Chapter 10
FINN
I CANNOT BELIEVE VIOLET AGREED to my mental idea.
The plan appeared to me when I was in a drunken stupor, after talking for a while with my brother at the bar.
Violet, I had said, taking a sip of my beer, trying to explain to Alistair, is a total weirdo. I had laughed to myself, and turned to Allie, who smiled at me, his eyes twinkling.
You do have a soft spot for the more eccentric types, he said.
Always have, I nod back, thinking of my best friend back home, Billie. The almost-famous footballer who, after uni, had blossomed into a non-binary drag performer.
I didn’t just mean Billie, although there’s no contest for your most unique friend, Alistair had replied, like he’d read my mind. Even before that. Growing up, I feel like you attracted unusual people to you.
This was true. There was the girl I crushed on in secondary school, who had sixteen cats at home.
And the friend I made at football camp, who would only eat with a spoon, no matter how impractical.
Another friend and I spent half of one year at primary school building a fort for our toys under our desks, made entirely out of tape.
Violet, I said, realizing that I was addicted to her name on my lips, is simply delightful.
That’s the only word for it. I chuckled, thinking of her drunken admission earlier.
Of all the people at the pub, I wondered why she chose me to unburden herself upon.
It made the inside of my chest feel like it was radiating sunshine, or some shite.
Finn… Alistair had started, not looking directly at me and fiddling with the label on his non-alcoholic beer. His tone alone made my defensiveness rise. That’s one of Florence’s best friends.
The way he said it cut deep, my stomach plummeting. Like I’m not good enough for her—and I’m probably not. But I hated to hear it anyway. The implication that I would hurt her, that there was no other alternative. How did I get this reputation, that even my own brother would assume the worst?
Have I really been that much of an arsehole?
I know that, I had said, trying my hardest not to snap at him. My good, protective, peacekeeper of a brother. The policeman. The hero.
Just… he sighed, a long intake of breath, Be careful, please?
I didn’t bother to reply.
But that’s when I concocted my little scheme with Violet, if she was willing.
We could pretend to date. It would help my reputation with my brother, to have him see that I’m not entirely a piece of shit. That I could be good to someone—good to her, especially.
It would also give me a bloody reprieve from Mum’s constant jabs about me being alone. Her almost obsessive worrying about me was really starting to gnaw on my nerves. This would show her I was at least capable of settling down—even if it wouldn’t go anywhere in the long run.
And maybe if I showed off a little online, showed that I could be somebody’s boyfriend, well, maybe Gemma would see it. And maybe she’d finally see the potential for what we could have been.
But I also hoped it would put a karmic signal out into the universe: Finn can be a good boyfriend, look everyone, he’s not an arsehole all the time!
It would be like a practice test for when the real thing came along. That’s how it worked in sport—you have to train to get better at it—so why couldn’t it work for dating?
If I could get it right, get some experience, in a controlled setting, then nothing would stop me when the real thing came along. Right?
In the morning, I knew the idea was too fucked up to actually suggest.
But the exchange with Alistair had played on repeat in my mind.
I hated, and I mean hated, the insinuation that I was some kind of fuckboy.
It wasn’t my fault that the women I dated didn’t seem to want something more.
My entire swim along the lakeside had me rolling around my brother’s words, his tone saying more than what was actually said.
The idea, if it worked, could get me out of this rut.
Could maybe even help Violet too.
I feel a pang remembering how upset she seemed at the bar, how hurt by her family’s decision to intervene. Like it said something about her—that she wasn’t capable of doing it herself. I liked the idea of helping her tell them to get fucked.
But no sex.
That’s fine, I mean, sex is sort of the problem with this whole thing anyway. Once women get that from me, well, it never seems to progress beyond that. So it makes sense to keep sex off the table—it means that I can get good at all the other stuff that comes along with being in a relationship.
It also means my brother can’t say a damned thing about my intentions with Violet.
Yeah, this is good. This makes good, logical sense.
And yet… Violet bathing in the sun. Her low whispers at the bar last night. Her hand in mine jumping off the dock.
I swallow. I’m going to have to get a firm grip on my attraction to her if this little plan is going to work. Firm grip is maybe not the best choice of words in this case. Fuck.
