Tell Me How You Really Feel

TWENTY-TWO

Finn

Being stuck on the outside looking in like this hurts. To be literally on the other side of the door like that while she breaks down … it’s awful knowing that she’s so upset by my actions that she’d rather go through a panic attack alone than let me in.

I stayed so that I’d be close if she decided she did want me there. She didn’t.

And clearly, she still doesn’t. I go home and wait all day for a text or a call from her after she reads my note. I saw her pick it up. But the message never comes.

I’m back home, still ruminating on how I manage to make mistake after mistake, when suddenly my phone is ringing with Derek on the line. Which it should absolutely not be, since I’ve said I don’t want to do backdoor meetings that exclude Maeve.

“What’s up?”

“Finn! My favorite podcast host. I have good news.”

I frown. “Does Maeve know about this good news?”

I can practically hear him sigh. “Why don’t you dial her in?”

Unfortunately, I doubt she’ll pick up. But I give it a try, and to my surprise, after a moment, she does and I’m able to merge the calls. “Maeve, Derek is on the line with us.”

“Oh!” She sounds shocked. I probably just fucked everything up worse somehow, but at this point I don’t know what to do. “Hi, Derek.” Her voice sounds tight, as though she’s trying to make her tone upbeat and not able to quite get it there.

“Now that I have both of you on the line, I have some good news.” He really likes to make it sound like he was always planning on dialing Maeve in. Such a jerk. “You two are interviewing supermodel-turned-fashion-designer Karli Causeway at Fashion Week in Milan.”

“But Derek … isn’t it already Fashion Week?” Maeve sounds skeptical. I know she already booked a pop star for this week.

“Technically. Which is why we’re letting you use the Streamify jet. You leave at six a.m., and the interview is the following day. And we got you both invited to the Prada show. We’ll send a videographer with you two too, make a vlog of the entire thing. And, yes, it will count as your contracted event for the coming month.”

I wish I could see Maeve’s face. Is she excited? Or is it too draining to go after her panic attack? I’m there with her no matter what she wants to do. I send her a text. What do you want to do? I can shoot him down if you don’t want to go.

Let’s go. They’re investing

She’s right. Derek is pouring resources into this, and it’ll definitely be good for our ratings. We’ve held the number one spot for several weeks straight now, and the drama at the game yesterday only helped. I wait, letting Maeve speak first.

“Amazing,” Maeve says finally. I think I’m the only one who can hear the exhaustion hidden in her voice. “Thank you so much, Derek. This will be some great content.”

“Sounds like a blast,” I echo.

Ten hours later, we’re on the private tarmac at LAX, wind whipping around us while we board the plane. We both drove, since I gave Maeve a heads-up that our cars will show up freshly washed and waxed on the tarmac upon our return. Assistants grabbed our luggage and now the videographer, Chris, is filming us as we board the plane. I know Maeve is turning it on for the cameras … but just like at the gala, it selfishly feels amazing to have fun with her, even when I know she’s faking it.

When we step onto the jet, Maeve takes in the interior, then turns back toward Chris and the camera and widens her eyes. “When I say I never thought I would be on a private jet … Literally never! I hadn’t even been on a plane until college. I can’t believe this! I wish I could take all of you here with me.” Our fans love Maeve because she loves them, and she’s a totally normal woman who made it big overnight. She’s real and relatable, and I’m a perfect foil for that because of my upbringing. With the show in general, I’m in it for Maeve, and she’s in it for the fans, and it’s a great combo, really, because it means I can, or used to be able to, take care of her, since all she thought about was their needs, not her own. She was mining her life for content, going on dates with guys she might not have looked twice at before, to see if there was a story or a lesson there for our fans. It was brutal because so many men are creeps or had inappropriate expectations because she talked about sex on air. So I just tried to make the experience fun for her. Take away some of the drain. Because, for me, going on dates was never so rough.

