyes stay on the tree line. “It’s how things work.
At least in my family. I’m Armenian. First generation.
My parents were born there. They moved here before I was born, but they never stopped carrying that world with them.
My parents were raised with the idea that love comes after the wedding, not before.
That marriage is about matching families, not hearts.
“And I was raised to never question them. There’s a sense of pride that comes with our culture, but it was also really hard. My whole life was built around who I was supposed to be, not who I actually am. It’s family over everything.”
Her voice shifts a little on that last word. Not bitter, not angry—just resigned.
She finally looks over at me, and I don’t move. I don’t want to do anything that might make her uncomfortable.
“It turns out I was the only one making sacrifices in the name of family. Everyone else just expected me to keep falling on the sword for their sake.”
I let that settle for a minute. The morning air is still cool. The sun climbs higher, reaching past the trees now, spreading light across the slope.
“The marriage was arranged. He‘s a family friend and he checked all the boxes. That was that.”
“Did you try to talk to them?” I ask.
Her laugh is quieter this time. “I tried.” She pauses, tucking her feet up onto the step.
“They said I was lucky. That girls with choices always end up miserable. That women who waited for feelings ended up alone or divorced. They said he would take care of me, give me a good life. That being provided for was love. That I’d understand once I stopped being selfish. ”
I study her profile. Her jaw is tight, but her eyes are sad.
“Was he older?” I ask.
She nods. “Only by a few years, though. He was well-educated. Successful. Clean-cut. All the things they said mattered.”
“But not the things that mattered to you.”
Her mouth presses into a line, and I see the truth of it settle behind her eyes.
She exhales slowly. “No.”
I stay quiet and let her continue.
“Marrying him would have been a slow kind of death. One where I watched myself disappear year by year, pretending it was enough. Smiling in photos. Hosting dinners. Having babies on command. I could already see the timeline stretched in front of me, and there wasn’t a single part of it that I chose. ”
I nod once. Not because I know exactly how that feels, but because I understand what it means to see your life playing out in front of you without your hand on the wheel.
Ani shifts, and the blanket slips down her arm, and she pulls it back up.
“I’ve…I’ve never chosen a single thing for myself.”
That admission seems to gut her more than the rest.
“My parents made every decision for me. It was just expected that I’d follow their rules.
I was raised to follow instructions. To know my place.
Every hour of my day was scheduled. Every outfit picked to send the right message.
They chose my school, my major, even my sorority.
When I said I wanted to study languages, they said that was impractical.
That good girls study business. I’d be more helpful to my husband that way. ”
She pauses, staring out past the trees.
“I thought that was normal. That if I followed the plan, the rest would come. That I’d learn to be happy eventually. But I wasn’t even living. I was only doing what they wanted me to.”
She takes in a long deep breath and exhales slowly.
“I didn’t agree with them. But I didn’t push back either. I told myself it wasn’t a big deal. One compromise, then another. Until it stopped feeling like compromise and started just feeling normal.”
I keep my eyes on her and nod. Letting her know I hear her.
“I’ve never lived alone. I went from my parents’ house to my sorority house and back. I’ve never had a job. I don’t even know how to rent an apartment, or buy a car.”
I lean back on the rail, letting my arms rest across the top. “You’re not alone in that. Most people learn that stuff as they go.”
She lets out a soft muffled sound.
“It’s more than that. I’ve been so sheltered and controlled. I’ve never dated. I’ve never been kissed. I’ve never had sex. I’ve never even had an orgasm.”
Her eyes go wide. She slaps both hands over her mouth.
“Oh my god,” she says through her fingers. “I didn’t mean to say that.”
I do everything in my power not to laugh. Not because it’s funny, not really, but because the sheer horror on her face says it all.
She groans and sinks forward, pressing her forehead to her knees. “Can we pretend I didn’t say that?”
I clear my throat, trying to keep my expression neutral. “Sure. But for the record, you’re not the only one.”
She peeks out at me, cheeks flaming. “You mean?—”
“I mean you’re not the only person who’s made it this far without figuring out their own body,” I say carefully. “You’ve been living in survival mode. That doesn’t leave a lot of room for pleasure.”
She blinks, then nods, still clearly mortified.
I wait until she looks up again before I speak. “You’re not broken, Ani. You’ve just never been allowed to explore who you are. But you’re here now. And you get to decide what comes next.”
She exhales through her nose and drops her head back against the porch rail behind her.
“God,” she mutters. “I ran away from a wedding and now I’m talking about orgasms with a stranger.”
I laugh this time. I can’t help myself.
“I always thought I’d figure it out later. When I was married. When I had a husband who could help. That was the plan.”
Silence stretches between us again, but it feels easier this time. Lighter.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” she says, more to herself than to me. “It’s not even noon and you already know more about me than most of my friends.”
I shrug. “People talk to me. I’m not sure why. But I just try to stay quiet and listen.”
“You are easy to talk to…thank you.” She looks away again like she’s bashful about what she just said. I think back to the conversation Boone, Jonah and I had last night, and I’m absolutely certain this girl is not a threat in any way.
She’s beautiful, but not in the polished way she probably spent her life being told to be. Olive skin, thick brows that frame her eyes. Her features are classic, but there’s nothing fake about it. No gloss. No showiness.
Her long, dark hair’s a little messy from sleep, falling out of a braid that didn’t survive the night. Her cheeks are still flushed from the cold, and there’s a crease on one side of her face where she must’ve pressed into the pillow.
And she’s still stunning.
“For what it’s worth, I think you made the right call,” I say.
She blinks once, then twice, like maybe she didn’t expect me to say that.
“I didn’t even leave with a plan,” she admits. “Just a bag and a stolen car and the hope that running would feel better than staying.”
“You’re still here,” I say. “Which tells me it is.”
She gives a slow nod. Then she looks down at her hands, working one thumb across the other. “I don’t know what comes next.”
“You don’t have to know,” I say gently.
She looks over again, this time with something close to belief in her eyes. Not trust. Not yet. But belief that maybe, for once, no one’s waiting to push her back into a neat and tidy box she doesn’t want to be in.
“You’re not the first to show up on this porch with your life burning down around you,” I say, kicking gently at a loose board on the step. “And you won’t be the last.”