Chapter 28
FINN
I CANNOT SAY I RECOMMEND spending half a day trapped in the back of a car, hungover as shite, with five other extremely hungover people—one of them who you drunkenly tried to lay bare your feelings to the night before.
I don’t dare glance to my right, where Violet is sleeping tucked into the side of the van. What a bloody numpty I’ve been. The night gets a little blurry towards the end, but parts of our conversation are seared into my memory.
It isn’t even real, Finn.
Violet’s words play on an infinite loop in my head.
We’ve passed the bridge over Iona, and are coming up to the sign for Christmas Island, so I know we’re only minutes away from being dropped off now. I want to shut myself up in the cabin to sit alone and brood and not talk to another living person for the rest of the day.
Our arrangement.
That’s not the first time she’s used that phrase, and I fucking hate it.
I’m not sure, exactly, when the thin line between real and not real got so unclear for me. The problem, always the problem, is that I really, really fancy Violet. I actually thought this whole pretending to date thing was going to be a hell of a lot harder, but it’s easy.
Pretend or not, she and I just seem to work.
But the horrified look on her face last night tells me she doesn’t feel the same.
And it doesn’t really matter anyway, does it?
Because I live an entire ocean away—farther than that, if she goes back to B.C.
A world away, in that case. And I can’t leave Scotland, not when I think it would break my mother’s heart.
And Violet has her own family obligations, whether she wants them or not.
I feel like the wind’s been knocked out of me, or like I’ve dropped several floors in a lift, my stomach swooping. I thought it was bad when I realized Gemma didn’t see things the way I did—but it’s nothing compared to this.
I thought Violet felt things shifting between us as well.
We’re only pretending, remember?
I cannot believe I’ve gotten it so wrong.
Jesus fucking Christ, Finn, I think.
How did you end up here again?
A FEW HOURS LATER, AFTER going for a run, showering, and cranking up the air con, I crawl into my bed, prepared to continue sulking for the rest of the day.
Instead, I get fully under the covers, bringing my phone with me, and ring Billie.
When they answer, the video screen on my end is completely dark, my face barely lit up by the phone light.
Well, look who it is. And you must’ve been kidnapped, Finn, Billie’s sarcastic tone makes a smile twitch on the corner of my mouth. I feel a flood of relief, one because I’m still capable of smiling, and two because I know my best friend will know what to say.
The problem is I don’t know how to start explaining it.
Can I ask you something?
Oh, Finn’s got questions now. You’ve not answered a single one of mine about what the hell’s going on with you, but aye, crack on. I can only see half of Billie’s face, but I can tell the phone has been propped up near the mirror and they’re getting ready to go out.
You mind Gemma, aye? What do you reckon happened with that? Despite my embarrassment, I had told Billie about her not wanting to come with me to Canada. They had let out a string of curses before assuring me she wasn’t worth it.
Why the hell are you asking me about Gemma? Who gives a flying fuck about her? Tell me about the gorgeous brunette.
Humour me Billie, go on.
Billie sighs. Ummm because Gemma’s not a nice person, that’s what I think happened.
Gemma was nice.
Not really, Finn, no. You don’t date nice women.
Of course I do. I’m racking my brain trying to think of a name, but the only name my poor excuse of a brain can conjure up starts with the letter V.
Do you really want to ken what I think?
Aye.
I think you go for wretched people because you think you’re an arsehole and that’s all you deserve, Billie has still not looked at the camera once, eyes completely focused on their makeup and their own reflection in the mirror. But you and I both know that’s not true.
I don’t say anything, which Billie apparently takes as their cue to keep piling on.
Any time someone decent and kind, that you could be serious about, comes along, you steer well clear.
I reckon it’s because if they rejected you, that would confirm that you are an arsehole.
Or worse—if you hurt them, even a wee bit, that’d prove your worst fear.
That deep down you really are a monster.
Jesus, Billie. Didn’t know you’d gotten a master’s in psychology while I’ve been in Canada. I’m trying to absorb all of this without being completely shattered by it.
Billie, at this point, decides it’s time to get serious and picks up their phone, staring at me huddled up under my covers, and goes in again.
I’ve no idea what the fuck is going on over there that’s got you hiding in your sad jumper, but you know I can clock a vibe from a mile off.
It’s a gift, a curse, my sixth sense. And this Canadian girl?
She might actually be worth your time. So, aye, it’s going to be messy.
Life is messy, and I think you should go for it.
All you can do is keep putting yourself out there.
But do not pull that shite where you bow out because you think you’re protecting her from yourself—you’re not your dad, Finn.
I flinch. Billie must notice, because they continue, in a less aggressive tone this time, You are, at worst, a total loverboy pretending to be an arsehole, all right?
And besides, she’s so pretty and I’ve already decided what kind of makeup I’m testing on her when you bring her home.
So kindly fuck off, and let me have this.
