28 I can read you like a fucking book
28
I can read you like a fucking book
Ava
Dating Jacob is, so far, a success. Sure, we’ve only had one date, and sure, I had to pretend I’d sprained my wrist so that I wouldn’t have to climb, but he thinks I’m charming, and that’s what I wanted.
I don’t feel like my head is imploding when I’m around him. I don’t feel nauseating butterflies in my stomach when he looks at me, and I certainly don’t feel a gnawing sensation behind my ribcage when I consider what my life would look like if we parted ways. Aside from the effort of pretending I’m nicer than I actually am, it’s easy.
Hopefully today I’ll hear a little less about climbing and a little more about, well, anything else, because it’s my turn to decide what we do. I drop him a text to confirm what time we’re meeting, and for probably the first time ever, Finn finds me smiling to myself at work.
‘You’re in a good mood,’ he accuses, his own face lighting up when he sees me.
‘Just excited for my date with Jacob tonight,’ I reply. His smile falters for a fraction of a second, but it’s back before I even blink. ‘I remembered you suggesting we alternate between activities both of us are interested in. I’ve wanted to go pottery painting for ages, so I found a deal for a class.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be fun,’ he says, leaning against the counter. ‘I, for one, am impossibly excited to witness you doing karaoke at the party tomorrow.’
‘I will not be doing karaoke,’ I argue, starting a coffee for him without finding out what he wants.
He cocks his head. ‘We’ll see.’
This party’s been hovering in the background for months, and I’m almost surprised it’s come at last. Things have changed since Josie first told me about it. One of those things is standing in front of me.
‘I’m considering inviting Jacob.’
Finn takes his glasses off to clean them, not looking at me as he says, ‘You want him to meet your friends and family so soon?’
‘Not specifically. But Josie is a good judge of character, so she’ll be able to tell me if anything seems weird about him.’
Finn’s expression is inscrutable.
My phone buzzes with a text, and from the sheer bulk of it, I know the kind of message it’s going to be before I read a single word.
jacob: Hi Ava, thought I’d send you a text explaining what’s going on in my head at the moment. I won’t be able to make the class tonight – it’s not really my thing and I just don’t think I’d enjoy it. You’re really sweet, but I’ve found your constant texts pretty overwhelming and, sorry if this is big-headed to say, but I think we’re looking for different things. Sorry again. Stay rad, sweetheart.
Finn notices the drop of my jaw and I wordlessly hand him my phone. I watch the emotions roll across his face until he murmurs, ‘Stay rad?’
‘Really, that’s what you got from all that?’
‘He’s an idiot,’ he says simply, giving my phone back.
‘Aren’t you going to say “I told you so”?’ I pour milk into a jug and steam it angrily. Which is to say, I scowl more than usual while I do it. ‘You told me not to pretend to be someone else, and now here I am: rejected by a man who told me to “stay rad, sweetheart”.’
‘Well, before I decide, are you upset about it?’
I take stock of my feelings. Kind of embarrassed about being dumped, slightly ashamed for being dishonest, and more than a little annoyed, because what did he mean by ‘constant texts’? I sent two one-line messages in a row. But upset?
‘No, not really.’
‘Then yes, I told you so.’ I get the urge to ruin his latte art in response. His fingers tap the edge of the counter and he says, ‘You deserve someone who pays attention, Ava. It’s not difficult. You were playing a part, which was stupid, as I said , but if he was really paying attention he would’ve noticed. Because, no offence, but you’re not as good an actor as you think.’
‘Excuse me? I am a woman of mystery.’
‘Don’t even try that.’ His fingers stop tapping and his warm eyes hold me captive, suspended in time for just a moment. ‘I can read you like a fucking book.’
What’s that supposed to mean? My heart pounds in my ears but I’m saved from any further confusion by another customer coming to the till. As soon as she’s gone, my shoulders sag. Despite everything, I was actually looking forward to this evening. I scroll through my emails and groan when I see those fateful words: non-refundable ticket .
A quizzical expression crosses Finn’s face, so I explain my predicament. ‘I booked the non-refundable option for the class because I’m a cheapskate, so now I’m going to lose money.’
He looks me square in the eyes and says, ‘Only if you don’t go. So I’ll come with you instead.’
‘You don’t need to do that.’
‘When have I ever turned down hanging out with you?’
I ignore the truth of that and the burst of dopamine it gives me. ‘It’s fine, Finn.’
‘You were really excited five minutes ago. Do you or do you not want to try pottery painting?’
I shrug, and he waits for a verbal response. Eventually, I say, ‘Yes. I do.’
‘Then it’s settled. Besides,’ he takes his phone out and his fingers fly across the screen, ‘it’s on my bucket list.’
He turns it to face me, and at the bottom of the list I read:
Go pottery painting with Ava when a man who wears bendy shoes is a prick.
We make it to our classroom in the converted warehouse with moments to spare, after I’d got distracted trying to do eyeliner in City Roast’s bathroom and Finn restlessly checked the time on his phone no fewer than thirty times.
