That’s quite enough of that, I chastise myself in an attempt to reign it in.
I sip my cider, leaning against the wall of the bar and allow myself to watch him.
His black T-shirt isn’t skin-tight, which I appreciate. I’ve never understood the appeal of tight clothing, it makes me feel claustrophobic. His hazel eyes are shining in the spotlight. The sight of his hands on the microphone sends a flood of memories, my brain having apparently catalogued every time he’s ever touched me.
Finn scans the crowd and I see the woman and her friend from a few minutes ago grab each other’s arms and scream. He has that effect on people—knee-buckling attraction. You have no idea, ladies, I think, recalling that the first time I ever saw him, he was wrapped in nothing but a towel.
He blows a kiss my way and I pretend to catch it, garnering a few hateful looks from the gaggle of women directly in front of him.
I really wish he was the asshole he sometimes pretends to be. That would make all of this a heck of a lot easier.
He’s finished what I started: many of the bar patrons have gotten out of their seats and are dancing, clapping, and cheering him on as the end of the song draws nearer.
Finn’s eyes find mine during the last few lines—he sings the final words, looking right at me.
There’s a flash of something in his gaze that feels like tenderness, but I think I’m seeing only what I want to see.
Not real, Violet.
MANY HOURS AND SEVERAL DRINKS later, the six of us are stumbling, slowly but loudly, back to our Airbnb.
I didn’t know we’d have to climb Mount Everest, I wail, fully panting now, as we trudge up what I’m certain is the steepest hill on earth. How does this city have so many hills?
I bloody love Halifax, says Finn, who has taken a turn for the drunker, after several different people bought him shots following his karaoke performance.
I’m half-carrying him back, his arm draped around me. His Scottish accent has gotten thicker with every drink. He keeps muttering things I can’t hear, and wouldn’t be able to understand anyway, while planting kisses on the top of my head.
Not real, not real, not real. I keep repeating the words with every painful, uphill step.
We get back to the Airbnb and I realize the others are already inside. I fight the urge to rest on the steps out front, instead trying to pull Finn upstairs with me. But he only stands firmly in place, shaking his head.
I reckon I’m cursed, Violet. His words are so low, so guttural, I don’t know what to make of it.
What do you mean? I ask him, not sure if this is a laughing situation or not. The alcohol in my own system has the giggles threatening to bubble up any moment.
It’ll go to shite, always does. ‘Specially last time, His words come out in a slurred, rasping laugh. But it happens every time I try to make somethin’ serious wi’ someone.
With who? That’s the first thought that comes racing through my own buzzing brain, wondering again who it is he’s trying to impress. Especially last time. That all but confirms there is, in fact, someone else he wanted to prove to that he could be a good boyfriend. The thought makes me actually queasy.
I’m worried that if I open my mouth I’ll ask him about it, and frankly I don’t want to know any more—don’t want to make this a reality, even though I’ve long suspected this was the case. So I wait patiently, moving that swoopy piece of hair out of his face.
He looks down at me with such hunger in his eyes, his chest rising and falling with heaving breaths. For a split second, I wonder if he’s about to kiss me again. I can’t ignore the surge of wanting that comes with the thought.
But instead, he leans in to whisper closer to me, An’ ah dinnae want tha’ to happen wi’ you, darlin’ Violet.
I’m trying to understand what he’s getting at, and seeing the confusion on my face, he repeats, slower this time, Ah dinnae want this to go to shite.
It can’t, I say, almost laughing, feeling a sudden need to distance myself from this entire conversation. It isn’t even real, Finn. So you have nothing to worry about.
He steps back from me like I’ve hit him.
O’ course it’s real. Oh boy, this is the alcohol talking.
Come on, let’s get you upstairs, get a nice glass of water, huh? That’ll help.
He shakes his head at me. Tell me why it’s no’ real.
Is he serious right now? My own brain is too fuzzy to figure out how to handle this.
