SEVEN
Finn
“I’m sorry, but this is ridiculous.” Maeve should be excited, but instead she just sounds stressed. “Since when do podcasters get to go to the Met Gala? That has never happened. Did your mom set this up?”
“Um, no. Maybe now that they’re dropping movie money on us, we get that movie star treatment.”
Maeve is right. Our episode with my mom was the most listened to episode ever on Streamify. All of her famous actress friends shared it on social, it went mega viral, and we’ve been at number one in the ratings ever since. We usually do well. Really well, like top three or top five. But not most listened to ever well.
Now, there is no way Streamify is even going to considering axing the show. In fact, they want to pour money into PR for it, and their first big idea was sending the two of us to the Met Gala for one of our mandated events together. And these aren’t side entrance Met Gala tickets … we get to walk the carpet. We’re under strict orders to ‘act like we like each other’ and not to confirm or deny a relationship, despite Maeve’s vehement protests and declaration that she wants the world to know she is not with me. Derek wants to play up the speculation, and said that when we’re ready to talk about our not relationship on the show we can be honest. Until now, we do the mandated monthly appearances and lean into this gray area of almost (but not quite) fake dating.
I’ll take it.
We’re in the car that’s taking us to the hotel, where we each have separate glam teams to get us ready. Or, rather, Maeve has a glam team and I have a groomer, the decidedly creepy name Hollywood uses for men’s glam artists so we don’t feel emasculated. “Think about it like this. We get to go to the Met Gala. How awesome! It’ll be fun even though I have to spend time with my cohost, whom I hate. Maybe I’ll hate him less after a few drinks. How’s that?”
Maeve turns completely away from me and stares out the window. “I feel like we’re on Punk’d . There’s no way this is real.”
“Maeve, come on. I know you felt overlooked growing up and all, but now you’re the star. Can’t you just enjoy it?” I sigh loudly, exasperated. I know Maeve isn’t being a brat; she’s genuinely suspicious that she was invited. But she needs to start realizing that she’s creeping closer to being a true celebrity every day. I just want her to enjoy this.
Maeve inhales and exhales slowly, and when she speaks, I can tell it’s through gritted teeth. “My childhood isn’t for you to talk about anymore, Finn. I have anxiety, and I can’t always control when I feel anxious. I know it’s not always rational.”
Now I feel like a total asshole. Maeve is still staring out the window, leaning as far away from me as possible, but she doesn’t realize I can see her reflection in the tinted glass. Her mouth is tight with tension, and I wish I could lean over and ki—I need to get myself in check. “We’re at the Met Gala because you made an incredible show, our episode knocked it out of the park, and Streamify arranged tickets to capitalize on the publicity. That’s it.” I take care to soften my tone in hopes she actually believes I’m being genuine and it alleviates some of her anxiety-induced imposter syndrome.
She doesn’t respond. But I do see her shoulders relax slightly.
We’re still not speaking when we get to the hotel, and although our suites are adjoining, I hear Maeve test then engage the lock on the communicating door as soon as we enter our rooms. After a few minutes, “Karma” by Taylor Swift starts blaring, and I know she’s freaking out. She never leans on other people, as though if she does everything alone and doesn’t let anyone know when she’s struggling she’ll somehow earn bonus points. I know if I knock on the door, she’ll refuse to open it, or open it just so she can slam it in my face again. But I want to be there for her. I need to find a way for us to get ready together so I can build her up a bit before we’re thrown onto the red carpet and she gets really anxious.
I pull out my phone and dial Lavender, our head stylist. She’s also my mom’s stylist, but happily, Streamify is footing the bill for her tonight. She’s in charge of the glam team, made up of makeup artists, hair stylists and groomers, and I’m hoping I can work something out with her.
“Finn, is everything all right?” It sounds like Lavender is in the middle of a spin class. Or at a concert. Music is blaring and I can tell she’s screaming into her headphones. I can vaguely hear someone in the background telling her phones aren’t allowed.
“Hey! Yes, well, kind of. I was just wondering if you could cancel my groomer?”
