Chapter 15 Finn
fifteen
Finn
I use the bathroom after Rosie, pulling myself together under the hard spray of a cold shower.
When I said I was a mess for this woman, I wasn’t lying, and now that the line between us has been obliterated, I’ve got a feeling I’ll be spending a lot of time putting the shattered parts of me back in their places, only to go back and be destroyed all over again.
I swing past the kitchen on my way to the loft, dropping a cupful of kibble in Dakota’s bowl before collecting a couple bottles of water, the basket of strawberries in the fridge, and a bag of dark chocolate chips from the pantry.
I pluck a pink wildflower from the mason jar on the dining table, stick it behind my ear, and then precariously balance my bounty as I climb the ladder.
Rosie’s sitting on the bed wrapped up in one of my shirts, which makes the fact that she’s not still naked a little more tolerable.
She stretches out her arms with grabby hands as I proffer her snack. “I’m starving.”
I pluck the flower from behind my ear and tuck it behind hers, then arrange the food on the covers before stretching out beside her. “Thought you might be after that performance.”
Her skin, still glowing from her orgasm, flushes a pretty pink hue. “You were right. Thank you.”
She lifts a strawberry to her mouth, and I’m so mesmerized by her soft lips closing around the tip, then the shape of them as she speaks, that I don’t register her question until she gently pokes my shoulder.
“Finn? Are you listening?”
“Hm?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask me anything.”
“But will you answer?”
“Rosie.” I hold another berry to her lips and wait until she sinks her teeth into it. “After what we just did, there’s not a shot in hell I’ll deny you anything.”
It’s terrifying how much I mean those words. How they twist like roots and embed themselves deep in my chest. But by the bright excitement that lights up Rosie’s face, she’s got no idea I just promised to give her everything.
“Why didn’t you tell me you could play the guitar?” she asks.
I’m relieved that of all the pieces of me she could choose to hold up to the light, she starts with the one with the simplest pattern. “Why doesn’t an art student tell Monet he knows how to hold a brush?”
Rosie drops her head, and her eyes soften. “You think I’m Monet?”
“Yes, and in case the analogy wasn’t obvious, I’m the preschooler with his fingers in the paint.”
She shakes her head like I’ve made a bad joke, but I’m serious.
“Can you read music?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“And can you play any other instruments?”
“Nope.”
She hums. “Have you tried?”
“Haven’t had the chance.”
Rosie takes another strawberry from the basket, but she plucks at the leafy green stalk instead of eating the fruit. “Have you ever performed for anyone?”
I take a slug of water, then lie back on the pillows, one hand under my head as I look up at the vaulted ceiling. “I’ve never been on a stage, if that’s what you mean,” I say. “My six-year-old niece, Izzy, is learning trumpet and we’ve had some jam sessions.”
I smile to myself at the idea that our lessons could be called jams, but she loves them and so do I. Rosie catches the curve on my lips, and her mouth mirrors mine with a curious smile.
“We played together at one of our family nights a few months ago,” I add. “And I’ve played with people nearby to listen. In high school, in the military, at home, on the road, but I never cared if people paid attention. I played for me.”
Rosie returns her berry to the others, moves the basket and chocolate to the end of the bed, and then lies down beside me, hands tucked under her cheek as she studies my profile. I’d turn to look at her, too, but it’s easier to be honest with the faded drywall than her eager eyes.
“I love that,” she says. “I didn’t realize how much I missed playing for myself until I started writing here.
I mean, I get time alone to be creative at home, but there are always people waiting and watching—figuratively if not literally.
Fans. Producers. Label execs. Chip.” She sighs.
“It’s been wonderful working on material without any of that outside noise.
It’s like accessing all this untapped inspiration I never even knew was there. ”
Now I turn my head. “I’m glad something positive has come out of this situation.”
Her lips curve up in a gentle smile. “That’s not the only thing.”
The energy between us feels easy and natural, and I reach over to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear.
“Finn?” she says.
“Yeah?”
“Would you play something for me?”
My muscles tense. A reflex action, but the near memory of Rosie on my bed, head tossed back, breasts bare, legs open and her hands everywhere, softens me again within seconds.
