CHAPTER 1 NORA #2
Bea huffs as someone shouts that we have thirty seconds left.
She leaves the circle of Rebecca’s arms to grabs Finn’s wrist and march him across the room, pushing people out of the way.
She is small; for most of high school she had Though she be but little, she is fierce from A Midsummer Night’s Dream in her Instagram bio.
She changed it in university; “A bit on the nose,” she’d said, but it’s still true.
Still, I don’t need Finn’s height to track her progress through the crowd.
I can barely make out the top of her head, but she manages to part the sea of people like her favorite Hebrew prophet and keep her grip on Finn’s wrist despite his obvious feet-dragging.
“You’re always talking about new beginnings, Eleanor,” she says primly.
Her cheeks are flushed, and the exposed skin of her collarbone is patchy and red, a sure sign she will remember none of this tomorrow.
“So, begin”—she shoves Finn toward me—“to forgive Finn for whatever it is you decided to hate him for in the sixth grade.” Before she leaves she also pushes a mug of room temperature liquid at me, cheap champagne sloshing onto my hand.
“We don’t have to,” he says the second she turns her back.
“Ten seconds,” she shouts.
“I know we don’t.”
“Nine.”
“I like new beginnings, too,” he says quietly, quickly.
“Eight.”
I frown. “Are you making fun of me?”
“Seven.”
He shakes his head, bewildered. “What? No. I’m just…” He throws up his hands. “Trying to be nice.”
“Six.”
“You’re never nice.”
Except the moment the words leave my lips, I don’t know why I said them at all. They’re not true. Not really.
Finn is not not nice. He’s just…Finn. He thinks he’s smarter than me and sometimes it feels like it might actually be true.
He’s charming and I don’t trust charming people.
He gives his opinion far too freely, which is fine in practice, but I just so happen to also give my opinion freely and why does his always have to be the opposite of mine?
He’ll argue with me about the superiority of Pride and Prejudice (1995) over Pride and Prejudice (2005)—laughable—until everyone else gets bored and leaves the restaurant without us and then we have to share a sullen, sulking cab ride home.
He argues that there could possibly be a better ball player than my favorite ball player—categorically absurd—and tries to call my obvious facts “opinions” when I tell him he is wrong.
“Five.”
He snorts. “You’re not nice.”
I scoff, face him fully, poke his chest with the hand not clutching a mug of champagne. “I am so nice. You just think you’re so much better than me.”
“Four.”
“I don’t think that, Nora,” he says softly.
And this close, looking up at him, his hair fallen out from behind his ear, everything smells like Finn.
Like vanilla and citrus, a scent that reminds me of Christmas despite the fact that he wears it all year round.
It’s probably some expensive cologne, something that comes in a black bottle, that has a tassel on the squeeze pump, something he bought to impress his fancy lawyer bosses at his fancy lawyer job.
“Three.”
But I’m on a roll now. I can’t stop myself. “Prove it,” I say. “Kiss me.” I also didn’t mean to say that.
“Two.”
Finn’s frown deepens. A crease between his brows that is almost always present on his face when he looks at me; present so often, it makes me wonder what his face looks like without it.
“You don’t want me to kiss you,” he says slowly, assuredly, his voice pitched low. Like he is reminding me that we don’t like each other, like he is protecting me from the serious mistake I am about to make.
But then he looks at my mouth, his sky blue eyes intent and serious.
And this is exactly why I didn’t mean to say that. Because now, he has to. Because I do not need Finn to protect me from anything, least of all myself. Because I am not afraid of Finn. Because the moment he said You don’t want me to kiss you, suddenly, I did.
If only to prove him wrong.
“One.”
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
He sighs. I can’t hear it over the din around us, the “Happy New Year’s” and “I love yous” and delighted squealing and Bea’s continued scream-singing, but I’ve known him since we were twelve.
I’ve known our friend group since then. So, I’ve learned his laughs, his frowns, whether I wanted to or not.
I know when he’s frustrated and trying to hide it and when he’s tired after a week of taking testimony at work.
I know that he picks tomatoes off his sandwiches but drowns his fries in ketchup.
And I know his sighs, his frustrated ones, and his tired ones, his affectionate ones, his contented ones.
This one is beleaguered. Very much so.
Finn steps closer. He sets his red plastic cup on the counter and takes my drink, too.
“Okay.” He cups my elbow. I don’t think Finn has ever touched me there before, the tips of his fingers soft against the skin of my upper arm.
He smells so good, intoxicating in a way that our champagne can only aspire to be.
“If you’re sure,” he says, giving me an out.
Not that I’ll take it. “I am,” I whisper. “Are you?”
He shakes his head, like no, but says, “Yes.”
And then his lips slide over mine. I’d call it cautious if it wasn’t for the way his thumb traces the shell of my ear, finds the small gold hoop, tugs on the lobe. Cautious, except for the way that Finn is teasing me even when his mouth is preoccupied.
He pulls away just enough to say “Happy New Year” quietly against my lips, the words humming along my skin, so I feel more than hear them. His voice travels along my throat and pools into my collarbone.
He kisses me again, even though everyone knows a New Year’s kiss doesn’t last this long, but I don’t stop him.
It can be for research! So I can tell Bea if he’s a good kisser!
I don’t stop him. Not when he threads his fingers through my hair and not when he presses his hand to my lower back, his pinky, then his ring finger, veering only slightly into upper-ass territory.
His mouth is slick, and he tastes sweet, like the cheap champagne we poured. And there’s absolutely no reason for it, none whatsoever, but I have to put my hands on his biceps—thick, muscly, surprising—my fingers brushing the sleeves of his black T-shirt.