Just as we fold on to the plastic chairs at the one remaining table at the back, our instructor shakes a tambourine. I assume this is to get our attention, but she also strikes me as the kind of person who spontaneously plays the tambourine, so I’m not sure.
‘Welcome, artists. My name is Rosetta and I’ll be overseeing you today.’ She looks exactly how you’d expect a pottery painting teacher to look – bedecked in jewellery that glints and chimes with every movement and wearing more layers than I’d imagine is comfortable in this August heat. ‘In this class you’ll be painting two items – a coaster, along with either a plant pot or trinket dish. Your coasters are on the table already, and I’ll come around soon to find out what second item you’d like. You have an array of paints and utensils to choose from, so dive into the very recesses of your imagination and find out what your soul wants to share.’
‘What does your soul want to share?’ Finn whispers, nudging his knee against mine under the table.
‘Some kind of retro pattern, probably?’
Rosetta finishes her explanation, and with one last sweep of a supersized chiffon sleeve, she leaves us to it.
On our table we have a pile of paints, brushes and sponges, along with two ceramic coasters and two aprons. Finn rolls up his sleeves, one of which falls down almost immediately.
‘If I’d known I was gonna be painting today, I would’ve worn short sleeves.’
‘Sorry for not telling you in advance I was going to be cancelled on,’ I say drily, finishing tying my apron.
He stops rummaging through the paints to look at me. ‘Are you really okay about that?’
‘Thought you could read me like a fucking book,’ I reply, one eyebrow quirked.
‘That wasn’t an answer,’ he counters.
I go to grab the black paint from his hand while he’s distracted, but he swats me away. I take my hair out of its ponytail and relax as the tension leaves my scalp. ‘I’m fine, he didn’t exactly change my life. But I’m just annoyed, I guess. That I lied to myself. That I pretended it could ever become something more than it was.’
He seems to turn his words over in his head before answering. ‘Why were you so adamant he shouldn’t see who you really are? Don’t get me wrong, I think you dodged a bullet, but what makes you so sure that he, or someone else in the future, could never be interested in the real you?’
He squeezes black paint on to our palette and slides it towards me.
‘Because,’ I dip into the paint and start brushing it on to my coaster, ‘how many people have you ever met who’ve said, “Oh yeah, my dream woman is cold, emotionless, and incapable of love”?’
‘I don’t think you’re any of those things,’ he says quietly. It’s not until he’s painted his entire coaster yellow that he speaks again, cautiously advancing through the words like he’s walking an unfamiliar path; testing out each step before putting his full weight on it. ‘I think you know most of that is a front, and it’s easier for you to pretend you don’t care, to believe you can’t love anyone and they can’t love you, because you’re so scared of putting your heart into something and it going wrong.’
Well, what do you know? Maybe he can read me like a book.
Something fundamental shifts in slow motion inside me, my heart decelerating to a heavy thud.
‘Why the long faces?’ Rosetta’s hypnotic voice comes from behind us. ‘Pondering life’s big questions?’
‘Exactly that,’ Finn says easily, and when I finally look up from my painting, he’s shooting Rosetta a smile.
‘I’m here to find out whether you’d prefer a plant pot or a trinket dish.’
Finn opts for a plant pot, but I have too many thoughts buffeting around my head to decide anything. ‘Finn, you choose for me.’
‘You know what you want.’
He leans back in his chair and locks discerning eyes on mine, and the jolt it sends through me is enough to jump-start my heart.
I remember Rosetta’s waiting for an answer, and reply, ‘The trinket dish, please.’
With unparalleled glee, I learn that Finn is bad at painting. Like, really bad. Worse than he was at latte art.
He squints at the rim of his plant pot like he might find some answers there. ‘I’ll give it to my mum for Christmas.’
‘I’m so sorry to tell you this, but I don’t think even a mother’s love could save that.’
‘You’re supposed to be encouraging,’ he says, attempting to cover up a mistake with more paint and just making it worse.
‘I am encouraging. Encouraging you to never try this again.’
Meanwhile, I’m pleased with my coaster, and while the trinket dish isn’t perfect, it’s not bad. I’ve painted it with blues and silvers like the night sky, and I’ve tried to add a moon shape in the middle with thick enough paint for Josie to be able to feel it.
‘That smug expression is unbecoming, Ava Monroe.’
I look at his coaster and snort, and I’m adding another flower to my own when a thought comes to me. ‘Imagine Jacob in this class. Why did I think he should come?’
‘He’d probably have scaled a wall by now.’ He gestures with a paintbrush. ‘He’d be up there in the rafters lurking like a little bat.’
The image forces a spluttering laugh out of me. ‘He missed out.’
‘He really did,’ Finn says with a hum. ‘Specifically, he missed out on seeing you with paint on your face.’
‘I have paint on my face?’
