“Part two of our date,” he replies with a smile.
“Part two?”
“Part two.”
Done waiting, he gently grabs my hand and leads me over to the barn. He lets go to open the large wooden doors.
Now, it’s not that I don’t expect much from Finn. From what I hear, he’s quite the romantic, but I just never expected that to be directed toward me. Yes, I’m playing the role of girlfriend, but that’s all it is, a role. There’s nothing real about it, nothing worthy of me receiving such attention from him. This is effort meant for someone real.
And yet, here it is, right in front of me…effort.
Rows and rows of fairy lights hang from the rafters, the balcony railing and even over some of the hay bales. Somewhere, there’s a speaker playing some Alex Warren, and right on the floor in the middle of the barn is a blanket spread out, a picnic basket placed on one corner and a wine cooler with a bottle of wine in the other.
Flowers sit in watering cans around the room: a mixture of peonies and roses that light up the space without taking anything away from the soft flow of the fairy lights.
The entire thing is just…breathtaking. I don’t even know what to say. The words remain lodged in my throat, jumbled and useless, because what can I possible say to describe how beautiful this all looks.
“Tonight has really made me worry about you. This evening has probably been the quietest I’ve ever seen you.”
“I just—” I’m still struggling to find the words. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything, really. I just know that you always like to.”
He holds a hand out, inviting me to sit on the picnic blanket. I cross my legs beneath me, still staring at the room as if I’m looking at theMona Lisafor the first time.
He sits beside me, long legs splayed out in front of him. He reaches for the wine, pouring the amber liquid into two glasses that were beside the cooler. When I see the label, a warmth coats my chest. That’s my favorite wine.
He hands me a glass and I take a sip as I see what else he’s done.
I finally notice that the flowers don’t seem to be real at all. Every single one of them is?—
“Where did you find crocheted flowers?” I ask.
Finn shrinks in on himself. “I-uh-didn’t find them.” I let him take his time to elaborate. He takes a gulp of wine before adding, “I…made them.”
I look around at the number of flowers that are sitting in various vases. We must be talking maybe twenty-five to thirty, at least?
“You’re trying to tell me that you made every single one of these flowers yourself?”
The blush along his neck deepens to a dark red.
“Once you figure out how to do it, it’s actually pretty easy. I found it quite calming in fact.”
There really is another side to Finn that I never took the time to find or appreciate.
“But why did you do this?”
“It’s not obvious why?” Finn asks.
“Should it be?”
He scoffs, looking away briefly. “I don’t get you sometimes.”
“What’s not to get?”
“You’re always so observant. Nothing really gets past you, and yet…it’s as if you don’twantto see it.”
“See what, Finn?” I ask, a little exasperated.