We talk about the jet and the trip for the cameras for a few minutes, then Chris puts it away and we start actually getting settled on the flight. A ten-hour trip goes down much easier when there’s a chef making you a three-course meal and there are full-size beds to sleep in. But Maeve will barely make eye contact with me once the camera is turned off. There’s not tension in her shoulders, so I’m inclined to think she’s more exhausted than angry, but whatever it is, we’re not going to get through it with Chris and the crew lurking, or cameras rolling.

When we land in Italy, there are several cars waiting to take us to our hotel, and so when Chris moves to get into our van, I stop him. “Hey, man, why don’t we regroup at the hotel?”

He hesitates, since I’m sure he’s been instructed to film every moment, especially if and when tensions get high. But after Maeve gets in the van and slams the door, causing us both to jump, he nods and starts backing away toward another vehicle. “For sure, man.”

I slide into the car with Maeve. “I’m an asshole. Please forgive me. I don’t deserve it. But I would love to stuff my face with fresh Italian pasta with you with a clear conscience.”

Maeve tears her gaze from the window, where she’s closely monitoring the drivers loading the cars with our pelican cases of breakable equipment, and rolls her eyes as she looks back over at me. “Wouldn’t want you to get indigestion.” I wait, hoping she’ll say more. Raise a white flag to meet mine. She stares at me, her eyes dark and serious, her hair tucked half into the neck of the oversized Tell Me How You Really Feel sweatshirt. She looks beautiful. Seeing her so casual like this makes my stomach twist because these moments, the million in-between moments that make up a lifetime, are what I cherish most with her. But I’m not saying that. Not now. Not yet. “I’m ready to actually be friends again, if you’re really ready too,” she says finally.

“Am I pushing my luck to ask if you forgive me?” I say quietly.

“Yes,” she whispers. And I’m not sure which part of that she’s saying yes to. But I don’t push it.

At the Hotel Principe di Savoia, Chris is filming again, and we’re led up to adjoining suites. For the sake of the vlog we pretend to be staying in one suite together, to keep things spicy for our fans, but in reality the living rooms adjoin and we’ll each have our own space, same as at the gala. The rooms are ornate, with lush carpeting and finishes, beautiful artwork, and beds complete with balconies. We ooh and ahh over the setup for the camera, and Maeve turns toward Chris and looks directly into the lens. “Will Finn be spending the night on the floor or in the bed? Vote in the comments. And if you get it right, maybe we’ll tell some never-heard-before stories from our college days.”

I playfully jump in front of her and place a hand on the outside of the lens, which will make it look like I’m grabbing the camera, although it’s actually mounted to a compact shoulder rig and Chris. “She’s kidding. Those stories can never see the light of day. I’ll sleep in one of these monster chairs.”

“Bed will be cold without you in it,” Maeve complains with a pout. Maybe we should have set some ground rules for what we’re doing while we’re on camera. I know part of the whole deal is that we’re meant to flirt, to be provocative. But I just want the cameras gone so I can make sure that the two of us are truly okay.

Once it seems like we have more than enough footage of us exploring the room, the hotel, the assortment of clothes that our Streamify team sent for us to wear at the shows, I reach over and hit the button on the camera to stop the recording. I open my mouth to start talking, but Maeve grabs my arm and I stop. She reaches over to a pocket on the side of Chris’s rig, pulls out his backup mic, and hits Pause on that.

“Is that everything?” she asks Chris. He nods, and then she gives me a “ now you can continue” look. We’re unnecessarily cautious, but that’s what makes us so good. Streamify owns this footage, and we want to make sure that they get only audio and video footage that we’re okay with them using, because while we can influence the edit … we can’t control this vlog like we do the podcasts, since it’s for their channel, and their editors are cutting it together.

“What do you really need for this video?” I ask him. “You have the jet and the hotel. You’ll get the interview tomorrow. No need to get our setup tonight, it’s boring. Plus, us getting ready and going to the fashion shows. That seems like a solid vlog, don’t you think? It’s Maeve’s first time here, and we just want a little privacy.”

