TEN
Maeve
It shouldn’t feel so good to pretend things are normal with Finn. That what we were doing was ever normal. But as we pose on the Met Gala steps and cameras are flashing and people are shouting and I should be panicking … all I really notice is the feel of his palm on my back. The warm weight of it is quietly reassuring, in a way that I only ever feel with him.
I look up toward him. “Thanks for doing all this with me.”
I know he doesn’t need to. Didn’t ever need to. The only reason I can think of that he stayed with the show (since after last summer, I know it wasn’t for me like I’d secretly hoped) is that doing the show scratched the creative itch I know he has. He’s tried to suppress his creative drive for the novelty of a normal life, but I know it’s in there somewhere, because when I was looking for a charger at his apartment one day, I found a whole drawer of annotated scripts. No one acts as masterfully and joyfully as he did at nine years old just to never think about doing it again.
Finn looks down toward me. His height makes me feel both dainty and protected by him. I always said height didn’t matter. It’s not a deal-breaker. But with him, it definitely adds. “Don’t be ridiculous. I should be thanking you. Sub me out for any other guy with half a brain and decent looks, and Maeve, you’d still be here.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that.”
“Kiss! Kiss!” a few people have started yelling. “Can you confirm or deny your relationship?”
I raise an eyebrow at Finn, and he smiles mischievously back. This might be the tequila talking, but I know we’re both thinking it— game on . He leans down as though he’s going to ravish me with a dramatic kiss … and then stops short, to whisper in my ear. “I would.”
We make it through the rest of the red carpet, pictures, interviews, and press, with minimal fanfare. After all, there are people like supermodel Karli and the most decorated actress ever, Sandra Streap, here. We’re a fun moment, but they’re famous famous. Inside, we accept cocktails and meander through a gorgeous exhibition of blown glass in vivid colors. After the gala, the exhibition will be open to the public, but right now I’m getting chills seeing every celebrity I’ve ever watched on my TV or phone screen casually looking at the artwork and mingling in absolutely outrageous outfits.
I see my favorite singer leaning in to read the plaque next to a hot pink sculpture, and I almost drop my drink. How did I end up here? Suddenly I feel Finn’s hand on my exposed back and jump.
“You’re staring,” he whispers.
“How are you not !”
I let Finn pull me closer to him, his hand on my hip guiding me as we walk through the exhibit, and tell myself it’s just for show. I can feel his palms sweating, but he’s just overheated in his jacket. He couldn’t be nervous. What has he ever had to be nervous about? And the heat is definitely cranked up in here to accommodate all the women in their provocative and often skin-exposing outfits. Outside, there were space heaters, something that I never realized were there based on the media coverage of the event, but was very grateful for. “You know, this is a social hour. You could talk to them.”
I take a long gulp of my drink. “Maybe right after my personality transplant. Come on, you’re the social one, you go for it. I’ll be fine by myself.”
As much as I still am angry at Finn … I am so relieved when he shakes his head immediately. “I’m not going to leave you at the Met Gala. We’re working tonight, remember? We have to present a united front.”
Of course. That’s why he wouldn’t leave me. I need to stop letting myself believe for even a second that the connection we have is anything. We’re not friends anymore, we’re coworkers. We eventually make it to our table, which has a range of famous people at it. An actor, an NFL player, a singer who’s been nominated for New Artist of the Year, a popular YouTuber, a tennis star and her tech billionaire husband, and us. The Met Gala is famous for seating people strategically, next to people that they might not know they have much in common with, but actually do, so I’m curious to see how our evening will go. We’re set up in the atrium, and although it’s light outside, they’ve made the room dark through overlays on the glass ceiling, giving the entire atrium a reddish tinge. In contrast to that creepy vibe, the place settings are ornate china and lace doilies, while the centerpieces are made of literal Barbies, dressed as each of us in our typical non-Met Gala outfits. It’s creepy and awesome all at once. And I’m definitely snagging my Barbie on the way out.
We’re the first to make it to the table, so rather than be stuck alone with Finn in terse silence or, worse, sparkling conversation that makes me doubt everything, I make my excuses and duck out to the ladies’ room.
I thought that I would be alone in here … but it seems that the reason the atrium is empty, is that everyone is in the bathroom. I have to swallow a gasp when I see an entire reality TV dynasty in front of the mirror touching up their makeup. I subtly pinch my elbow, one of the few places of my body without makeup on it, to make sure I’m not dreaming. I grew up in a lower-class household outside Pittsburgh, where the epitome of luxury was eating out at a restaurant on our birthday. And that restaurant was Primanti Bros, a greasy sandwich shop. My parents poured everything into my sisters’ pageants and soccer fees and MCAT prep, and so there were months where we didn’t even have Wi-Fi in the house, and if I wanted to see the antics of all of the A-listers in this bathroom I’d have to walk to the local library. How did I end up here?
“Maeve!” Syma, the star of a hit HBO show, turns around to look at me. “Oh my god! I’m such a fan of the show!”
