I have to shove down my pang of annoyance. Did I sometimes go out of my way to help people who were falling behind in class during our time in New York? Yeah, I did. And did sometimes my own work suffer for it? Okay, yeah, maybe. But it’s not exactly like Finn is copying my homework here.
She is trying to help—to protect me. I get that. But I don’t get her reasons for being so wary of Finn.
Finn’s not like that, I say, shaking my head at Florence. If he is a fuckboy, or was, he hasn’t been like that with me. Trust me, Flora. I made a lot of assumptions about him right off the bat, and all of them have been wrong so far.
My friend continues to frown at me.
It’s different with us, I tell her, reassuringly. And it’s not a lie because it is different with us—it’s a complete and total sham. It’s a ruse we’ve come up with entirely for our own benefit.
I think about my two conversations with Finn in the car today. They both felt so intimate, and yet…
It’s not that Finn isn’t taking this seriously, it’s more that it seems to feel a bit silly to him. Like a game. And I hate that it doesn’t feel that way to me.
I remind myself of why I’m doing this: to get my family off my back. If they think I have a boyfriend, and did it without their so-called help, then hopefully they’ll never bring it up again.
And now, apparently, I’m also proving something to my friends, who think I need protecting from the Big Bad Scotsman.
I consider telling Florence about the whole thing. But apart from the fact that would be a betrayal to Finn, it would also involve having to tell her about my family’s plan to Get Violet A Boyfriend and I feel too embarrassed to share that particular, traumatic story with my friend who’s got it all figured out and is about to get married.
You should give him more credit, I urge her. Give him a chance, get to know him yourself. He’s… I trail off, having to force the words out, realizing that this is the least I’ve ever had to lie. He’s pretty great.
Florence nods, still a little wary, and we continue our walk towards the water.
FLORENCE’S HOUSE AND THE PROPERTY surrounding it are gorgeous. Christmas Island seems like a really nice place to live, especially in the summer months.
When we finish the tour, Alba arrives but without Rose, who has split off to see her own family tonight. Everyone else was working today, and it occurs to me that I’ve been feeling a little too comfortable with my nomadic existence recently. It’s too familiar, in its own messed up way, to slip into never having a plan.
After dinner, Alistair and his brother decide to go for one last swim of the day. I didn’t bring my bathing suit, and Florence doesn’t want to get her hair wet again, so she, Alba and I decide to sit out on the porch with our beers.
Alistair and his mom—who wants to go down to the lake but doesn’t want to get into the water—start towards the path, but Finn stops beside me on the deck, his hand on my arm.
You sure you don’t want to come, Violet? His eyes are dancing with something I can’t quite put my finger on, mischief maybe. But there’s a hint of something else—like he’s making a point to do this in front of Florence. He hasn’t said much to me since we got here, but winked at me across the dinner table earlier. It took a good five minutes to cool the blush off my cheeks after that.
I’m sure, I try to sound confident in my reply, watching him saunter after his brother and mom towards the lake.
Alba, I can sense out of the corner of my eye, is giving me a look that I know means I’m about to get grilled.
How was your day with Finn? She asks it almost innocently, but I know what she’s up to.
It was great, I tell her, trying to smirk. We had a really, really nice day together.
He’s very touchy with you, she says, motioning towards my arm. For someone he’s only just met.
Oh, he’s touchy all right, I say, not entirely sure why I’ve said it.
Florence snaps, What does that mean?
Oh my god, calm down you psycho, I tell her, laying the suggestive tone on thick. I only mean he’s very affectionate. It’s nice.
My two friends stare at me, almost blankly, before Alba scoffs.
No way you’ve kissed him yet, she says, her voice laced with a hint of a dare, raising her eyebrow before taking another sip of her beer. I can tell, Vi, so don’t even try to deny it.
Oh, we’ve kissed. We were kissing all day, in fact. I can hear it—the childish lie that she’ll see right through.
Alba snorts, Okay liar.
You’ll see, I tell her, trying to convince them, and myself, with my tone.
