Chapter 15
VIOLET
I TIE THE STRINGS OF the bonnet underneath my chin, grinning from ear to ear. I would have been a theatre kid in another life, I think—if I hadn’t already been branded an outcast or moved around so much. I grab a blue cape-like thing from the basket and throw that over my shoulders as well.
Finn is frowning at me, a look of something akin to disgust written all over his face at the outfit.
What? I ask him, trying hard not to feel embarrassed. This isn’t real for him anyway, so what does it matter if he’s judging me?
Are you taking the piss? Why are you taking part in this?
I pause. Because that’s what we’re supposed to do? That’s literally what we’re here to do Finn—throw ourselves back in time.
He makes another face. He asked for volunteers, Violet. You don’t have to be the one to put your hand up every time, you know.
I flinch a little at the accusation. I like to participate, to be a good student. And I decide I’m going to ham it up as much as possible to rub my quirkiness in his face.
You remember that you invited me to come here today, I say, poking him in the middle of his chest, which is of course as solid as a rock. Are you scared Finn?
He scoffs. Scared of what, dressing up?
I smile now, wondering if I’m on to something. Scared of being uncool. Of people thinking you’re ridiculous. God forbid anyone not find you attractive for a second.
He says nothing and I start pulling through the clothes, looking for the most hideous thing I can find.
Aha! I pull out a white ruffled shirt, something you’d see in Bridgerton or on that one episode of Seinfeld. It’s hideous and I’m delighted.
I’m not wearing that, he says flatly.
Chicken. I smile and then, loudly, start to make clucking noises. Creepily accurate ones—I might add—after years of tending to my grandparents’ chicken coop. Heads turn our way.
He scoffs again, more to himself than me. Violet, he starts. I am not going to get goaded into wearing that ridiculous frock, which, I’m pretty sure is a woman’s shirt by the way, just because you’re making obscene animal noises at me.
It’s not a women’s shirt, I argue. It’s exactly something a rake, such as yourself, would have worn during this time period. So if the shoe fits… I hand the shirt to him.
A rake? You think I’m a rake? He’s pretending to sound outraged, but his smile is a dead giveaway.
A promiscuous boy of old, I guess. I push the shirt towards him again.
I look around at the people in our tour group.
You will literally never see a single one of these people ever again in your life, Finn.
So what’s the problem? I shimmy my shoulders at him, the move definitely more awkward than endearing. Get a little weird with me.
This is a thing I’m used to doing: laying claim to my oddball status, and proudly, before someone else can thrust it upon me as an insult.
If I label myself first, then I can’t be hurt by it.
And besides, he’s already agreed to fake date me for his own gain, so there’s no real harm in being my most authentic self around him.
He puts on the shirt, begrudgingly, and I beam.
Happy now, darling Violet? He looks like Mr. Darcy in this shirt, or like someone on the cover of a bodice-ripper romance. The accent isn’t helping my daydream. I clear my throat.
Photo time!
He groans as I try to take his picture. He puts his hands up, shaking his head. I am not being photographed alone looking like this, come here please. With his other hand, he gestures for me to come and stand next to him. I do.
He smells incredible, something citrusy with a darker note, maybe tobacco. I try my best not to breathe him in.
Promise me that one doesn’t go anywhere Violet? I can never let Billie get their hands on this photo.
I feel my stomach drop. Is this who he’s trying to impress? Maybe I’ll finally get to the bottom of why he suggested we pretend to be together this summer. I force myself to ask, my voice croaking a little bit, Who’s Billie?
Finn’s face lights up. My best friend, who has been trying to get me in drag since they started—and this particular shirt is a wee bit too close for my liking.
They. I piece this together.
So, your best friend is a non-binary drag— I stumble. I was about to say drag queen but if they’re non-binary…
Finn smirks, seeing the confusion on my face, and finishes my sentence. Drag performer, yes. I must be staring at him because he says, Are you surprised, Violet? He doesn’t let me respond before he continues, shaking his head and whispering low in my ear, So many assumptions from you.
His tone is teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of something akin to this: you think so little of me.
I have to admit I do feel surprised. I guess I pictured him with a lot of other fit, sports-loving athletic types. But would those kinds of people actually be like-minded to Finn?
I think about what I know about him, which to be fair, isn’t very much. There have been a lot of assumptions made on my part.
I feel ashamed of myself, there’s no other way to put it.
You’re right, I say slowly. I did assume… the worst of you, I guess. But people who look like you Finn, are often shallow and can act a certain kind of way. And to be fair, you are a bit of a dick sometimes, even you know that.
He smiles, his goofy kid smile. People who look like me? What exactly does that mean, my lovely Violet?
I scoff, punching him in the arm lightly, trying to play it off and not looping my lovely Violet over and over like a broken record. I mean incredibly hot people, such as yourself, as you well know.
He tries to taper down his smile. It doesn’t work. Do you find me incredibly hot then? I hate that I am wearing a bonnet for this conversation. I force out my haughtiest voice.
It’s more of a stated fact than my opinion.
Incredibly hot, but a bit of a dick and… shallow, right?
These words twist a knot in my stomach.
Maybe not the shallow part.
He nods at me, that jester’s mask gone, and says, Maybe not.
AFTER OUR TOUR IS DONE, we go back to the Louisbourg tourism centre. I walk over to use the washroom before we go out in search of lunch.
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror.
Violet, I say, but not out loud, you have got to get your shit together. This thing with Finn isn’t real. I remind myself. I check the stalls and I’m grateful to see the rest of the bathroom is empty. I repeat the words, out loud, to no one but myself, like an insane person.
It isn’t real, I whisper to myself in the mirror. So stop having physical reactions to him.
He’s using you, I think, but I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. But you’re using him too. To get your family off your back for once. So people can see that actually you’re capable of getting a boyfriend.
And, I think, just to wound myself a little further, he would not be interested in someone like you. He’s being nice to you because he’s getting something from you. Don’t forget that.
With that dire warning to myself, I leave the bathroom and prepare to spend the rest of the day with Finn Campbell.