Rosie performed for me. She was vulnerable when I asked her to be, and as uncomfortable as I am at the idea of Rosie being disappointed in my musical aptitude, I can’t ask her to trust me with the things that scare her if I don’t trust her in return.
“Sure,” I say. “Let me get my guitar.”
I disappear into the closet and go first for the Martin, but on second thought choose Mom’s Hummingbird.
If Rosie is surprised by my choice, she gives no sign of it as I settle into the armchair in the corner and set the instrument on my thighs.
I test the strings and tweak them until I’m satisfied with the tuning.
On the bed, Rosie rolls over to watch me but remains lying against the pillows, and I’m grateful she’s at least pretending to have low expectations about what comes next.
I play the first song that comes to mind.
It’s an acoustic track that was all over the radio in the nineties and one of the first songs my mom taught me.
She loved it, so I loved it. I play the introduction, the chords coming to me with the benefit of fifteen years of muscle memory, and at the first verse, I start to sing.
I don’t mean to. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until the chorus, and by then there’s no point in stopping.
I play the song through to the end, eyes closed the way they always are even though my mom constantly reminded me to open them.
I play and I sing, and I almost forget Rosie’s watching.
That’s how good it feels to be wrapped in music. Playing. Singing. Being.
As the last notes fade into silence, I open my eyes, a little dismayed that the song passed so quickly, but then I notice Rosie’s expression. It’s soft and sweet and… sad? Yeah, sad. There’s a single tear rolling down her cheek.
“I’m sorry.” I set the guitar against the wall. “That wasn’t what you’re used to. You don’t have to pretend—”
“Finn?”
She rises to her knees, scoots to the end of the bed, and reaches out her hand. I get up and take it, looking down into her eyes, and she squeezes my fingers tight enough to almost hurt.
“You’re good,” she says. “You’re really good.”
My smile is self-conscious and a little disbelieving. “That’s generous of you but—”
“Shut up,” she says, and my brows climb high. “I wouldn’t insult you with empty praise, so don’t insult me by assuming I’d lie to you about your talent. And you do have talent. You’re good, Finn. Better than good, and I loved it.”
I glance at the guitar against the wall. “Thank you.”
“So you read music,” she says slowly, almost thinking out loud. “And you play it. Do you write it?”
I narrow my eyes at the sparkle in hers.
It feels like wearing too tight a sweater to be so open about this part of my life, but the delight in Rosie’s smile makes it impossible to be closed off.
It’s odd. Almost everyone in my life takes my quiet solitude as given.
A personality quirk. They let it go and I’m grateful for that, but Rosie won’t let it go, and I never thought I’d be grateful for that too.
“I write,” I confess. “Or I used to. I haven’t written anything in a long time.”
Rosie opens her mouth, then closes it again with a snap. I can see the question hovering there still, in the twitch of her cupid’s bow and the fidgeting in her fingers under mine.
“You want to read something?” I guess with apprehension.
I won’t say no, but sharing my own music is nowhere near the same as covering a tune already validated with decades of radio play.
And I’ve never shared that part of myself with anyone before.
Vulnerability does not fit me well, but I’d be a creep and a hypocrite if I didn’t give as much of myself to Rosie as she’s already given to me.
Rosie drops her head to one side and increases the pressure in her grip.
“No, Finn. That’d be like asking to read your diary, and I’d never do that.
I was wondering if there’s anything you’re ready to share.
It could be a melody or a chorus or an idea…
It’s okay if the answer is no, but I’d be honored to hear it. ”
I dart a look at my mom’s guitar again and ask myself if there’s anything I want to lift from that notebook hidden in my dresser and finally give wings.
My head says no but a persistent kind of expectation makes my stomach tighten.
There is something that deserves to be more than black inky scribbles on a lined white page.
There’s someone who deserves to be more.
With a small nod, I drop Rosie’s hands and collect the guitar, but this time I sit on the edge of the bed, predicting that once I get started, I’ll need her close by to get through it.
With a hesitant strum and a second thought that flits through my head so fast that it barely registers, I set my fingers on the fret, play the strings with a light-as-air plucking motion, and sing.
The music is supposed to feel stirring and ethereal, delicate and hushed to encourage a listener to lean in and hear it. And when they do, the words follow, full of heartbreak and desolation, frustration and guilt. Surrender and acceptance that some of us will always be haunted by regret.