Lavender laughs at me and ignores the continued requests to put away her phone from the person who I am now sure is a spin instructor. “No. You’re cute, but not that cute. Listen, all men wear makeup at these events. It’s normal! Ask your dad—”
“No, no, I’m fine with the makeup. I just … I want to get ready with Maeve. And if my person canceled and we have to share, then I can get ready in her suite.” I can hear how pathetic I sound. But I don’t care. I’ve used up my lifetime quota of not being there for Maeve, and now I need to be there even though she’s mad at me.
“Are you ten? Just ask her to glam together.”
“I pissed her off in the car; she’ll say no. Please? You could even just put the groomer in her room and say he’s a stylist so he doesn’t lose the work, and we’ll all just pretend some imaginary other groomer canceled. And I’ll double everyone’s tips. And post! On Instagram, TikTok, YouTube, wherever and whatever pictures you choose.” I’m laying it on thick. But her silence means it’s working.
“You’re lucky your mom is my best client,” Lavender grumbles. “One minute!” she yells suddenly, to the instructor. “I paid to be here! Relax! Frowning creates premature wrinkles.” Then her attention is back on me. “Listen, I’ll be there in an hour and on your behalf I’ll ask Maeve if you can join her glam party if she’s comfortable with that. And if she says no, your groomer is back in your room and I tell her the whole deal. Fair?”
“Fair. Thank you!”
An hour later, it turns out Maeve still has enough of a soft spot for me, and our mutually assured good press, to let me into her room. I’ve gone to enough events with my mom to know that the pre-event glam is the real party. But this is Maeve’s first celebrity event, and I want to make sure she has at least some fun.
Lavender has set up stations in Maeve’s suite, two for hair and makeup since I’m there too, one for mani-pedis, although I’m totally crashing that, and then the dress and shoes that Maeve selected back in LA are hanging in a garment bag. I don’t know what the dress looks like, but I do know that it’s her classic red, since the theme of this year’s gala is camp, and we’ve dressed to evoke classic slasher films. And, presumably, sex, lipstick, romance, all that, since we’re us and Streamify wants to hit the world over the head with the fact that we’re a sex show.
“Wow … this is a lot.” Maeve and I are both in fluffy white robes, and she’s surveying the room with wide eyes. Her gaze is half fear, half anticipation, and I want it to be all excitement.
I walk over to the black chair, which I assume is mine, and plop into it. “Remember in college, when the pregame was the best part of going out?”
“Finn, the pregame is still the best part of going out. I hate going out.”
If this were a year ago, I’d pull her into my lap and we’d take a goofy video for our fans. Now, she’s hovering three feet away from me. “Mmmm true, good thing tonight we’re actually working. You love working.”
This actually gets a smile out of her. “Good thing.”
I can’t imagine what my life would be like now if I hadn’t gone to college and met Maeve. I went to Carnegie Mellon completely on a whim, because Pittsburgh sounded like such a random city where no one would care that I was Evangeline Sutton’s son. It also had an incredible theater program, so I thought that maybe , if it seemed like I flew under the radar enough, I could act. Just for fun. Low stakes (no stakes really), totally for fun, not in a professional way at all. Just acting. Of course, it didn’t exactly work out like that. Apparently, even in Pittsburgh I look too much like my mom to fly under the radar, and I dropped out of the acting program the first week of school. But it didn’t bother me because, for the first time in my life, I had met people like Maeve, who—even though they knew who my mom was—didn’t care. And for four years I got to act almost normal, so long as I stayed away from the theater kids who were desperate for an introduction to my parents. And most importantly, over the years I broke through Maeve’s guardrails and got to know her. Which is why it’s so frustrating that in the space of a few months I undid years of history.
Lavender sweeps into the room and, just like that, what could have become a moment is swept away. But Lavender is ready to pump everyone up and her energy is contagious. “Maeve, thank you so much for being flexible. You’re an angel! With cheekbones to die for, I might add. Now let’s get this party started!”
She pops a bottle of champagne and pours for each of us, while her assists turn music on and start setting out their tools. Maeve and I sit next to each other in the chairs and Lavender turns to us. “So, tonight. Go big or go home, right? You two are stunning together, you complement each other so well, especially in the outfits we’ve put together for you. We’ll start with hair for Maeve, so it can set, while we prep your skin and do Maeve’s nails.” Lavender eyes my expression. “Both of your nails,” she amends. “And I do have one special request from Derek …” Maeve and I glance at each other, already knowing what it is. “Maybe some fun content? Getting ready? Something? Anything?”