A knock sounds at my cottage door. Probably Alistair and Florence, coming to pick me up. We’re going for a barbecue at Uncle Albie’s place this afternoon.
Just a sec! I finish fussing with my hair in the mirror. I’ve showered and shaved since my morning dip with Violet, and even though this isn’t exactly a real date, I’m preparing for it like it is. It’s our first foray into this little scheme.
After our swim, we decided we would openly flirt with each other this afternoon, so we can hastily go from courting each other to being together. That way, we can part ways at the barbecue and tell our respective parties that we’ve hit it off.
I’ve chosen a pair of shorts—not too short, but short enough that women tend to notice. And comment. I also put on a soft, cream-coloured knit T-shirt that Billie calls my bawbag shirt. But it gets the job done.
I open the door to find Florence standing there, wearing a light green sundress, her red hair up in a ponytail today. She’s also sporting a giant pair of sunglasses.
Those shades for the hangover? I ask her and she only snorts in reply. I think we were all hurting a little after last night, except Alistair I suspect, who had offered to stay sober and drive us home last night.
Alba and Rose are dealing with something here at the B&B so Violet is going to come with us, let me get her, Florence says, ignoring my jab about her hangover, before walking to the cabin next door.
Close quarters with Violet in the backseat? A perfect start to our little scheme.
Then I remember my mother will also be there and anxiety zaps through me. Jesus fucking Christ. I take a deep breath before going over to the Jeep to get settled. To my relief, Mum is in the front seat.
Hi Mum, I say, trying to muster a chipper tone. Did you have fun last night?
Indeed I did, Finnie. That’s a good start. My mother can sometimes be a bit of a downer, bless her. She goes on, And I noticed you chatting up every hen in the pub. Did ye enjoy yourself?
Fuckin’ hell, Mum, I say over Alistair’s laugh. I’m going to make these two swallow their words.
I move to sit in the middle of the back seat, which normally isn’t preferable for someone of my height, but it’s roomy back here—and I have an idea.
What are you up to? My brother asks, turning around and eyeing my spot in the middle of the Jeep.
Oh nothing, Allie, I shrug. If he wants to see me as the fuckboy for now, then let him.
Florence opens the door and snorts again, finding me in the middle.
I’ll go around, she says, leaving the lovely Violet before me. She eyes me warily, and if I had to guess, is trying to compose herself before the game between us is really afoot.
Good afternoon Violet, I say to her, delighted. How was your morning?
She hauls herself up the step of the Jeep and into the car, ignoring my question.
Wouldn’t it make more sense for one of us to sit in the middle? Violet asks as Florence gets seated on my other side.
I lay it on thick. Well I cannae help wanting to be in the middle of two gorgeous women.
Finn! My mother shrieks, but Florence and Alistair both laugh. Violet’s cheeks have flushed that lovely pink, but she says nothing.
We drive for about ten minutes before arriving at Albie’s place.
He’s already out front, leaning on a cane in front of the barbecue.
Alistair explained last night that while Albie’s multiple sclerosis sometimes makes it hard for him to walk, he likes to stay out of the wheelchair as often as he can.
Well, look who’s here, he says, booming from his deck. Two Scottish lads and three beautiful ladies. He says this with a nod to my mother, who is positively beaming. My shoulders instantly tense up at this.
Calm the hell down, Albie.
I walk around the door to give Mum a hand getting out of the Jeep, since it’s quite the drop. She pinches my cheek. Hard.
Ouch Mum, what the f—
Now that’s a good boy Finnie, remember your manners.
Okay, I suppose I’ll just go fuck myself.
Albie has set up a selection of condiments on the picnic table, along with several bags of chips and a cooler full of drinks. I help myself to the cooler and choose a local beer I don’t recognize.
Violet also makes her way over to the food.
All right Violet, I half-whisper to her across the table, my eyes watching the others standing further away at the barbecue. You ready for this?
She nods at me, determined.
You mind the safeword?
She snorts. Pinocchio.
I can’t help it, the words slip out. Good girl.
She gives me a look that is so many things at once, I can’t decipher it fully, before she bursts out laughing. I laugh too. I think we’re both pretending this is a joke. And I guess this whole thing is pretty funny.
She puts her hand on my arm as she laughs. Aye Violet, you wee actress.
It’s showtime.