Chris hesitates before speaking, and I see his eyes flick down to the monitor, making sure the recording is truly off. “They want everything from your hotel breakfast to your cab rides. We definitely need the duomo and at least one dinner to fill things out. Maybe, uh—” he falters uncomfortably “—you two in the hotel pool. They noted in the brief that the stylist supplied bathing suits.”

Maeve walks over to the closet and starts digging through, then pulls out a few scraps of string that are supposed to pass as her bikini. “Then I guess we’re going shopping.”

I turn to Chris. “We get it, man. This is a big gig! You want to deliver. We want a popular vlog too. How about we do the duomo and a dinner, and on top of the duomo you can get a shot of us—” My instinct was to say “kissing,” because I know something as juicy as that will buy us some privacy, but I spoke too soon. I don’t want to push boundaries that far on camera when we’re finally settled on genuinely being friends again.

“Having a romantic moment,” Maeve interjects. “Maybe someone can help Finn track down some flowers, chocolates, and candles?”

I nod eagerly. “Perfect.”

Chris opens his mouth, questions about what’s actually going on between us clearly on the tip of his tongue. But then he closes it, regroups. “I’ll film Finn calling the concierge while Maeve is in the shower.”

Maeve smiles sweetly at him, and he blushes. “Can vlogs be nominated for best original short? Because don’t worry about a thing, Chris. This is about to be Oscar-worthy.” She hits Record on the mic she’s holding and hands it back to him, and he presses Record on the camera.

I turn to Maeve. “How jet-lagged are you? Should we check out Milan?”

She tilts her head. “I don’t know. I’m kind of tired, and we have the episode tomorrow.”

I step closer to her. “Maeve, let me take you out. There’s somewhere I want to show you.”

She smiles and laces her hands around the back of my neck, looking up at me. “I guess I’ll take a quick shower, then.” She takes her sweatshirt off as she walks away, while Chris is panning to her, and just as it’s about to reveal whether she’s wearing anything underneath, I grab the camera and pull it back toward me. Maybe just a hair too roughly.

“Eyes stay on her face,” I say. We’re good partners because we can build off each other. She doesn’t have to tell me what to do for me to react to it for the camera. When we’re filming things together, whether it’s silly promotional videos for social, full episodes, or guest spots on other people’s channels, it reminds me that I probably would like acting, especially if Maeve did it with me. But that’s not an option; she’d never be game.

Once I hear the shower turn on, I raise my eyebrows at the camera, then hold a finger to my lips, and dial the concierge. “Hello, Mr. Sutton. How can I help you today?”

“Hi! I’d like to surprise Maeve. Would it be possible to get tickets to the duomo, a nice bottle of champagne, a few candles, and chocolates and strawberries? And maybe a blanket?”

“Of course, Mr. Sutton. How would you like us to bring it to you? Please be advised that food and drink are not permitted in the duomo.”

I wink directly at the camera lens as I respond. “Of course. In a tote bag please. Discreetly.”

Chris and I wait five minutes, then Maeve steps out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, her hair damp. When they cut this together, it’ll look like she almost interrupted my phone call. “What should I wear?”

I pick up a garment bag off the bed. “I got you something.”

Maeve looks directly at Chris. “Cut please. You can start again when I’m dressed and ready.”

“You’re not going to open it?” I pretend to pout, although I have no idea what’s in the bag.

“That one has my outfit for the show! I’ll pick a good one to show off your imaginary taste, don’t worry.”

Chris sits in the other room’s living area while Maeve and I get ready, recording only when the concierge drops off the tote bag and I pretend to get it surreptitiously, only to leave it by the door and walk right back into the room where Maeve is getting ready. I sit on the bed while she does her hair and makeup, like we used to back in New York, although then the apartment was so small that I could sit in the living room and still hear her perfectly while we talked.

“So have you met Karli before?” I can’t see Maeve, but I would bet she’s putting mascara on. Of her makeup routine, it’s what requires the most focus, and her voice always sounds off cadence while she does it.