Well, I got the impression last night that she doesn’t feel the same. I have no sweet clue how to explain this without getting into the whole mess of us pretending to date.
Billie makes a disgusted face through the camera. No. Absolutely not. I’ve seen the photos.
But Billie—
Fuck off, Finn. Did you ask her, full stop, if she felt the same?
No, but—
You can be a right muppet with women sometimes, and if I had to have a guess, I’d say you’ve not been as forthright with her as you think you’ve been. So tell her, all right?
Maybe Billie’s right. If she thinks that all of this has been just about proving something, Violet could think it was all part of our arrangement. Or, it’s possible she’s protecting herself, since she knows we live so far apart. I need to think on this some more.
It’s killing you that I’ve told you literally nothing about her, isn’t it? I can feel the smirk on my face.
Can I get her name at least? When I stalked her on Instagram, there isn’t even a bloody name on her account.
Violet.
Right, Violet is stunning. Violet is a perfect name. Wow, you must be head over heels—and not the pathetic little stumps some queens have, but the proper six-inch heels that I wear.
I start laughing properly now. Billie has come to this conclusion with absolutely no information, but they’re not wrong.
Do you want to ken what she sang for karaoke? After telling me she doesn’t do duets, only showstoppers.
Wow, fucking legend. Aye. Go on.
‘That’s Life’ by Frank Sinatra.
Billie stares at me through the phone screen. That’s a song worthy of a drag performance. And how did it go?
I grin. She smashed it. Had the whole pub on its feet.
There’s a pause.
Oh my god, right, this is serious. I feel like I should get on a flight. This is—
A sudden crash comes from outside the front of the cabin.
I know, without knowing—tapping into Billie’s sixth sense shite maybe—that it’s Violet. And not a moose. I hope it’s not a bloody moose anyway.
Got to go Billie, but you’re a braw mate if there ever was one. I end the call before Billie can reply, launching out of bed. When I pull open the front door, I find Violet lying in a heap on the ground.
I feel a laugh thunder out of me.
You all right?
Don’t look at me, she says, her voice a little small. Go back inside, there’s nothing to see here.
I go down the steps and pull her hands, which she’s using to hide her lovely face, helping her up off the ground.
What the hell happened?
I tripped.
I take in the scene and remember the loud sound, like she’d knocked into something.
Coming down the steps?
Yes.
Why didn’t you knock?
Well, I was going to, but— she fidgets with nothing, her eyes darting away from my face, before her words come out in a rush, You sounded busy, I mean, I could hear you laughing, so, I didn’t want to interrupt.
I feel something bloom in my chest at this, a tiny seed of something like hope. Is she jealous? If not full-blown jealousy, something like uncertainty hangs in the air between us. It makes me feel like there’s a chance.
It was only Billie, I say, keeping my voice as neutral as possible. Here, come inside I’ll patch you up.
Somehow the day has gotten away from me, I realize, as I take in the darkening sky around us.
I sit Violet on the edge of my bed before going to grab a warm face cloth. She’s banged up one of her knees pretty good. I make my way back to her, leaning down and dabbing at the wound.
Any other injuries?
She shakes her head violently and I notice she’s shivering.
Are you cold? Here— I pull off my sad jumper, as Billie called it, and hand it over to Violet before she can respond.
I watch Violet pull the sweatshirt over her shoulders, something like possessiveness gripping my chest. She reaches behind her head, her hand pulling her hair from where it was trapped behind her neck and tucked into the jumper.
She looks down as she does this, lost in thought and eyelashes fluttering, the movement so casual I’m sure she’s done it a thousand times.
But never in my jumper.
The final flick of her wrist, setting the hair free, makes me forget my own name.
I am certain that if I do not touch her at this moment, I will lose myself entirely. One wee innocent touch will be enough to dissuade my racing thoughts. Right?
I reach forward, pretending a piece of her hair is still trapped behind the hood of my jumper—mine—and say quietly, Let me help you.
I’m greedy with my graze across the back of her neck, moving hair that isn’t there, and feeling her skin pebble with goosebumps. I want her mouth on mine, and I’m certain it’s written all over my stupid fucking face.
This, I think to myself, is more than I have ever felt for anyone.
Surely there’s a word for it, but it eludes me at this moment.
Violet lifts her eyes to mine and says, almost in a whisper, Thanks.
No bother, I say, hoping I don’t sound as off my head as I feel right now. So how come you were lurking outside my cabin?
Nothing like a little banter to distract us both.
Oh, right, she says, looking down to fiddle with the strings on my sweater. Again, that feeling sweeps through my entire chest. She gets like this sometimes, fidgety and unsure of herself.
I was coming to see if you wanted to go get dinner or something, she looks almost guilty, I ate all my cabin snacks.
Dinner or something. I’m not sure why my brain is so fixated on this point.
Come on, I say, pulling her up off my bed wearing my sweater. Dinner sounds grand.