TWENTY-ONE
Maeve
I lie on my gorgeous white couch in my murder scene of a living room and touch my lips softly. It was just a kiss. Not even a real kiss. It was a fake kiss for a kiss cam, and we put on a good show for them; it shouldn’t affect me like this. But I can still feel the ghost of the imprint of his lips against mine. And the memory of the confidence with which he pulled me closer to him and held my face to his makes my stomach twinge.
It was an incredible kiss. But that doesn’t mean a thing.
He doesn’t love me. I’m the friend he chills with while he looks for the woman of his dreams. Who he fucks, then forgets about. Who he claims to love then throws away. And he didn’t just sleep with someone, no, that would be easier. He went on a date with his ex to see if he could find something better than us. He wants to be loved by everyone whether or not he loves them back, and bask in a sea of constant adoration. The only reason he’s fighting for mine is because he’s not used to anyone withholding anything from him. But I am not disposable.
I’m just a challenge to him. I repeat it back to myself, just a challenge, just a challenge, just a challenge, until I almost believe it. If that kiss wasn’t seared into my brain it would be a heck of a lot easier.
Just as I’m about to get ready for bed, my phone rings with a FaceTime from my sister.
“Hello?”
Sarah is walking through campus, headphones in, her face scrunched in anger. “Finn is such fucking trash. I’m so sorry, Maeve, he’s disgusting.”
My pulse immediately skyrockets. “What are you talking about?”
Sarah stops walking and behind her a tall boy with a backpack walks directly into her. “Watch where you’re going!”
“You haven’t seen it,” she whispers. “Ughhhh! I’m so sorry. But I’m sending it to you now.”
A moment later I have links to six different TikToks and five Instagram stories in my messages. I watch them one by one, while my sister waits. Within an hour of begging me to talk to him, Finn apparently was having a party in the suite with a bunch of random women he rounded up. They’re dancing, eating the romantic food Graham had sent up for us, leaving lipstick-smeared kisses all over him, and generally having a fantastic time.
All of the air rushes out of me. “I can’t believe this.” The Finn I know has never acted like this. This is an elaborate “fuck you” back, even for him. “What about the kiss cam?”
Sarah winces again as she pulls open the door to her dorm and starts rushing up the stairs to the safety of her room. “Well, it went viral first. And these aren’t … exactly viral. They haven’t hit a mil.”
“Yet,” I correct darkly. I breathe in and out deeply, trying to keep my anxiety at bay. I don’t want to let myself feel betrayed by him. This is why I didn’t want to let him in in the first place. But it feels like everything is crumbling. I try to take another deep breath, but I can’t. It feels like my chest is caving in. I’ve spent the last decade getting my anxiety in check, through therapy, meditation, yoga, everything. But in this moment I don’t think anything is going to help me. And then the doorbell rings.
“Fuck. Is that him?” Sarah sounds panicked. She knows what a journey learning to handle my anxiety has been. “If it is, don’t answer it. Maybe you can do an emergency therapy appointment.”
“Thanks for telling me about this.” I can’t tell if I mean that or if my words are jaded with sarcasm. And based on Sarah’s face when I hang up, she can’t either.
I walk to the door and look out the peephole. Finn is standing there, freshly showered and in a Tell Me How You Really Feel sweat suit, in fact, the same merch I’m currently wearing, with flowers and an apologetic frown on his face. He also looks mildly terrified.
I leave the deadbolt done, but crack the door so I don’t have to yell. “Finn, just leave. Now.” My voice shatters into tears, cutting off my final word. I slam the door shut, not caring if I catch his fingers in it, and slump down to the ground, my back against the door. I try to hold in the sob, holding my breath until the pressure feels like it might explode, then letting out a racking cry that I try to swallow.
“Maeve? Maeve!” Finn is knocking on the door, and once I make a noise I hear him drop to the ground on the other side so his head is closer to my level. “I’m sorry. I was cruel, and drunk and an idiot. Just let me inside. Let me help.”
Finn is the only friend that I’ve had a panic attack in front of. In high school I would lock myself in the bathroom, climbing into a hot bath, shaking. I had a few back home, and then in college it happened again and again, but I hid them from my friends. It felt like I was dying and would never stop and I was embarrassed by my trembling hands and relentless sobs and struggles to gasp for air.
Once we went viral, and Paul Myers started directing his relentless vitriol and militaristically mean fans toward me, I had my worst panic attack in years. We’d been editing and I was trying to ignore the hateful DMs I was getting from The Paul Myers Show fans, and suddenly it was too much. When I tried to retreat to the bathroom with a tight smile, Finn followed me and held me when I broke down. And afterward, he didn’t look at me any differently. He just asked about my strategies for managing my anxiety, if I still went to therapy, how long this had been happening. He was just there . I had never let anyone see me in such a vulnerable state, and it made his betrayal later sting even more. Because of course he wouldn’t want me.
