I guess we both thought that he’d be back at some point.
But he never was.
Ashley included him in almost every scene of the show.
Him—and Bridesmaid Two.
Hadn’t Ashley and I talked about this? She wasn’t supposed to matchmake them until the Finn thing was settled!
But she must’ve thought it was as good as settled, because she made Cooper and Bridesmaid Two do it all.
And I had to sit there and watch.
Eventually, Finn showed up and took the empty seat next to me—which Ashley had reserved for him by writing his name in thick black marker on a five-by-seven card.
“How’s the sunburn?” he asked as he sat down.
“Much better, thanks,” I said.
And then we ran out of things to say.
Which means the next two hours were just Finn and me sitting silently side by side, with Cooper’s declaration that Finn wasa frogbobbing around in my brain. In fact, in the wake of all the mean things Cooper had just said about Finn, I found myself looking at him differently. Was he prematurely middle-aged? Did he care only about status? Was he boring as hell?
The more I glanced at him in the light of the stage, the more I wondered if Cooper was right. He did seem more like a man in his fifties than a guy our age. I wouldn’t say he was balding, exactly—but that hairline wasn’t gonna win any awards, either. He’d added a little doughiness around the jawline, too. And were those long hours reviewing legal briefs preventing him from getting enough sun? Because maybe it was just the stage lights, but I’m not going to lie: He looked a little pasty.
Fine. You want me to say it? I’ll say it.
Cooper had called out the lens I’d been seeing Finn through—and made it disappear.
And now I found myself considering the very possible possibility that I’d been seeing the Finn Turner I wanted to see all this time. That I’d amplified all the good and erased all the bad. That Finn wasn’t a living legend, after all… but just an ordinary person. One who, perhaps, if I was truly honest with myself, might, indeed, havepeaked in high school.
At that thought, I put my hand over my mouth. Who was Finn if he wasn’t a total stud? Did he even exist? Once the thought came into my head, it sat down and refused to leave. Finn Turner: Not a god. Just an ordinary guy whose hairline wasn’t what it used to be. Ultimately, though, it didn’t matter. I didn’t needpeakFinn Turner to break this curse. I just neededanyFinn Turner. If he was the person I’d imprinted on, then he was the person I’d imprinted on.
I’d made my choice long ago.
Besides, I was hardly in danger of getting talent-spotted as a supermodel myself. Maybe we were better matched now. And it could neverhave been easy to justforce a man to fall in love with me. Maybe that hairline was my new best friend.
It should be areliefthat he was past his prime, I thought as we watched all the single people—but especially Cooper and Bridesmaid Two—run the highly abnormal obstacle course of variety-show activities that Ashley had constructed for them down on the stage.
What’s anormalvariety show, you ask? It’s talented people doing talent-based things. Singing. Juggling. Tap dancing.
This was none of that.
This was more like a field day.
Ashley made them do egg tosses, and piggyback races, and trust falls.
And despite the fact that none of it made any sense at all, everybody in the audience loved it.
Everybody except one.
As I watched Cooper and Bridesmaid Two pair up over and over—him carrying her and her climbing on him, and the two of them back-to-backing each other—I got crankier and crankier.
Had I just been insisting my sunburn was all better?
Maybe I was relapsing.
My skin felt raw and hot. The silky material of Ashley’s dress felt rough and burlap-y. I spent the whole handstand contest looking so thoroughly through my purse for some painkillers that I didn’t even notice that Cooper and Bridesmaid Two had won.