I lie on the bed and look up at paintings of naked angels on the ceiling. This hotel feels like a historical landmark, someplace that should be a museum, not thousand-dollar-a-night rooms. “I met her once when I was a kid. She and my mom were both repping Chanel perfume, and I went along on a shoot to the desert and watched them roll around in the sand for a while.”

“Interesting. And very high end. She got her start on America’s Next Top Model back in the day, but she’s really elevated since then,” Maeve remarks. She probably worked up an entire dossier on Karli while I slept on the plane. “Maybe we should get her to dish on that a little. Or ask about the Playboy shoot? I’ve gotten too used to knowing roughly what each person is going to want to focus on.”

“Maybe she has something,” I offer. “A big reveal. She’s very private, so to be honest I’m surprised she wanted to come on at all.” So surprised, that I asked my mom if she arranged it. She denied it, then suggested we add on a weekend in Amalfi or Cinque Terre, which didn’t make me feel inclined to believe her.

“Maybe,” Maeve muses. “Do you think we should put it out off cadence?”

“Why would we do that?”

“The vlog can be our regular episode to fill the week. And getting this out while it’s still Fashion Week might build buzz.”

I stand and walk to the bathroom. Maeve is curling her hair, the American plug hanging out of her mammoth adaptor, and I hold out my hand for the wand. She hesitates a moment as we stare into each other’s eyes through the mirror, then gives it to me, and I start curling the back, so the sections she can’t reach look as good as the front. My mom taught me when I was seven, and the first time I offered to do it for Maeve she was so surprised she dropped the drink she was sipping as she got ready into the sink.

I start curling, and she stays still, watching me work in the mirror. “I think that’s risky,” I say as I curl a long strand in the opposite direction of the previous, so the curls don’t all clump together when she brushes it out. “The big names have been helping the ratings.”

“So does press,” Maeve counters.

“So let’s see what she says,” I offer. “If it’s something that is a huge fashion-related get, that reporters will be all over if it comes out this week, we release early and shock everyone.”

“Fine,” Maeve agrees. It’s striking how different this conversation is from the ones we’ve been having. Our words are the same, but instead of curt, our tones are collaborative, and it makes all the difference. I finish with the back of her head, then turn the wand off and place it on the counter as she finger combs through to loosen up the curls. “Will you spray?”

“Of course.” I grab the hairspray she has out, already knowing which bottle is the right one; she shuts her eyes, and I set her hair. Now that I’ve dealt with having less, being a team feels better than hoping for more.

“You know, even if we run Karli’s early, maybe we shouldn’t put out the vlog as the regular episode. It just feels so different than the show … What if you did a solo one? Or one with an expert in something—more expert to expert?”

Maeve adds a bit of texture spray to her roots. “We both have to be in the episodes, though. They don’t want just me.”

“I could read Questions of the Week to you two at the end or something.” I think it would be good for the network to see that Maeve is totally capable of pulling off her own show. Even though I don’t want to stop doing this with her, I want her to be able to do whatever she wants.

Maeve makes eye contact with me in the mirror and smiles slightly. “I’ve always kind of wanted to do an episode about anxiety with my therapist. And both she and I could answer questions at the end, show both my perspective as someone with anxiety and a therapist, and hers as my doctor. Do you really think the network would go for it?”

“They don’t have approval privileges. If you want to do it, we’re doing it.”

An hour later, we’re climbing the steps in the duomo, Chris trailing behind us. When we get to the top, Maeve launches into a monologue, talking about how exciting it is to be out of the US for the first time, and I speedwalk ahead, beyond the top viewing area and to the back side of the roof that most people rush through on their way out. It’s as beautiful as the front, maybe more so since there are fewer tourists taking selfies here. I set out a navy blanket, held down by the candles the hotel wrapped up with it so the glass wouldn’t break, light them, then pop the champagne quietly and pour us each a glass. I’m laying out the elaborate cheeseboard the hotel made when Maeve and Chris round the corner.

