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“You and I haven’t discussed money,” he says slowly. “You don’t know the first thing about my bank account.”
“I heard you talking to your daughter that morning after I spent the night.” A chill runs down my spine, and I blow hot air into my mittens. “It wasn’t on purpose, I just overheard. She said you were broke.”
“Well, if an eight-year-old says it, it must be true.”
“Is it?”
“I made serious Wall Street money up until last year. I managed to save a good chunk of it. And I trade stock on the side. You didn’t know that, did you?”
“How would I?” I ask. “You never tell me anything about that part of your life. I know nothing about your finances or your ex-wife or even Marissa.”
“And you won’t tell your dad you’ve broken things off with Rich. You promised you would after the holidays, and it’s January twenty-second.”
My face warms. He’s right. I don’t talk about work or my dad with him anymore. I don’t want Finn asking about Rich. Every time I work up the courage to tell my dad the truth, I lose my nerve. He’ll accuse me of making bad decisions without the drugs. I just want to be stable, happy, and sorted with Finn so I can show my dad that I’m able to do it on my own.
“One fight at a time, okay?” Finn crosses his arms. “No, I’m not broke. I’m good with money, but I am moving through my savings faster than I’d like. I’ve stashed some in my retirement accounts, but I don’t really want to touch those.”
“Then let’s do this.” I pull on his forearm, trying to get him to uncross his arms. He doesn't budge. “It’s a lot of money. And it fits our brand—”
“No.”
Why wouldn’t we say yes? We get to do what we’re already doing, but better, and for money. Not only can I earn us more of an audience, which in turn commands us a higher price tag, but I can also take some of the financial pressure off Finn’s shoulders. All with a few risqué shots. “The pieces are tasteful, Finn. They’re sexy lace and sheer—”
“Sheer?”
“But in a tasteful way—”
“No.” He steps back. “I said no, end of discussion. I’m not going to share you.”
“You mean again,” I say. “You aren’t going to share me again.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“We had online sex with a stranger,” I say. Some people look over, so I lower my voice. “I’ve used the word fuck in our captions, and you’ve been inside me during a photo shoot. Sex is our brand whether you like it or not.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m going to pimp out my girlfriend—”
“I’m not your girlfriend right now. I’m your business partner.”
“Not in this case,” he says. “You come before business. Our relationship comes before business.”
“But you’re not ‘pimping me out.’ I want to do this.”
“Why?” he asks.
“Because it makes me feel good,” I yell. “It makes me feel wanted.”
“It’s not enough that I want you? You need to know creepy men are looking at you in sheer underwear? Why does talking to a stranger online, or people looking through our windows, get you off?”
My lungs empty like I’ve been sucker punched. Finn’s never made me feel anything other than confident, smart, desired. Until now. Throwing all that in my face as if he wasn’t there every step of the way. “Are you saying none of that turned you on?”
“Exposing my girlfriend to other men? No, it doesn’t. On New Year’s, it was fun, and kinky, and I was drunk. A one-time thing, not a recurring show. You’re my girl. At least with your journals, I’m the only one getting access to you, no matter how sexy or sweet or weird your entries might be—”
Of course. I thought I was safe with him, but maybe that was a dangerous assumption. Maybe Finn’s finally beginning to see the truth. My journals aren’t sexy or provocative. They’re just weird. I’m weird. “Why don’t you just come out and say what you really mean?” I ask. “You think I’m a freak.”
He looks taken aback. “I didn’t say that. This behavior does alarm me a little, but—”
I take a step back, stunned when my dad’s face flashes through my mind as he tells me the exact same thing when I was fifteen. And then all the ways I’ve failed to cope. Now it’s Finn telling me I can’t make decisions about my own body, that I can’t earn money how I want. “Excuse me for wanting something for myself.”
I can’t do this. I can’t be with someone who thinks I’m strange, especially Finn, because Finn has seen the deepest, darkest corners of my mind. And if he thinks that about me, then it must be true. I turn and head for—I don’t know where. Not here. The opposite direction of his place.
“Halston.” Finn chases me down and grabs my arm. “Wait. That came out wrong.”
I whirl around. This is why I hide. I’d rather have people judge my façade than my true self. In this moment, I can’t remember why I thought it was a good idea to stop my treatment. At least then, I could blame anything on the pills, even on my mom’s death. But without that crutch, I’m just me. “You’re the one who pushed me to put myself out there. You said I was good enough.”
His mouth falls open. “I never pushed you, and you are—”
“Don’t.” He made me feel safe, confident. “Don’t touch me. Don’t follow me.” I grit my teeth against a wave of tears. I walk off so fast, I’m nearly trotting. When I’m a few blocks away, and I’m certain he isn’t behind me, I lean my shoulder against a brick wall and catch my breath. I’m not going anywhere. I have nobody to run to. Finn is that someone. He’s the first someone to care about the real me. The first to see me.
I fell in love with him for that.
I should’ve stopped to think how much it would hurt if he didn’t like what he saw.
24
The sun is setting.
I’m likely to crack the kitchen table if I keep slamming my phone down. I wish Halston would answer my texts. She can be mad as long as I know where she is. I almost followed her, but that’s what her dad or Rich might’ve done, and I think I may have treated her that way outside the museum, causing her to take off.
I’m not entirely sure.
I have to be more careful with my words. Her sensitivity spoke to me in those journals, and it’s one of the things I love about her. It also means if I hurt her, intentionally or not, the pain starts and ends in her heart.
Although she left in the first place and hasn’t returned, I know she’ll come back. This isn’t over. With Sadie, I often worried our affair could end any moment, as if I were always waiting to have the rug ripped out from under me. Halston, though, feels permanent. I’m a different man than I was when I met her only a couple months ago. I still believe fate brought us together, but I no longer want to leave my relationship in its hands. I want to put it in the work, the time, the effort to keep it healthy. And, I want to be a better photographer. Not just in terms of composition. I have to prove to Hals that I can do this, earn money at it, and support us. No more leaving it up to destiny.
So, I’d better wrap my head around the fucking lingerie. If I’d known when we started this I’d have to share my sweet, sensitive girl with so many people, I might not’ve suggested it. But here we are. She’s happy—truly happy. Her work has been validated by thousands of people. Even if she lets the negative reactions bother her, ninety-nine percent of the response is praise. How can they be wrong?
I’m in charge of the camera. I can make this lingerie thing work, and I will, with her.
I posted an image, a call for her to come home, a signal that Butter Boudoir isn’t off the table. I’d planned on keeping the photo for myself. The outer curve of her bare breast is visible and even that feels intimate. But I want her to know I’m willing to try. She was right to remind me this is a partnership. I can’t control her, and if I try, I’ll be no better than Rich or her dad.