“Oh wow!” I smile at her while trying to look around to see if we’re being filmed by someone for an elaborate viral joke. “Thank you so much! I mean, I’m such a fan of your show.”
Then her costar Renee walks out of a stall. “I recognized your voice! I listen every day . I think I memorized your oral sex episode. My fiancé should send you a fruit basket.” Renee was a former Bachelorette contestant—who was famous for her conservative upbringing and waiting for marriage—but left the show alone and ended up engaged to a lesbian pop star and starring in The End of Us with Syma.
“Forget the fruit basket; you two should come on the show!” This is inappropriately bold of me, and as I get a side-eye for my overt so liciting from an actress reapplying her eyeliner, I start to sweat from every pore in my body.
But Renee squeals in delight. “Really! You’re having guests? I assumed it was just Evangeline. But yes, please!”
The excitement on our side of the restroom, and the promises of publicity on our show, gets several more friendly and recognizable faces turned my way. Just as I’m adding the last cell phone number to my phone, which feels like a dangerous game in itself—like, what if I accidentally text How to End a Love Story star Sarah instead of my sister Sarah?—Syma starts motioning everyone in the bathroom toward the mirror.
“Selfie time. We have to do it, it’s iconic.”
The reality TV family immediately position themselves in the front, clearly having been waiting for this moment. Is this why everyone was in the bathroom? For the famous Met Gala mirror selfie? I look behind me for the exit, because I am sure I am not meant to be in this photo, but Renee grabs my arm and tucks me into the front, dead center. The cell phone clicks, airdrops are sent, and suddenly I’m pouring out of the bathroom with all of the most famous women in the world. I look at my phone, half expecting the photo to be gone. Snatched by someone’s publicist from the dark web, so that lowly me, a random girl from PA who has been viral for all of two seconds, can’t post a photo that in any way associates me with the most famous female rapper in the world, who’s giving a sultry pout in the upper right corner, one hand on her pregnant belly. But the photo is there, as are texts from all the women I connected with in the bathroom. My Instagram notifications start going off wildly, because I’ve been tagged in three different photos, and I turn my phone on silent and drop it into my clutch.
I drop into my chair, still in shock, and Finn’s arm is immediately across the back of mine. “Are you okay? You were gone for so long.” His brow is furrowed, and he’s leaning in so close to me I can smell his cologne. When I don’t answer, he grabs a glass of water and pushes it toward me. “We can leave if you want.”
I take a long sip. “I’m fine. But you should really go to the bathroom and start networking. I think I just lined up the next six months of our podcast in there.”
“Ah, I don’t think that’s how it works with guys. But Graham said he’d totally come on.” Finn gestures to the NFL player who is hulking over the table across from us. He nods and gives a small wave. “He needs your advice, like, yesterday.”
I smile at him and extend a hand. “I’m Maeve; it’s great to meet you. I think I may have just booked next week. But how about the following?”
“I’m there.”
The rest of the night passes in a flash, and actually is surprisingly brief. Our publicist from Streamify had warned us it was a quick night because we’d have to get to the after-parties. After the gala ends, Finn and I sneak out and into a car that drives us approximately one block to our hotel, where Lavender and her team are waiting to touch us up and help us into new outfits. We’re no longer dressing for the theme, but we are coordinated. At this point we’re several drinks deep, and this sneaking around and changing clothes feels both thrilling and ridiculous.
When Finn comes out of his room in a completely clear tux, with a hot pink undershirt and pink silk boxers underneath to match my hot pink dress, I can’t help but laugh. “Tell me you picked that.”
“They said it was cool!” he exclaims. “What! I’m taking risks. You know there’s paps outside. Real men wear pink and all.”
“You’re basically in men’s lingerie.” He pouts, then pulls a few poses. Lavender is filming our outfit reactions for social, but unlike earlier, I’m not faking anything. I’m tired of reminding myself to hate Finn and want to enjoy the rest of the night. Even if it will hurt when I’ve sobered up in the morning. “Okay, initial shock aside, I love it. That you’re scantily clad, and I get to be covered up.”
Finn’s gaze rakes up and down my body, and I see him swallow. His voice is hoarse when he speaks. “I don’t know that I’d call that covered up.”
I glance down at my dress. It’s tight, but thin enough to still be comfortable. Which means that my nipples are basically on full display, and the dress shows every curve I have. It’s a two-piece, so a sliver of my stomach is showing, and the monster heels make my legs look amazing. “The important bits are.”
Finn exhales sharply. “I have something for you.” He ducks into his room and returns with a pair of Air Force Ones that match my dress exactly. “Your feet are going to kill you in an hour, if they don’t already. You hate heels.”
