He holds my hand on the walk down to the cabin, but about halfway there stops abruptly.
We made a deal, Violet.
Does he mean our fake dating arrangement? He must see the confusion on my face, and he reaches over to run a thumb along my cheek. I shiver.
No sex, remember? That was your rule.
For a split second I wonder if he’s holding me to this, like he wants a way out. But the look on his face is hesitant. Like he’s making sure this is something I want. I allow myself to believe that this might be the truth—that he wants this too.
What a dumb rule, I say, unable to look away from him. He comes closer, kissing that spot on my wrist again. For luck, I realize.
Tell me. His voice is hoarse, from laughing all night, maybe from nervousness. He starts again. Tell me you want this, too.
I want this, Finn. I want you, all of you, for real.
And suddenly we’re back in the cabin, a race of ripping off clothes, scraping teeth, Violet, a plea and a promise whispered in my hair again and again.
That competitive edge in him comes out, but he’s only competing with himself, trying to prove something I can’t quite name. Like he’s worried he needs to show me he’s worthy—except that would be insane.
At a final point of desperation, I beg him for more. He brings himself eye-to-eye with me, that uncertainty gone from his voice now.
Ready Violet?
A last chance to back out.
But there’s no stopping this, no undoing what we started all those weeks ago.
I give him a single, serious nod, and we take another leap of faith.
Chapter 37
FINN
VIOLET, I THINK, I HAVE real feelings for Violet, my fake girlfriend.
I sit with this, trying not to get ahead of myself.
We’d broken our no sex rule. And then broken it again. And again.
I check the time on the nightstand, half-past eleven in the morning. Violet, still asleep, must have felt me turn over to look at the clock, and by some reflex, she pulls me closer to her.
I feel both relief and a swell of impending anxiety. This might be the hangover anxiety, or hangxiety as Billie calls it, that appeared after I turned thirty. In the flurry of yesterday, Violet and I never had a chance to talk about what happens next. I never got the question out: Is this real for you, too?
But sleeping together seems like a culmination of sorts—like we’re both on the same page, and we can finally talk about doing this. That no-sex rule had only been enacted for our arrangement, as she called it. That we broke the fuck out of that rule is a good sign that she’s looking for something more.
I kiss the top of her head before getting quietly up, desperate for some caffeine.
It’s not long after the coffee starts brewing that Violet pokes her head up from under the covers.
I smell coffee, she says sleepily. Inject it into my veins, please.
I laugh, bringing her a cup in bed.
See, I think. I can be a good boyfriend even when I’m not pretending.
Thankyousweetlovelycoffeeangel, she says in a sleepy slurring of words.
You’re welcome, lovely Violet. I say this with so much affection that it actually hurts my chest.
