Prologue
FINN
HERE’S THE THING I’VE NEVER admitted to anyone: I am a hopeless romantic.
And I’ve always fancied the idea that I deserve a really good love story.
But yearning for true love is not exactly a trait common amongst men in their thirties, which is why I’ve shut my bloody trap about it.
I didn’t get like this by watching my parents or from anything in my actual life. Instead, it started on a misty, damp day in Edinburgh when I was ten years old. I’d ridden my bike, along with my best mate, down to the big Blockbuster store in Newington—probably to rent Braveheart for the fifteenth time.
But they didn’t have it. So we picked out something new, recommended to us by the lady working there.
It’s an adventure, she had said, giving us a wink.
We’d asked if it had swords and she had confirmed that aye, it did. That was good enough for us. If she had told us the truth, that this film was a love story, we wouldn’t have touched it.
But I soon found myself under a spell, staring up at the telly unable to move. When it ended, we rewound the tape and watched it again.
And although nothing in my life has proven that true love exists, I’ve never really been able to shake the idea that it does. And I blame that godforsaken film for all my shite ideas about love.
I couldn’t help it then, and I still can’t help it now: I love the idea of forever.
Of course, I haven’t found it yet. Truth be told, I’ve never really even had a proper girlfriend.
And here I am, thirty-three years old and desperate for something more serious, but unable to find it.
Part of the problem, I think, is that you wouldn’t know a lick of this from meeting me—wouldn’t even be able to guess. I have a reputation for being a wee bit of a prick. Sometimes in conversations I will hear the words coming out of my own mouth and think, who is this arsehole speaking?
All the other stuff, the mushy bits, are buried down deep—under layers and layers of sarcasm, disdain, and attempts at stoic masculinity.
But I seem unable to stop putting myself out there, latching onto some pathetic hope that this time, things will be different.
Gemma snuggles into my chest, sighing contentedly. I’m pure done in after that, Finn.
I laugh, pulling her closer to me. I like Gemma. She’s funny and pretty with dark blonde hair and a sultry voice that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. We met at a pub a few weeks ago and have been seeing each other regularly. Not exactly the most romantic story in the world, but hey, at least the chemistry part is sorted.
I decided tonight that I was going to invite her with me to Canada. I’m leaving next week for a month because my brother is getting married. My perfect, wonderful older brother who I still admire from afar, even with the lingering tension between us.
I think it might be a stretch for Gemma to come along for that entire time, so I’m going to suggest a week. And that this is a sign we should take things to the next level, get serious. I hope she agrees to it—it would be good to have an ally to help me stomach any jealousy that my brother is getting his happily ever after, when it still feels like an impossible dream for myself.
So, I start, having prepared, at least, my intro to this little spiel. I’m heading to Canada later this week, you mind?
Aye, I do mind, she sulks, teasingly. A month without you in my bed feels too long, Finn.
Well, about that. I was thinking you should come as well.
She chuckles, not catching that I’m serious. Very funny.
I mean it, Gemma. I want you to come with me.
She stills. The hand that had been tracing up and down my chest abruptly stops. Shite, I’ve given her a right scare. I jump back in, my tone soothing. Not for the whole time, of course. But fly over a few days before, come spend a week in Canada and come to the wedding with me. We’ll have a right good time, I promise.
She sits up at this, looking at me now like she has no idea who I am.
Are you taking the piss right now?
I put a hand behind my head, propping myself up. Why would I be? I like you, Gemma. I like being with you. I think we could be great together. And I mean it. I can see it so clearly in my mind’s eye—the potential here for something real. Something permanent.