I take them, already admiring them. They’re a gorgeous color, and I have a sneaking suspicion he got them custom-made. Which is confirmed when I turn them over and see our logo on the underside. “Finn. These are incredible. But I already look like a hobbit next to all these models and actresses. I don’t know …”
“I know, I know, you’re fun size.” He takes the shoes back from me and ties the laces together, then puts them over his shoulder. “I’ll carry them, just consider them my accessory. And then we can put your heels in the coat check once we’re there, since there are no photos inside. And we’ll match.”
He sticks out his foot, which is clad in an identical pair. Why is he so thoughtful? These shoes shouldn’t be making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. But after the bathroom, I told myself I was going to embrace this, put aside my hurt feelings for the night, and try to just have fun. And so I find myself nodding. Stepping toward Finn and wrapping him in a hug. “Thank you.”
We shouldn’t fit together as well as we do. He’s a giant and I’m barely five feet. But somehow we always click, no matter the height of my shoes. I let my body relax into him, and he cradles the back of my head tenderly. When I pull back, his eyes are moist. “Ready?”
Outside the hotel, cameras flash as we walk hand in hand to the after-party, my sneakers bouncing against his chest. I can feel my smile threatening to crack my face in half, because it feels so nice to be able to be best friends with Finn again, even for a night. I glance at him, and he’s watching me, his smile just as big, and I hope someone got a picture of this moment, because even though it’ll sting when I’ve sobered up and remembered that for him we’re best as friends, I’ll want it.
Inside, it’s nice to have privacy after all of the shouting and flashes on the street. My feet are killing me, so within thirty minutes Finn has checked my heels and I’m dancing my heart out in the sneakers. If I was still in heels, I’d be either sitting or on my way out the door already. The party is somehow even more star-studded than the actual event, because all the celebs who didn’t attend the actual event but still wanted to party are now here. I spot Cassidy on the other side of the room, as well as every supermodel I’ve ever followed, all of my favorite singers and actors, ranging from a newly eighteen-year-old starlet on a CW show to the legacy stars my parents grew up watching. Many of them know who we are, or at least who Finn is, and make a point of saying hi.
But Finn never leaves my side. We dance and snack and take shots with Graham and Renee and dance some more. After a few hours I’m ready to drop, and I follow Finn to a couch in the back room, where a bar has popped up. We collapse onto the couch, and without any discussion, Finn folds me into him and I relax. It feels so good to be tucked against him again; his shirt is soft, and his plastic-y clear tux has long since been discarded after his sweat made it fog up. He leans his head against mine, and I wrap my arm around him and—
I jolt awake. Finn is shaking my shoulder, and around us employees are cleaning up. The venue is completely empty of partygoers, and the music is off. “Maeve, we gotta go. It’s six a.m.”
“You should’ve woken me up,” I murmur.
“You looked too peaceful.”
Finn pulls out his phone and starts tapping away. “Car’s outside.” He helps me up and we walk out. My legs are aching, sore from all the dancing and the hours in heels, and I almost want to ask him to carry me. He’s scooped me up on the way out of countless clubs in New York and frat parties in college, when I was more than done with my heels. The coat check guy is gone, and Finn’s suit and my heels are sitting on the counter. He grabs them and ushers me outside.
You’d think that given that the party is over, all the photographers would be gone. But a lone paparazzo is still standing outside and snaps pictures of us as we walk out. Finn tries to shield me against his side, and given how sweaty and rumpled he looks, I have to imagine I’m just as bad. Maybe we can buy these photos and keep them from going out. But probably not, since it looks like we’re doing a walk of shame after doing something illicit in the venue.
Inside the car the driver hands Finn a bag, and I know the smell instantly. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, but I did.” He’s gotten my favorite hangover food: bagel sandwiches from Russ & Daughters.
“Oh my god, I love you right now.” And then my cheeks light up. We used to say things like that all the time, since we really were friends. But after I said it and meant it … and he didn’t mean it, not really, clearly, I haven’t said it since. Now that the buzz has faded and we’re in the light of day, I feel stupid for thinking I could forget about everything with Finn and be friends like we were. It feels too good . I’ll never be able to move on and get over him if I let him get this close.
Finn can feel the change come over me. When we get to the hotel, he tries to help me out of the car and I brush him off. When we get in the elevator, he presses the button for our floor, then looks at me when the door closes. “I love you too,” he says softly.
“Except you don’t,” I choke out. My eyes are welling with tears. I practically run to my door and open it, refusing to look at him. He follows me, takes his bagel out of the bag, and holds the bag out to me. I snatch it from him and shut the door, desperate to get inside before the real waterworks start.
“Maeve!” I hear him call through the door, and his footsteps pace back and forth for a moment before the door to his room slams shut. I hear the water turn on in his room, and I follow suit.
I strip my sweaty dress off and leave it in a pile on the bathroom floor, then step into the shower and sink to the floor. While the water hits my back and washes the night off me, I start to sob. Being around him, letting myself enjoy it, just reminds me that what we have feels too good. To me it feels like a once-in-a-lifetime connection, but it isn’t for him. So I can’t let him in because doing that will destroy me. I have to protect myself.