4. Chapter Four #2
"Alright. I'll bring tissues, Pop-Tarts, and tactical detachment."
"Thank you."
"Anytime, Twilight."
I did not have the energy to be mad at him for using Evan's nickname. Which was how I knew things were dire.
Finn didn't knock when he got there. He jiggled the handle until the door gave in, then toed off his sneakers like he'd lived there in a past life.
He moved with the ease of someone who knew where my spare keys were, where my snack stash lived, and which cabinet held the mugs I never used because I drank coffee out of whatever cup was closest.
"Where's the disaster zone?" he called softly.
I raised one hand from the couch. It was the only thing visible under the blanket I'd wrapped myself in like a failed burrito.
Finn looked at me, then at the coffee table. The guitar case. The loose strings. The open email on my laptop. The note folded beside my phone. To his credit, he didn't say yikes. His face did. But his mouth behaved.
He moved into the kitchen and started opening cabinets without asking. "Do you want water or the illusion of water?"
"What is the illusion of water?"
"Flat Sprite in a reusable bottle."
"Water."
"Good girl."
He returned with two water bottles, a box of strawberry Pop-Tarts, and a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos I definitely didn't remember buying. He dropped onto the couch beside me with a huff of exaggerated effort, like he'd crossed a desert instead of my tiny apartment.
"You brought snacks from all four grief food groups," I mumbled.
"I'm basically a grief nutritionist." He tore open the Pop-Tarts box with the confidence of a man who feared no crumbs.
He didn't ask for details, didn't make me explain the exact size and shape of the hole Evan's voice had punched through me. He handed me a Pop-Tart, unwrapped one for himself, and sat there while I sniffled into the blanket and tried not to think about the last line of the chorus.
The apartment settled around us. The fridge hummed. The heater clicked once, then went still. Streetlight spilled through the blinds in pale stripes. Finn chewed with exaggerated seriousness, like he was taking his job as snack-based crisis idiot very seriously.
"I didn't expect it to hurt this much," I admitted finally.
"You thought you could listen to a breakup ballad written specifically about your actual, literal breakup and just vibe?"
"I thought I could handle it." I stared at the Pop-Tart in my hand. The frosting had sprinkles. Insulting. "Also, I didn't know it would be about me. It's supposed to be about them."
"The movie?"
"Yes."
"Right. The movie based on your parents' grand traumatic soulmate saga."
"Don't call it that."
"What do you want me to call it?"
"My dad's book."
"The book based on your parents' grand traumatic soulmate saga."
I kicked him under the blanket. He accepted it with grace, which is to say he made a noise like I'd wounded him in battle. Then he sobered.
"You've been handling it," he said. "Until now. You broke up with him, remember? Doesn't mean he didn't break you back."
That landed heavy and true.
I curled tighter under the blanket. My fingers found the folded note beside my thigh before I realized I was reaching for it. The paper felt warm from my hand, the crease soft against my thumb.
Finn noticed. "What's that?"
I hesitated. Then I handed it over.
He took the note carefully, as if even Finn recognized when glitter-fingers were not appropriate. His eyes moved over the page. The nickname made one brow twitch. The last line wiped the joke from his face entirely.
He folded it along the same crease and handed it back without a word.
"You know he's still in love with you, right?"
"That doesn't change anything." My voice came out flat, but my hands gave me away, shaking when I tucked the note against my chest. "Love isn't the problem. Love was never the problem."
"No," Finn said. "But timing was. And fear. And the fact that you're both stubborn enough to qualify as infrastructure."
A laugh slipped out before I could stop it.
"There she is," he said.
"Don't be proud of yourself."
"I'm always proud of myself. That's my burden."
I wiped my face with the sleeve of my hoodie. "I almost called him."
"What stopped you?"
"My thumb hit your name instead."
"Wow. Romance is dead."
"I didn't know what I would say."
"That's usually a bad sign."
"I had options."
"Let's hear them."
I shifted under the blanket, staring at the ceiling because apparently that was where we were putting all the answers. "I could yell at him for making me hear that song from Grant instead of from him. I could tell him it's beautiful. I could ask if he meant it."
Finn went still beside me. I kept going because stopping would make the question too loud.
"I could ask if he still hates me. Or if he wanted me to hear it. Or if he knows I'm going on tour. Or if he's with someone else now."
The last one tasted awful. There it was, the ugly little thought I'd been shoving into a closet and leaning my whole body against.
Evan Walker did not belong to me. He hadn't for a long time. The world had been more than happy to volunteer for the position.
Finn reached into the Doritos bag and handed it to me without comment, a holy offering of processed cheese dust. I took a chip mostly so I'd have something to do with my mouth besides keep ruining my own night.
"You'll know soon enough," he said. "All of it. The tour, him, the groupies, whether he's still writing lyrics with your name hiding in the margins."
"That is not comforting."
"I didn't say I was good at this."
"You called yourself a grief nutritionist."
"I'm licensed in Pop-Tarts, not romantic strategy."
I snorted.
Somewhere down the block, faint through the closed window, someone sang along to Arcadia Drive. Wrong lyrics, off-key, completely unaware they were casually soundtracking my breakdown.
I closed my eyes. "I don't want to still love him."
Finn didn't answer.
"I don't," I said again, because once clearly wasn't enough to make it true.
"I want to be over it. I want to hear his voice and think, Great production quality, hope he moisturizes.
I want to see his face on a tour poster and not feel like someone shoved their hand into my chest and rearranged furniture. "
"That's specific."
"I'm spiraling."
"I noticed."
"But I do." My grip tightened around the note. "I still love him."
Finn stared at the ceiling a second longer, then shifted closer and leaned his head gently against mine.
"Yeah," he said. "That's the worst part. Loving someone who made you feel too much and not enough in the same room."
My eyes burned again. Rude. We had already cried. We had met the quota.
Finn nudged my shoulder with his. "But you're more than enough, Lila. You always were. Even when the world couldn't hear him say it."
I closed my eyes and let the warmth of that truth sit beside the hurt.
Nothing was fixed. The tour was still coming, Evan was still going to be there, his fans were still going to scream for him like he belonged to them, and I was going to stand somewhere nearby with a guitar in my hands and a song-sized bruise under my ribs.
Finn passed me another Pop-Tart. I took it.
"But if he sings that song on tour," I said, voice rough, "I might commit a felony."
Finn nodded solemnly. "Understandable. I'll bring bail money."
"You have fourteen dollars."
"And a winning personality."
I opened my eyes and looked at the note one more time. Then I folded it carefully and tucked it back into the guitar case pocket. Not under the velvet this time. Not hidden. Just there. A bad idea with a crease down the middle.
"From now on," I said, "nobody lets me listen to soul-crushing demos after sunset."
Finn lifted his Pop-Tart. "That's wise. Sunrise devastation only."
The laugh that came out of me was small and cracked and mine. It didn't fix anything. But it helped, just a little.