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“I . . . I check my phone so often because I’m waiting for Mum to send her daily pic of Julia.”
“It’s okay, Fin,” he says softly. “I’m not against any feelings you have for him. I’m just sorry it hasn’t worked out.”
It bubbles up then, everything I’ve been trying to suppress.
One kind word, and tears burn behind my eyes. My throat stings like it hasn’t felt water in weeks.
Bennet sets his mug down, then mine, and hugs me. “It’s Saturday,” he whispers. “How do you feel about a shot of Baileys in our coffee?”
Gently tipsy, we collapse into two sun chairs in his backyard. Our view is a cloudy sky, weedy grass, and a washing line with sheets and yellow tea towels swaying. The air is salty, carried off the sea.
No taste of the river here.
“I was afraid. I couldn’t make him choose between his little sister and me.”
“You wish he’d chosen you anyway.”
I bow my head to my coffee. My sigh stirs the liquid, and it wakes against the edge of the glass. How many ripples Ethan has made in my life.
“It’s a terrible truth.”
He drinks.
The surface of my coffee has already stilled. I shiver and blow on it again. We’re silent.
Bennet bleeds for the brother he’s not allowed to know. I bleed for the brother I’m not allowed to have.
Up till now it had been dark, silent, beautiful very often—oh yes—but mournful somehow.
K. Mansfield, “Her First Ball”
I startle from my writing reverie at the sound of my cheerful ringtone. My pulse quickens and I curse as I try to find which pocket of my satchel it’s in. I almost break the zip to get to it in time.
Tom flashes on my screen, and I sink into my chair.
Of course it isn’t Ethan.
I hope my voice doesn’t carry my disappointment. “Hello.”
“Hi, Finley. I just wanted an update on how you’re doing?”
I blink. It’s not like Tom hasn’t asked how I’m doing a hundred times before, but he’s never gone out of his way to call. “You want to know if I’ve got a job yet, you mean?”
Tom’s quiet a moment. “I wanted to see how you’re doing. Check if you needed any help. Of course, I’m happy to hear about anything job related, but that is not the reason I called.”
I frown. “I don’t have a job yet, but I have another three interviews lined up this week. Thirty-hour contracts.”
“Thirty hours?”
“Decent pay. Enough to cover food and rent and insurances and a bit extra. It would allow me to start publishing my stories, too.”
“I see.”
He says it quietly, but I sense he’s not entirely thrilled with the idea. Just as he’s not thrilled with Ethan wanting to teach pre-schoolers.
The line crackles. “Have I been too harsh on you and Ethan?”
A laugh jumps out of me and I hurriedly rein it in.
“Feel free to explain that to me, Finley,” Tom says. “I’m trying to understand where I’ve gone wrong that neither you nor Ethan has called once since leaving Mansfield. You call Maata, but never me.”
“Ethan hasn’t called you?”
“He’s been avoiding me, even. Only sees Julia when I’m not around. It’s noticeable. And . . . painful.”
Oh.
“So I want to take a hard look at where I might have overstepped. Where I might have screwed up my parenting.”
“And you’re asking me?”
“You’ve always been very honest about your feelings. I figured it would be easier for you to tell me exactly what you think of me.”
“Where do I start?”
“I see.”
I slam my eyes shut. “I mean, from my perspective it feels like you’ve always wanted Ethan to become a quote ‘real man.’ He’s not allowed to dress up and play princesses, he’s not allowed to weep or whine, he’s not allowed to want to become a teacher.”
Tom listens quietly as I go through specific examples and at the end he clears his throat. “I hear you.”
“It’s his dream to work with children.”
“It was never my intention to destroy his dreams. I only wanted you both to have an education that could support you. I only want you to be sure you know the consequences of every decision.”
I nod even though he doesn’t see it. “Ethan is smart and careful, Tom. He will shine in life.”
“So will you, Finley.”
I grip the phone hard. This is the last conversation I ever expected to have with Tom. I’m not sure how I feel about it. How to handle it.
“Um, so . . . I gotta go . . .”
“Right,” Tom says. “Have a good week. Maybe I’ll hear from you sometime.”
He hangs up, and I stare at my phone, blinking.
I type a message to Ethan: You’re avoiding your dad? Why?
The why feels like taking another leap.
I delete it.
“I’ve landed. I want to check out Te Papa, let’s meet there.”
I blink at my laptop screen and the words I’ve been working on all morning start swimming. “I’m sorry, what?”
