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Eighteen months earlier
We must have got out of bed at some point in the days following theGlowparty. There would have been essential bathroom breaks and occasions when we’d have had to perform such necessary tasks as eating, drinking or showering. Yet all I can remember of those days is being held in Finn’s arms, and the feel of his body on top of mine, or mine on his.
We were leisurely, and we were frantic, taking our time and then crazily cramming in every experience and sensation as though they might suddenly be snatched away from us. We spoke in a nonsense language that only new lovers are fluent in.
It was the best weekend of my life.
‘I don’t want tomorrow to come,’ I whispered into his shoulder, tasting the salty tang of perspiration that glistened on his body from our lovemaking. ‘I’m scared that when we let the real world back in, it’ll break the spell,’ I confided in the darkened bedroom.
Finn twisted to prop himself up on one elbow beside me. ‘It won’t, not if we don’t let it,’ he said softly. He kissed me then with a tenderness that made the words ‘I love you’ incredibly hard to suppress. They’d threatened to escape more than once over the last two days, until I could no longer trust my tongue to safeguard my secret. It was ridiculous to be talking about love this soon, but the words were hovering on the other side of a very thin curtain that kept wafting open whenever I looked into Finn’s eyes.
He reached down to brush back a damp strand of hair from my forehead. ‘You’ve no idea how scared I was of doing this.’
‘Why? Did someone tell you you’re bad at it?’ I teased with a smile I knew he could see in the moonlit room. ‘Because I have to tell you, you’re really not.’
Finn’s chuckle was low and throaty and ignited a chain reaction between my legs. Practically everything he did turned me on.
He sobered then, his eyes fixing on mine in the shadowy half-light. ‘I didn’t want to screw this up. And I have a long track record of doing exactly that.’ For a man who outwardly appeared to have the Midas touch, it was a curious confession that made no sense. I waited for more, but instead he bent his head and nuzzled his lips against my throat. It was a distraction technique, but even as my body arched instinctively towards him, I realised there were secrets in his past he wasn’t yet ready to share.
*
The sound was low and long, perforating my dream and tearing me from my sleep. It was the moan of the wind, the call of a gull, the cry of a child.
‘Dad…’ The word echoed in the darkness.
I sat bolt upright in bed, pushing aside the tangle of sheets that Finn’s thrashing limbs had tugged free from the mattress. He was still writhing beside me, his head twisting on the pillow so violently, whiplash felt like a real concern.
‘Finn?’ My voice was hesitant.
He moaned again and then spoke clearly. ‘Dad!’
I’d seen people have nightmares before, but nothing like this. This was real night-terror stuff, and for a moment I panicked. Was it dangerous to wake him, the way they said it was with sleepwalkers? Should I just let the dream run its course?
‘No, Dad!’ Finn cried again, and I acted without thinking, not for the thirty-five-year-old man sharing my bed, but for the child he’d once been.
I touched his shoulder, shocked to find it drenched in sweat even though the room was cool. ‘Finn, wake up. You’re having a bad dream.’
I shook him, surprised at how long it took to free him from wherever his subconscious had taken him. He looked startled and disoriented as he stared up at me. Something was glistening on his cheek, and while it might have been sweat, it looked more like tears. He swiped a hand across his face, and it was gone.
‘Are you okay? You were having a nightmare.’
‘I’m fine,’ he said brusquely, sitting up and swinging his legs out of bed in a single manoeuvre.
‘What was it about?’
‘Nothing. I can’t really remember it,’ he said, getting to his feet. I wondered if he knew that the muscles of his back had tensed with the lie. Finn was halfway across the bedroom, heading for the door. ‘I’m just going to grab a glass of water. Go back to sleep.’
I flopped back on to the pillows, staring with unseeing eyes at the ceiling. Part of me realised Finn probably wanted to be alone, to decompress from the horror of his dream, but I could still hear his words echoing from its depths. He’d cried out for help and it had something to do with his father, and that felt too important to ignore.
I glanced at the illuminated display on the bedside clock. Three a.m. The middle-of-the-night hour when things always seemed far worse. It was Christmas morning. All over the world there’d be children struggling to sleep, but my concern wasn’t for the ones waiting for dawn so they could tear open their stockings. It was for a child I’d never meet, who still called out for a father who’d died more than twenty years before.
I crossed the bedroom, shivering in the early-hours chill, and reached for the first thing my hand fell on to cover my nakedness. It was Finn’s T-shirt, which had been thrown carelessly over the chair – by me, I now recalled. I slipped it over my head, revelling in the softness of the fabric that still smelt of him. It reached the top of my thighs, just long enough for modesty.
The flat was in darkness. I looked first in the kitchen and then padded silently into the lounge. He was sitting on the very edge of the settee, as though poised for flight. He glanced up as I entered but said nothing. His hair looked dishevelled, as though fingers had recently raked roughly through it. I debated turning on the light but imagined Finn would prefer darkness. I compromised by reaching for the plug socket and switching on the Christmas tree lights. They twinkled in cheery defiance of the mood.
I decided against joining him on the couch but dropped instead to my knees before him. ‘Are you okay?’ I asked again.
Finn’s lips twisted. I think he was trying for a smile, but they couldn’t quite manage it. ‘Yeah. I’m fine.’
