I was wrong. It wasn’t real. It was only temporary, only good for the summer.
Shellshocked and completely at a loss for what to do now, I start walking. I have no idea where I’m going, but it doesn’t really matter, as long as I get far, far away from here.
Violet! I hear him call after me and I wonder if I’m only imagining it. I will hear that voice in my head for as long as I live.
I don’t want to have this conversation with him; don’t want to hear the rejection head-on.
Footsteps approach and I actually think I might pass out. I can’t get a breath down properly. I force myself to look up at him—feeling his presence beside me now.
Is that guilt written across his face? There’s something else there, beyond surprise, but I don’t know what it is.
What are you doing here Violet? He sounds almost angry, his voice making me feel raw.
I shake my head, wanting to shake off the shame coating every inch of me. Violet, you are such an idiot.
Never mind. It’s all I can manage to get out.
Never mind? His tone is incredulous now. He reaches out to put his hand on my arm, but I pull away from him.
I—I was wrong, I thought—I thought you meant it, I am mortified to hear, rather than actually notice, that I am sobbing now. I can’t look directly at him; can’t stand to see whatever expression is written on his face.
He runs a hand through his hair, scoffing. Thought I meant what?
That it—that this—that it was real, I choke out. But of course it wasn’t, and of course you’re with someone else now and I—
What the fuck are you talking about?
I blink up at him in surprise at the tone. The hurt there. Anyone else would see it as purely anger, but I know Finn better than that.
The woman at the bar with you.
He stares back at me, like he’s rearranging tiles on a Scrabble board and finally seeing the words hidden there. That’s Billie’s sister, Chloe. I’ve known her since we were kids. His eyes are darting rapidly across my face now. She and her girlfriend come to all of Billie’s shows.
Oh. Oh. The words are out of my mouth before I can think them through.
Then, who was it you were trying to prove something to? Even though I don’t want to hear the answer, I have to know. That night in Halifax, you said every time you tried to be serious with someone, it didn’t work out—especially last time.
There was someone, before I came to Canada, he starts and I feel myself flinch away from him, my mind on an instant loop: I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.
As if on instinct, he steps towards me. His eyes roam over my face, and he looks how I feel—somewhat defeated, like a deflated balloon. He has dark circles under his eyes like he hasn’t been sleeping well either.
It’s not what you think. Listen to me Violet, he starts, tentatively reaching out his hand to take mine. Something about the tone of his voice gives me a sliver of hope. It wasn’t about making her jealous so that I could win her back. But she was the most recent example of all the rejection that had come beforehand. That no one had taken me seriously, or wanted something more from me.
He steps forward, moving closer to me and taking a deep breath before continuing. Sure, did I want my Mum to lay off and my brother not to think of me as a complete twat? Aye, absolutely. But more than anything, it was about proving it to myself. I thought if I practiced being a good boyfriend, I could be one. But you and me—our arrangement—well, I didn’t really have to try at all. It just worked.
He swallows again, breathing in like he’s trying to collect himself. And despite how it started, that whole mad idea to pretend to be together, even though we were supposed to be pretending, it meant something to me.
I let him run his thumb along the tattoo on my wrist—let him tuck my hair behind my neck, his fingers warm across my skin.
So there was never anyone else. I’ve not felt anything like this for anyone else, he says, and I feel my heart pounding in my chest: real, real, real. Only you, Violet. And I’m hoping you’re here because it was real for you, too.
I take a breath, before admitting, It was always real for me.
There’s so much more I want to say, but my throat is tight and it doesn’t matter anyway—Finn’s mouth is already on mine, his hands in my hair, both of our breaths ragged with relief.
And this, I think, is what it’s supposed to feel like.
Epilogue