I struggle to breathe, and it feels like my chest is closing. I’m sweating, my sweatshirt is damp, and when I try to ground myself and focus on the feel of the door behind my back, I can’t. I start crying harder, hyperventilating. This will never stop. This must be what dying feels like.
Finn’s voice is low through the door. “Maeve? Maeve? Just breathe. Slower. I know you’re breathing now, but try to take just one slow, deeper breath. This feeling will pass.”
Last year, his words might have helped. But now the very sound of his voice hurts. Because I love the low gravel of his soothing whisper. And my entire body recoils further because of that, because he continues to break my trust so completely. “Stop!” I manage eventually. I can barely understand my own garbled words through the tears and the snot. I’m wiping a whole range of bodily fluids onto this sweatshirt, leaving dark streaks and sweat stains. “Just stop.”
I can hear his inhale through the door. “Okay,” he says, chastened. For a few minutes the only sounds are my sobbing and choking breaths. Eventually, as my body starts to wear itself out, Finn speaks again. “I’m not leaving.”
Eventually I’ve cried until there’s nothing left. I slide away from the door and walk away from him without another word. Let him sit there. I go into the kitchen and grab my water bottle, then take it upstairs and climb into bed with it, not bothering to wash my face or take off my disgusting clothes. In the past, Finn might have brought a cool washcloth to me, to lay on my head to fight off the inevitable headache. But now I just let the pressure build and try desperately to fall asleep.
I must have succeeded because when I wake up, it’s light out and the birds chirping are in aggressive contrast to my splitting headache and puffy eyes. I get up and gently wash my face, then go downstairs to mainline coffee. As the Nespresso machine is heating up, I hear a strange sound coming from the entryway of my house. I look around and grab my water bottle, as a weak attempt at a weapon, then walk toward the door and peer outside.
Finn is out there dragging a lawn chair away from the door. He looks rumpled, and after a moment of confusion I realize that he’s been out there all night. I open the door. “You slept here?”
He looks over instantly. “Maeve! How are you? Sorry, I should have picked the chair up. I was trying to get out of here before you woke up.”
I don’t know what to say, unsure if it’s sweet or idiotic that he spent the entire night on my front lawn. But before I say anything, a car pulls up to the driveway. “Uber Eats for Finn?” Finn waves weakly and the driver holds a bag out the car window. Finn looks between him and me, then drops the chair, runs over to the bag and snatches it, then jogs over and holds it out to me.
“I really wasn’t trying to be here when you woke up. This is for you. I’m going to put the chair back, then just pretend I’m not here. And I left a note under your doormat.”
“I … okay.” I take the bag and head back inside, reaching down to grab the note on my way. I don’t know if he was hoping I would invite him in, or he genuinely meant to leave before I got up. And I don’t know that I care. I’m so exhausted from last night that all I want is to relax, and although at one point that would have meant curling up on the couch for a movie marathon with Finn, we’re so far from that place that it’s not even funny.
I unpack a variety of pastries and bagels from the bag, make my coffee, and take the whole setup to the back deck. And then I open the letter.
Maeve, I am so sorry. For yesterday, because inviting all of those women into a space we had just shared an intimate moment in was childish and cruel. But also for last year. I don’t think we can move forward without saying something about everything that happened between us. I’m sorry my actions made you feel used and like I didn’t care about you. I never meant for you to feel that way, and I understand why you did. I deeply regret not recognizing that you are the special person that lights up my life. Without you in it, everything I thought I liked before seemed dim. I got scared and ignored that the most amazing person in my life was already right in front of me. Please forgive me for making you feel like you’re not the most special person in the room. You will always be the most special person in the world to me, whether you believe it or not. I know I have ruined my shot with you, but please let me be your friend. I promise I’m done trying to force things to return to how they were. But I would really like to discover what the new us can look like, because you are my person. And I swear to you, that’s how I really feel. Love, Finn
I have no tears left to cry as I read Finn’s note. I want to believe that he really does feel like I am his other half. Because for the past few years my life felt infinitely brighter with him in it every day. He made it easy to do hard things and made me feel like the best version of myself. I miss him so much each night that I spend alone that I feel physically ill. But it’s also hard to believe he would have turned to Cassidy if he really felt as strongly as he says. I don’t want to be his second choice.
But I want him. I really, truly do. No matter how much goes down between us, in my gut and in my heart I feel some sort of deep certainty that he’s the one. And then I need to use every ounce of willpower I have to hold back because my logical brain knows better.
I fold the note into quarters and shove it in my pocket, then take a long gulp of coffee. I’m going to need several of these to get through today. I have a lot of editing to do, and a lot of complicated feelings to ignore. As I bite into a fresh chocolate almond croissant, I try not to remember that Finn slept all night on a lawn chair at my front door, for the entire world to see. We’re not nineteen anymore, and his back is probably killing him. I can’t believe he did that. I try to convince myself he’s just being dramatic. Putting on a show. But I can’t.
Because I do believe he cares. And while I still don’t think I can be with him, despite wanting to more than I’ve ever wanted anything, I’m ready to try to be friends.