“Finn!” Maeve calls out. “What is all this?” She walks over to me, shooting a confused glance over her shoulder for the camera. I stand and pass her a glass of champagne. Suddenly, a passerby shrieks.

“Oh my god, is this a proposal?” She pulls out her cell and starts recording, and I look over, panicked.

Maeve reaches for me and turns my face back toward her, drawing me tight and angling our heads out of view of the camera. “Ignore her,” she whispers.

I take her hand and lead her to the blanket while Chris and our amateur teenage camerawoman continue filming us. Maeve settles in, adjusting her skirt carefully, since it’s painfully short, and then I sit across and take a deep breath. I can play into this. It only feels weird because I wish it was real. If we get fake engaged, will Maeve consider actually marrying me? Last week I would’ve said it was well worth the gamble.

“Maeve, you are the best person I know. I know I will never deserve you, but I wanted to make sure your first night in Italy was half as special as you are. But also, we have to eat fast because technically this is illegal, and we can’t get arrested before the interview tomorrow.” I raise my glass and toast her. “Thank you for inviting me to do Tell Me How You Really Feel with you. I hope that you’ll be telling me how you really feel for the rest of your life.” I reach for my back pocket and the girl gasps, but then I just pull out my cell phone and take a selfie of us.

The disgruntled tourist walks away, swearing lightly, and Maeve laughs. “She really thought you had a ring, huh?”

“Clearly, I dropped the ball here.”

Maeve reaches toward me and grabs a strawberry. “I think you did alright.” She pops it into her mouth in one bite, and I follow suit with cheese and crackers.

We sit there, chewing silently, eating crackers and strawberries, waiting for Chris to get the hint. He keeps filming. Eventually, Maeve starts giggling. “Finn, I can’t eat any more of these. They’re delicious, but I want to have pasta our first night in Italy.” Our .

“You’ve got it, man, right?” I call up to Chris. I don’t know what he’s waiting for.

“How about a kiss? Something to really sell it?”

Maeve turns. “Or a strawberry eating competition? See how many each of us can fit in our mouths?”

He glares, but it feels lighthearted. “Make it good then.”

“On it!” Maeve laughs. She starts lining up two rows of the remaining strawberries, and I do the same, trying to match them for size. “Let’s do this in the style of a western,” she instructs. “You can add sound effects of lassos and music and whatever in post. So, Finn, we should start by narrowing our eyes, really serious. Chris, cut in. Get a few options, and then when we start we’ll be messy.”

We do a few takes of each of us staring down the other, the glittering city and walls of the duomo around us, then Chris counts us in. “Three, two, one, GO!”

We each start shoving strawberries into our mouths, and I push one back so far I gag. Maeve starts to laugh and spits one out, and she watches it roll off the rooftop. Chris is wildly panning back and forth between the two of us, trying to capture everything. I make it through six of my ten strawberries before waving my napkin as a white flag, while Maeve is still trying to fit a seventh in her mouth. She bites down into the tip of it and leaves it dangling out, then pumps her arms victoriously, before making a cut gesture at Chris. He ignores her, and films us spitting out the strawberries.

“You better not use that last bit,” Maeve sputters.

“Eh, could’ve just kissed. Besides, it’s funny. And now you get to be done. I’ll film dinner tomorrow when you’re dressed for the show and not drooling fruit.”

I start laughing as I really take in the two of us. Our nice clothes are covered with specks of pink strawberry juice, there are half-chewed berries everywhere, our teeth are covered in seeds. Once I start laughing, it sets Maeve off, and she suddenly is doubled over with giggles. Naturally, now that we’re incapacitated, a security guard rounds the corner.

“Fuck,” Chris mutters. “Take the food and run!” He shoulders his camera and starts speed walking out, and Maeve and I start throwing food into the tote, as the guard starts yelling in Italian.

“What’s he saying?” Maeve asks through laughs, her eyes tearing up.