He leans forward with his brush and swipes once along my jaw. ‘Yeah.’
‘You’ve watched too many rom-coms,’ I tell him, shaking my head, because I know how this is meant to go. And yet, I can’t help myself. I grab my brush and draw a line of blue on his left cheekbone, just below his glasses.
His smile splits open a trench in my heart, and for the first time, I want to put seeds down to see what could grow there if I nurtured it.
As we continue painting our masterpieces, every so often one of us will take a swipe at the other with their brush. We develop unspoken rules: we have to alternate streaks, we can’t hit the same spot twice, and we need a different colour every time. It’s ridiculous, but I’ve come to realise that there’s no one who embraces ridiculousness quite like Finn O’Callaghan.
After a particularly successful attempt, he looks at me and says, ‘Red’s a good colour on you.’
When Rosetta comes to check up on us and heaves a sigh at our paint-splattered faces, it sends us into a fit of laughter.
‘I feel like I’ve been told off at school,’ Finn says between laughs, the sound sinking into my skin.
Once Rosetta’s made it to the front of the room, she shakes her tambourine. ‘You have five minutes left, everyone, so start finishing up.’
I use my phone as a mirror to start cleaning my face while Finn does the same with his, and we’re quiet for a while as we concentrate, sharing a pot of clean water, our legs angled towards each other under the table. I glance over at him at one point, and somehow, even with bright yellow across his forehead, his eyes are the brightest thing on his face.
‘How do I look?’ he asks after a few minutes, leaning forward and sending me a lopsided smile that makes my heart do a little flip. Just a tiny one.
‘Paintless,’ I reply. I look back at my phone and move my head around to get all the angles. I think I’m all clear too. ‘What about me?’
He licks his lips and I feel like he’s about to say something else, but in the end, he just says, ‘You missed a spot.’
‘Where?’ I contort my neck some more but can’t see anything.
He clears his throat. ‘Can I?’
I nod and he picks up a fresh tissue before dipping it into the water. We swivel in our seats until we’re facing each other, his legs either side of mine. He peels a few strands of hair from where they’ve stuck to the paint just under my jaw, before moving all of it to the opposite shoulder and starting to wipe my neck.
Every movement is gentle and considered, like he’s handling something delicate. I close my eyes, because I’m too aware of him, and I’m worried about what he might see if he looks too closely.
He takes my chin with his left hand, softly moving my head to the side so he has better access to the paint. There’s no chance he can’t tell my skin is heating everywhere he’s touching me, can’t feel my erratic pulse thumping like it’s trying to make an escape.
When I open my eyes, I find his own, pupils wide, sweeping across my face like he’s committing every feature to memory. If my heart did a tiny flip before, now it’s winning gold at the Olympics, twirling and leaping around my chest.
His voice is barely a whisper. ‘Perfect.’
Rosetta claps and we jump apart. ‘All right everyone, please finish what you’re doing. Leave your pieces on your table – since this is an express session, they’ll be ready for you to pick up tomorrow after they’ve been fired in the kiln. All the information is on the pamphlets. Let me know if there’s anything else you need from me, otherwise, thank you so much for coming!’
There’s a chorus of thank yous and a low buzz as people pack their stuff away.
‘Finn,’ I begin, not looking at him while I scratch at a line on my coaster. ‘I want something that makes sense.’
He waits for me to meet his eyes. I can feel him searching for something in mine. ‘What about this doesn’t make sense, Ava?’ Maybe he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, because when Rosetta drops a tub of paintbrushes up front, he glances over and says, ‘I’m gonna see if she needs any help.’
He’s removed his apron and has shot out of his seat before I’ve even registered what he said.
By the time my heart has eased back into a medically appropriate rhythm, I’ve removed my apron and tidied the table as best I can, but when I look around, Finn is nowhere to be seen. I make my way up to the front, where Rosetta is packing things into boxes.
‘Hi, I was wondering if you’ve seen my friend, the one I was, uh, painting with,’ I finish weakly.
She floats past me in a swish of fabric and says, ‘Ah yes, the young man has been helping me carry some things to the storeroom. I usually have an assistant but she couldn’t make it tonight, and my wrists just can’t handle carrying things nowadays. Arthritis. Can’t even do much painting anymore.’
‘Oh,’ I say, taken aback.
‘Be a dear and take these to the storeroom too, would you?’
Before I can either accept or protest, she places a cardboard box in my arms and perches another two on top, where they wobble precariously.
‘Where is that, exactly?’
‘Take a right out of this door, walk all the way to the end of the corridor, then take a left, keep walking until you reach the painting of Jesus on rollerblades, and then the storeroom is through the door next to the sculpture of mushrooms wearing hats. Just put the boxes anywhere they’ll fit.’ As I head out of the room, narrowly avoiding knocking the top box off the pile, I just about hear her say, ‘The door handle’s a bit temperamental, by the way.’
Right, end, left, rollerblading Jesus, stylish mushrooms. Got it.