I look to Maeve. This is our contractually mandated appearance for the month, so while the extra videos are technically a request … they’re really a command. “Fine,” she agrees. “But let’s get this started for real.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Tequila?”
She nods. “Tequila.” We’ve taken and shared approximately a million and one videos together taking tequila shots before going out, during particularly graphic episodes, and at bars with fans. We always cross arms and give them to each other, so close that if we turned a few inches to the side we’d be kissing. More often than not, I’d wrap her in a bear hug after, and she’d lean into me, and it would feel—“Finn! Take the cup.”
Maeve is waving the shot glass in my face. Lavender takes a video as we stand in our robes and cross arms. I haven’t been this close to her in months. I could count her eyelashes, which are impossibly long, but almost totally blond. Back in college she wouldn’t leave the dorms without mascara, but once we moved to New York and started hanging there she got more comfortable with going au naturel.
I lock eyes with Maeve, and it feels like time stops for a moment. We should be throwing back the shots, laughing, acting, hamming it up for the camera. But for a second, it feels like both our guards are down, and there’s no animosity clouding the air between us. I want to kiss her. I don’t want to kiss anyone else who isn’t her ever again. I want to hold her and love her and build her up every day. I don’t think I’ll be able to go on without her.
“Ready?” Maeve whispers, so quietly the phone won’t be able to pick it up over the music that’s blaring.
“Always. But Maeve … you deserve all this, okay? Try to remember that tonight. Unlike me, or almost everyone else on the carpet, you earned it.”
Her eyes never leave mine. She blinks, and I can see the veins on her eyelids, the stray hairs that will soon be plucked between her brows, the flush of her cheeks since we’ve already had half a glass of champagne, or maybe because we’re this close. She doesn’t respond to what I said. Because I’m the asshole that says shit like that after making her feel like she wasn’t special at all. Instead, she just counts down. “Three, two, one.” And we take the shots.
The next three hours pass in a rush of hairspray and nail polish fumes, makeup, champagne, and laughter. Lavender and her team do a great job of making the lengthy experience fun, and Maeve and I endure some good-hearted teasing about early episodes of the show. Maeve and her hairstylist bond over being from outside of Pittsburgh, and by the time we’re done with the hair, face, and body styling, everyone has shared about their love lives but us. And they’ve clearly been instructed not to ask, probably by my mom via Lavender.
I go back into my room to change into my outfit, which is a play on a classic tux, but with red creeping up the sleeves. When Maeve is ready, Lavender knocks three times on the connecting door, and I walk back in. My jaw drops.
Maeve is wearing a Carrie -inspired outfit, which suddenly makes my own outfit make a lot more sense. Her dress has a pale pink base, but the top is red and it drips down, almost like blood, but classy and artistic. Her hair is styled as if it’s wet, which I had found strange but didn’t comment on, and now it all clicks. It’s slicked back to be reminiscent of Carrie’s after the blood poured down on her. And her lipstick is a bold red.
“I was thinking of one finishing touch,” Lavender explains before I can say anything. “It’s a bit ‘out there’ … but I was thinking Maeve could kiss your cheek. And leave the lipstick imprint there.”
Maeve looks surprised. Before she can answer I jump in to say something about her dress. “Maeve, you look amazing. Truly. You were made to take over the Met Gala, clearly. Whatever you think on the kiss.”
She cocks her head. “Let’s do it.” She walks up to me, reasonably steady in her heels, but still only coming up to my shoulder. She places a hand on my arm to steady herself, and I catch her lower back.
“Is this okay?” I ask, my voice low.
She nods. And then arches her neck up toward me, clearly going in for the kiss. I’m frozen, not turning my head away to give her my cheek like I should for this. The last time we were this close … How could I have thrown it away? Maeve reaches up with her other hand and turns my face for me, cupping my jaw gently with soft hands. She plants a firm kiss on my cheek, then leans back to inspect her handiwork.
“You outshine the red too.”