Jesus fucking Christ, Finn, I think.
How did you end up here again?
A FEW HOURS LATER, AFTER going for a run, showering, and cranking up the air con, I crawl into my bed, prepared to continue sulking for the rest of the day.
Instead, I get fully under the covers, bringing my phone with me, and ring Billie.
When they answer, the video screen on my end is completely dark, my face barely lit up by the phone light.
Well, look who it is. And you must’ve been kidnapped, Finn, Billie’s sarcastic tone makes a smile twitch on the corner of my mouth. I feel a flood of relief, one because I’m still capable of smiling, and two because I know my best friend will know what to say.
The problem is I don’t know how to start explaining it.
Can I ask you something?
Oh, Finn’s got questions now. You’ve not answered a single one of mine about what the hell’s going on with you, but aye, crack on. I can only see half of Billie’s face, but I can tell the phone has been propped up near the mirror and they’re getting ready to go out.
You mind Gemma, aye? What do you reckon happened with that? Despite my embarrassment, I had told Billie about her not wanting to come with me to Canada. They had let out a string of curses before assuring me she wasn’t worth it.
Why the hell are you asking me about Gemma? Who gives a flying fuck about her? Tell me about the gorgeous brunette.
Humour me Billie, go on.
Billie sighs. Ummm because Gemma’s not a nice person, that’s what I think happened.
Gemma was nice.
Not really, Finn, no. You don’t date nice women.
Of course I do. I’m racking my brain trying to think of a name, but the only name my poor excuse of a brain can conjure up starts with the letter V.
Do you really want to ken what I think?
Aye.
I think you go for wretched people because you think you’re an arsehole and that’s all you deserve, Billie has still not looked at the camera once, eyes completely focused on their makeup and their own reflection in the mirror. But you and I both know that’s not true.
I don’t say anything, which Billie apparently takes as their cue to keep piling on.
Any time someone decent and kind, that you could be serious about, comes along, you steer well clear. I reckon it’s because if they rejected you, that would confirm that you are an arsehole. Or worse—if you hurt them, even a wee bit, that’d prove your worst fear. That deep down you really are a monster.
Jesus, Billie. Didn’t know you’d gotten a master’s in psychology while I’ve been in Canada. I’m trying to absorb all of this without being completely shattered by it.
Billie, at this point, decides it’s time to get serious and picks up their phone, staring at me huddled up under my covers, and goes in again.
I’ve no idea what the fuck is going on over there that’s got you hiding in your sad jumper, but you know I can clock a vibe from a mile off. It’s a gift, a curse, my sixth sense. And this Canadian girl? She might actually be worth your time. So, aye, it’s going to be messy. Life is messy, and I think you should go for it. All you can do is keep putting yourself out there. But do not pull that shite where you bow out because you think you’re protecting her from yourself—you’re not your dad, Finn.
I flinch. Billie must notice, because they continue, in a less aggressive tone this time, You are, at worst, a total loverboy pretending to be an arsehole, all right? And besides, she’s so pretty and I’ve already decided what kind of makeup I’m testing on her when you bring her home. So kindly fuck off, and let me have this.
Well, I got the impression last night that she doesn’t feel the same. I have no sweet clue how to explain this without getting into the whole mess of us pretending to date.
Billie makes a disgusted face through the camera. No. Absolutely not. I’ve seen the photos.
But Billie—
Fuck off, Finn. Did you ask her, full stop, if she felt the same?
No, but—