“You don’t want to know.” My Italian is limited, but I know enough to recognize that he wants to fine us. I grab the champagne bottle and Maeve’s hand, and we start to run around the side of the roof and toward the staircase. The pace we take down the stairs is completely reckless, considering the end of the staircase is the interior of the church, but we turn and burst out the doors and into the piazza. Maeve drops the tote into a trash bin as we run, the guard still chasing us, and out of the corner of my eye I see Chris crouched across the street filming the pursuit. I push the champagne bottle onto a young couple as we enter the galleria and attempt to get lost in the crowd.

I pull Maeve into the Prada store and we hide behind a mannequin and watch the guard run by, still collapsing with giggles. “Can I help you?” the sales clerk asks, interrupting our escapade, her voice dripping with disdain. This is one of the most elegant Prada stores in the world, and we definitely don’t look like we belong.

We both attempt to straighten up, but Maeve can’t stop giggling and tries to turn her head and hide behind her fist and a fake cough. “We’re going to the show tomorrow!” I offer. “They sent outfits, but we’d really love to try something new on.”

“Is that so? Could I get your names?”

Before I can give them, since it’s completely true, Maeve tugs on my hand. “So sorry, but we must step out. Have a great night!”

She darts around the saleswoman and drags me behind her, dropping my hand once we’re out of the store.

“I wasn’t even lying! We could have gotten fresh clothes,” I protest as we walk out.

“From Prada?! I don’t belong in there. One item is more than I’ve spent on clothes in the last year. They would be uninviting us before we could swipe our card. And we’re criminals now! Being arrested in Italy is not on my bucket list.”

We walk back out into the night and I look around. “Well, even criminals need to eat. Pasta?”

“Pasta,” Maeve confirms.

We should go somewhere nice, since it’s her first night, but instead we just duck into the first restaurant we see. “Can we get one of each pasta?” I ask as soon as the waiter comes to ask if we want water.

He hesitates. “Sir, there are six different dishes here.”

“Sounds perfect. And wine please, whatever you think goes with … all of them.”

When he leaves, Maeve leans across the table to whisper. “Now he’s going to tell everyone this horror story about how Americans order the entire menu because they’re gluttons.”

I look at her solemnly. “It’s my sworn duty, as an American tourist, to confirm every supersize stereotype. How would you feel if an Italian came to America and said they only ate kale salad? It’s no fun!”

Maeve was mid-sip of water when I’d started talking, and she starts laughing so suddenly it spurts out her nose. I give her my napkin so she doesn’t have to wipe her snot with her own. Once air is the only thing coming out of her nostrils, she giggles again. “I forgot how much fun we are.”

“Someone tell Chris. He thinks we’re divas.”

“We are divas. We just ordered every pasta on the menu and had an illegal picnic on the duomo with a cameraman.”

“Oh right, I forgot,” I tease.

The waiter comes back to our table with plates of a cacio e pepe , Bolognese, carbonara, pear ravioli, squid ink octopus, and pesto gnocchi. He sets them all down with a flourish. “Let me know if you need more,” he adds sarcastically.

Maeve picks up her fork and tries the carbonara, which is directly in front of her, with a moan. “This is incredible. Why haven’t we done this before?”

“Come to Italy?”

“Yes.” She moves to try the cacio e pepe , and I stop her.

“You need a palate cleanser.”

She takes a sip of wine, then digs into the next one, and repeats this for the rest. I don’t try any because I want to see her reaction to each. I’ve had all of these, from all the best restaurants in Italy, but coming here, to this random, side-of-the-road place with Maeve, is better than any of that. Her enjoyment is so wholehearted. Most of my friends from LA have eaten at countless Michelin-starred restaurants because they also have famous parents, fancy vacations, and unlimited resources. Good food is a requirement for them, not special, and they don’t want to moan over something and seem like a rube. But unabashedly enjoying things like Maeve does is way more fun.

Once she’s ranked them all, I dig in, and we spend the next hour debating their merits before doing the same with every dessert on the menu. It’s decadent, delicious, and so much fucking fun. I feel so relieved that things feel more normal between us. I will do anything and everything to keep her in my life.