jesse #2
I picked up the folder and opened it. It looked like a police file, which was funny enough to make me chuckle. Finn’s photo was edited to look like a mugshot, and his biographical info was listed at the top. Twenty-two years old, light brown hair streaked with blond, blue eyes, six-foot-one.
It didn’t do him justice.
Finn was an albatross, the god-emperor of freedom, diving from the sky to the sea, both the color of his eyes and not the other way around. The world shaped itself for his pleasure because the shimmering beauty of his smile compelled it. It commanded it.
I leafed through the pages. Some of the notes were direct quotes from Finn, but most were Bennet’s conclusions.
He underlined a preference for the brooding types, but amended this in a different pen to say that brooding didn’t equal grumpy and mean-spirited.
He wanted someone smart, someone funny, someone who understood him.
He wanted anyone like that, but responded better to non-white candidates.
Damn.
With each line I read, I wanted to furiously shout at the file, “That’s me. He’s talking about me! I’m all those things.”
I wasn’t mean, but I was what you’d consider broody. Three of my four grandparents immigrated from China in the seventies and early eighties. I had a darker complexion from my father’s side. And whether I was funny or not wasn’t up to me, but Finn sure laughed.
But then I turned the page and looked at the candidates.
Blinded by the confirmation bias, I’d allowed myself to think I was in the running when I sure as hell wasn’t the guy for Finn.
There were a million reasons against it.
None came to mind right now, but there surely were many because why else would I have been so stubborn?
No, I had no reason to even think like this.
So I looked at the brief profile of a guy called Alejandro. He had a cute mustache, and dark hair covered his chin. He had piercing brown eyes in the photo and tattoos along his neck. His left ear was pierced in two places. He definitely fit the brooding, non-white type.
Then I looked at Miles, who was tall, had a neat beard, a serious look in his eyes, and a perfect nose.
The third option was Sean, who was a few years older and had a toddler, and I laughed.
Finn raising a toddler was a recipe for disaster, yet I could sort of see him committing to it and finding joy in it.
But I couldn’t see Finn being entirely happy settling for a domestic life at twenty-two.
He was too much like a blazing comet for that.
So I left the folder in my drawer to revisit, but I had my pick already. I didn’t want to, but I knew I did, and I told no one just yet. Instead, I spent the next four days pretending I was too busy, and I made myself busy to justify this to myself.
Finn came around on Wednesday to exchange T-shirts and peeked into my room, but I felt too shy about it to invite him in. It was nothing like his room. It was just a bare cube with beds, desks, chairs, and closets. None of me was in it.
Finn lingered for a moment, looking at me, and I bit my lip under the pressure of his gaze. “When are we going to hang out?” he asked.
“When you’re not in such demand for dates,” I teased.
He laughed and shook his head. “I’m hearing whispers that you’re on the grand committee.”
“I’m more of a consultant,” I said.
“Well, be nice. I can’t keep doing this for much longer,” Finn said.
I nodded with what I hoped was reassurance. “I think I have the right person this time.”
Finn’s face lit up, his gaze never leaving my eyes. “I look forward to meeting him.”
And for some reason, the way he said it sounded a little wrong. Like he thought he was in on a joke, but there was no joke. There was just an act of selflessness, the way I saw it, and I was forcing myself hard to give up the ludicrous idea that something would happen.
After he’d left, I went back to the folder in my drawer, the image of his hopeful eyes still lingering before me, never leaving me for long.
What was he so hopeful about? I hated that I couldn’t join in on the game, be part of the fun, and be truly hopeful for him.
It only ever felt like I was selling him to the highest bidder.
But if you’re not going to get off your ass, why do you expect something in return? And I was annoyed with myself for not having an answer to that question. Or, at least, not wanting to answer it just yet.
Looking at the description one last time, I knew I’d picked the right one. It wasn’t the broodiness, but the glimmer of mischief in his eyes that I knew made him the perfect match.
I texted Taylor with only one word: Alejandro.
A message came back a few hours later, telling me they arranged the date for Friday at eight in the evening at La Taqueria. And it was done.
It was completely, finally done.