Not because I’ve lost my balance, not because I feel dizzy—and even if I did it would be from the champagne, even though I’ve been nursing that drink all night—and not from Finn. Or his lips. Or his kisses.
I have to press my body to his. Because I have to know if our bodies line up as perfectly as I feel they would.
And it turns out they do. The satisfying click of that final piece into the last empty spot of a thousand-piece puzzle.
It’s something I never would have known if it wasn’t for this, for kissing him, and it’s data, just data, that’s all it is.
Information to collect about kissing Finn.
Except.
Except for the heat that pools low in my belly, the moan that he swallows with his tongue. I’m kissing Finn and it’s not terrible. It’s not the worst kiss I’ve ever had.
It might be the best.
I’m kissing Finn and it’s like fireworks, the fizz and the pop, the sweet, aromatic burn in the air, a starburst of light and color behind my closed eyes.
I am kissing Finn, and for a moment, just this moment, these few sweet seconds after midnight, these first blinks of a new year, Finn is not the boy who calls me Eleanor.
He is not the man who is always late. He is not the vessel of untested talent who quit hockey after high school despite his draft potential.
Finn is not the boy who jumped off Faraz’s roof into the pool to make his friends laugh and almost broke his neck. He’s not the guy who does keg stands every Canada Day like a frat boy. He is not the man who still takes bong hits even though he could lose his job if he got drug tested.
He is not unserious, silly, contradictory, and contrarian Finn.
He is sweet, safe, and warm. A wall between me and the world.
For this fine moment, these sweet seconds, these first blinks, Finn is my friend.
Someone whistles, a friendly taunt. A round of ooooohhhs rising from our friends because, of course, there’s nothing funnier than when your friends kiss, especially your friends who hate each other.
It’s just the reminder I need. I push him away. Press the back of my hand to my lips, where they buzz, warm and electric. Finn’s face is unreadable. He tucks his hair behind his ear. For once, no crease between his eyes.
And I feel like I should say sorry? Or maybe, mortifyingly, thank you? But before I can say anything—certainly not thank you, because what could I possibly thank him for—he says, hesitantly, “Happy birthday.”
His pointer and middle finger come to rest against my collarbone. The whisper of his touch grounding me and maybe (maybe?) him, too. If the way he blinks, rapidly, his lower lip caught in his teeth, is any indication.
“Thanks,” I say. “You, too.”
His words fully register. My birthday was yesterday. Well, two days ago now. December 30th. “I mean…” I shake my head. “Thanks.”
Everyone always forgets my birthday. Even Bea has let it lapse once or twice before.
He smirks, snorts a little laugh at my gaff. And it doesn’t hurt, not really. It is objectively funny to wish someone happy birthday back when it’s not their birthday. But it’s exactly the reminder I need: That Finn and I argue, that we aren’t friends. That I don’t even like New Year’s Eve parties.
New Year’s Eve parties are for looking back on the past, and I only ever want to look forward.
I step back, narrow my eyes. “Happy New Year,” I say, before I turn on my heel and walk away.
THE DREAM TEAM, NOVEMBER 21, 2022
6:38 p.m.: Bea:
6:38 p.m.: Josh: Nora Party!!!!!!!! LFGGGGGGGGGGG
6:39 p.m.: Faraz:
6:41 p.m.: Nora: Sorry, friends. Casa de Nora is closed this year. Parents are having their own NYE bash.
6:42 p.m.: Josh: BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
6:44 p.m.: Brendan: Nora’s apartment????
6:45 p.m.: Nora: Nora lives in a very tiny one-bedroom and her landlords are jerks.
6:46 p.m.: Bea: doesn’t matter I’ve already figured out what we’re doing.
6:46 p.m.: Bea:
6:46 p.m.: Nora: cool!
6:47 p.m.: Brendan: this looks expensive…
6:47 p.m.: Deepti: you had me at MASQUERADE
6:48 p.m.: Bea: it *is* expensive except since you are all friends with the hospital’s NEWEST PUBLIC AFFAIRS TEAM LEAD, I got us discounted tickets!!!!
6:48 p.m.: Deepti: AHHHHHHH
6:49 p.m.: Judith: OMG you got the promotion?!
6:49 p.m.: Nora: yeah you did!
6:50 p.m.: Faraz: who is the hospital’s newest public affairs team lead?
6:51 p.m.: Brendan: which hospital?
9:05 p.m.: Finn: can’t wait! Congrats Queen Bea
BBF (BEST BEA FRIEND), DECEMBER 12, 2022
12:09 p.m.: Nora: I’m implementing some ground rules for New Year’s Eve
12:09 p.m.: Bea: yes you can leave as soon as you like after midnight
12:10 p.m.: Nora: well gee thanks but that’s not actually what I was talking about…
12:10 p.m.: Bea: YOU’RE STILL COMING RIGHT?????
12:11 p.m.: Nora: I’m still coming.
12:11 p.m.: Bea: Good
12:12 p.m.: Nora: you can’t do what you did last year though
12:13 p.m.: Bea: I’m sorry you’ll have to be a bit more specific
12:14 p.m.: Nora: you can’t force me to kiss Finn!!!
12:14 p.m.: Bea: “force” is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence
12:14 p.m.: Nora: listen you just can’t
12:15 p.m.: Bea: Ok! I won’t!
12:15 p.m.: Bea: I’m sorry.
12:16 p.m.: Nora: thank you.
12:17 p.m.: Nora: it was horrible.
12:18 p.m.: Bea: …was it?
FINN COLLINS, DECEMBER 30, 2022
12:03 a.m.: Finn: Happy birthday, Eleanor