Chapter 27
VIOLET
FINN GETS UP TO THE mic and I am thrumming with something.
Anticipation, excitement, wanting. I try to ignore that last one.
I’m buzzing with curiosity about his song choice and his promise to outdo my own performance. Some secret part of me is delighted at the idea of him letting loose up there.
The first few notes start, and it takes me a second to place the song.
Hit it, Finn says, in line with the song, and grins at me. A megawatt smile. A hint of devilish delight.
Country. Shania. Honey I’m Home.
Oh my god.
A woman beside me shrieks. I love this song!
Her friend says, Sorry, but have you seen the guy who’s about to sing it?
Both women look hungrily towards the stage before abandoning their drinks.
They run up front to dance at Finn’s feet.
I can only laugh, manically, into my cider.
I’m worried we’re about to see something akin to Beatles-mania or a Michael Jackson frenzy in here tonight; literal fainting spells from some of these women when they clock who’s onstage.
Any other man, especially one who looks like Finn, singing this song would come off as so horribly misogynistic, so smugly arrogant, slick to the point of ick.
Finn, however, soon has a gaggle of women in front of him. He’s hamming it up, singing along to breaking a nail, flat hair, hard days. He is so infuriatingly charming.
And I would be furious, if I wasn’t laughing so hard.
I would be annoyed at him for making this entire bar forget me in thirty seconds flat. I would be irritated at the fact he still looks gorgeous even under the harsh stage lights.
I would feel all of those things, if he wasn’t, at every opportunity, glancing back in my direction and grinning that wild, boyish grin that makes me feel like an electric current is running through me.
He’s clearly learned a thing or two at all those drag shows, and knows how to work a room. Work a woman too, I’d bet.
That’s quite enough of that, I chastise myself in an attempt to reign it in.
I sip my cider, leaning against the wall of the bar and allow myself to watch him.
His black T-shirt isn’t skin-tight, which I appreciate.
I’ve never understood the appeal of tight clothing, it makes me feel claustrophobic.
His hazel eyes are shining in the spotlight.
The sight of his hands on the microphone sends a flood of memories, my brain having apparently catalogued every time he’s ever touched me.
Finn scans the crowd and I see the woman and her friend from a few minutes ago grab each other’s arms and scream. He has that effect on people—knee-buckling attraction. You have no idea, ladies, I think, recalling that the first time I ever saw him, he was wrapped in nothing but a towel.
He blows a kiss my way and I pretend to catch it, garnering a few hateful looks from the gaggle of women directly in front of him.
I really wish he was the asshole he sometimes pretends to be. That would make all of this a heck of a lot easier.
He’s finished what I started: many of the bar patrons have gotten out of their seats and are dancing, clapping, and cheering him on as the end of the song draws nearer.
Finn’s eyes find mine during the last few lines—he sings the final words, looking right at me.
There’s a flash of something in his gaze that feels like tenderness, but I think I’m seeing only what I want to see.
Not real, Violet.
MANY HOURS AND SEVERAL DRINKS later, the six of us are stumbling, slowly but loudly, back to our Airbnb.
I didn’t know we’d have to climb Mount Everest, I wail, fully panting now, as we trudge up what I’m certain is the steepest hill on earth. How does this city have so many hills?
I bloody love Halifax, says Finn, who has taken a turn for the drunker, after several different people bought him shots following his karaoke performance.
I’m half-carrying him back, his arm draped around me. His Scottish accent has gotten thicker with every drink. He keeps muttering things I can’t hear, and wouldn’t be able to understand anyway, while planting kisses on the top of my head.
Not real, not real, not real. I keep repeating the words with every painful, uphill step.
We get back to the Airbnb and I realize the others are already inside. I fight the urge to rest on the steps out front, instead trying to pull Finn upstairs with me. But he only stands firmly in place, shaking his head.
I reckon I’m cursed, Violet. His words are so low, so guttural, I don’t know what to make of it.
What do you mean? I ask him, not sure if this is a laughing situation or not. The alcohol in my own system has the giggles threatening to bubble up any moment.
It’ll go to shite, always does. ‘Specially last time, His words come out in a slurred, rasping laugh. But it happens every time I try to make somethin’ serious wi’ someone.
With who? That’s the first thought that comes racing through my own buzzing brain, wondering again who it is he’s trying to impress.
Especially last time. That all but confirms there is, in fact, someone else he wanted to prove to that he could be a good boyfriend. The thought makes me actually queasy.
I’m worried that if I open my mouth I’ll ask him about it, and frankly I don’t want to know any more—don’t want to make this a reality, even though I’ve long suspected this was the case. So I wait patiently, moving that swoopy piece of hair out of his face.
He looks down at me with such hunger in his eyes, his chest rising and falling with heaving breaths. For a split second, I wonder if he’s about to kiss me again. I can’t ignore the surge of wanting that comes with the thought.
But instead, he leans in to whisper closer to me, An’ ah dinnae want tha’ to happen wi’ you, darlin’ Violet.
I’m trying to understand what he’s getting at, and seeing the confusion on my face, he repeats, slower this time, Ah dinnae want this to go to shite.
It can’t, I say, almost laughing, feeling a sudden need to distance myself from this entire conversation. It isn’t even real, Finn. So you have nothing to worry about.
He steps back from me like I’ve hit him.
O’ course it’s real. Oh boy, this is the alcohol talking.
Come on, let’s get you upstairs, get a nice glass of water, huh? That’ll help.
He shakes his head at me. Tell me why it’s no’ real.
Is he serious right now? My own brain is too fuzzy to figure out how to handle this.
You only think you like me, Finn, because of our—our arrangement. I can’t bear to say the words fake relationship out loud. You wouldn’t have anything to do with me if it wasn’t for that.
Ye think, he says, sounding outraged. Tha’ this is because of our arrangement? I want to laugh at the scandalized way he whispers this word back to me. He shakes his head. How low ye must think of me, Violet.
It’s not you, I tell him, trying desperately to salvage whatever the hell is happening here, unable to shake the feeling like sand slipping through my fingers. It’s me, remember? I don’t know how to be somebody’s girlfriend.
Ye could be my girlfriend, he says this like it’s nothing. You’re already doing it, ye ken? You’re just yourself with me. So aye, it can be done.
I try to ignore the flutter in my chest. It can be done. As if it was that simple. I’m aware that this is starting to hurt, the painful sting of rejection feeling like tears in the corners of my eyes.
But it isn’t real, Finn. I’m not sure whether I’m convincing him or myself. We’re only pretending, remember?
He flicks his eyes to mine, and I see genuine hurt there.
Something about this last comment has sobered him up.
I can see the wheels turning in his head.
He steps forward and reaches for my hand.
The move is so tender and I’m certain he’s going to kiss me this time—but I flinch and pull my hand away.
Pinocchio, I say. I’ve never used the safe word before—never needed to. But I can’t bear to continue down this path with him.
He doesn’t want me, not really. And it would never work. It could never work.
The look he’s giving me is anguished. This isn’t real, I repeat to myself. He’s drunk and so are you.
Come on, I say, reaching out to take his hand back, this time on my own terms, and dragging him up the steps and into the Airbnb.
I remind myself again, once for each step, like a prayer I hope goes unanswered.
Not real. Not real. Not real.