Finley
It's been almost two weeks since the Evans family dinner, and I haven't brought up weddings or our not-really-conversation about the future since then. I haven't really known how to. But I need to. My anxiety is poking at me, prodding me to say something. Anything. And, as was obvious by how quickly I devolved into a rambling mess the other day, I can't do it in person. So, I text Harlyn when I have a bit of downtime between classes in the campus cafeteria, hoping he doesn't think I'm completely crazy to address this over text.
It's not the first time I haven't been able to get my anxiety thoughts out in spoken words. Over the summer, there was a day that we called, and my anxiety was so high. But I couldn't seem to force the why out of my mouth. And I ended up messaging it all while still on the phone with him. He was so patient with me then. Hopefully he'll be patient with me now.
Me: Ok. About weddings. Can I say something?
Harlyn: Of course, love. Shoot.
I force some of the tension out of my shoulders and start typing out the thoughts that have been rattling around in my head for a week and a half.
Me: I know we don't need to know this now, of course, but you know how I obsess about the future. And I don't want a repeat of last term when there was no talk of the future at all, and it got to both of us. And it was not good.
Me: I never really thought about being married because I didn't let myself think about it. Especially after my parents didn't take my coming out all that well. I couldn't imagine bringing someone home and definitely couldn't imagine marrying a boy with my parents there. Still can't to a point actually.
Me: I want a future with you whatever that looks like. You are the first person - boy or otherwise - that I've thought about having that kind of future with. Not friends forever like with Max. But a romantic future. The first person I've ever imagined being married to. It doesn't have to be marriage if that's something you don't want. Something we don't want. But something. A future.
Me: And I agree. I think we're pretty far from marriage anyway. We're still getting to know each other. In some ways it feels like I've only been dating you for a few weeks not months. We haven't even done like...other stuff if you know what I mean. Stuff beyond kissing. We haven't really talked about it, have we? I'd like to do that with you at some point.
I let out a squeak and blush to the tips of my ears when I realize I just typed that out and sent it without even thinking. And then I blush harder when I realize I'm in a half full cafeteria, sitting not five feet from a girl who definitely heard my gasp and saw me blush. I give her a fleeting smile and duck my head back over my phone.
Me: God did I just actually send that? I don't mean today or tomorrow. I'm just...opening up the discussion. I think it's important to communicate. And it's especially important for my anxiety to communicate about the future.
Me: I think that's all I have to say.
Me: I mean for now.
Me: Thoughts?
God, I'm a rambling mess even over text. I wait a painful five minutes trying to distract myself with a book before Harlyn responds.
Harlyn: At work. Give me five minutes to type something up.
Me: Yeah. Of course. Sorry. Forgot you have a life outside of me and my anxiety ramblings.
Almost as soon as the text is delivered, my phone rings. Harlyn. Right. Here we go.
"Hello?" I start gathering my stuff, so I don't have to have this conversation in front of the girl who probably already thinks I'm strange.
"Finley Bowers. What have I told you about apologizing for things you don't need to apologize for?"
"To not to," I groan, scooping my last book into my bag and heading for the exit. "I didn't...I just didn't think. Of course you're at work."
"I wasn't trying to make you feel bad, love. I didn't want you to think I was ignoring you."
I stop at a bench in the courtyard and sink onto it. "Oh. You know me too well."
"Apparently not well enough to anticipate that that would make you think you were bothering me."
"No," I sigh. "My anxiety is a special kind of...jumpy today. Not your fault."
Harlyn chuckles. "Well, I figured hearing that you're not bothering me would help calm you down a little. Also, I know you probably texted all of this for a reason. But I'm not as eloquent in writing as you are. Can I say my thoughts over the phone? Or do you have class now?"
"I have time."
"Perfect. Alright." He huffs, and his voice moves just slightly farther away. "Can you still hear me?"
"Yeah."
"Good. I put you on speaker. Trying to carefully package this set of China. I swear, it's the seventh set I've had to pack up. How many sets of dishes does one family need? We've used so much bubble wrap." He clears his throat. "Anyway, as for your texts...I'm glad you told me all of that, love. Even if we're not really close to any of this yet, it's good to talk about. Especially, as you said, after our miscommunication situation last term, it's good to...talk about this. Obviously. Now I'm rambling. I guess I'm just saying you can talk about this stuff whenever, alright?"
More tension seeps out of me. "Ok."
"Alright, now that we have that taken care of..." There's a rustle of bubble wrap and he swears under his breath. "I didn't sign up for bubble wrapping priceless, breakable dinnerware. I'm stressed."
"I think that's exactly what you signed up for, sweetheart," I chuckle.
"Yeah, well..." He sighs. "Anyway, marriage. I've...I don't know. I've never really thought about it." He pauses. "Actually, that's a lie. I have. Did. A long time ago. When I thought that, you know, I'd go to school, get a good job, settle down with a nice girl..."
"Right."
He huffs a laugh. "That all changed when I met you. In a good way. I thought...this sounds silly. I thought about moving to the states for a bit, actually."
I choke on nothing. "What? You never told me that."
"No, I didn't. But I considered it. If you didn't get into Christ Church and stayed in the states...I thought maybe I'd start looking for jobs there for after I finished Uni. Come live with you. If...If you were ok with that."
I take a moment to drink that all in, trying to picture it. Harlyn getting a job at a museum or a university. Maybe even at Illinois State where I was planning on going before I moved here. Us living together. Or at least close. What would that have been like? And why am I so surprised that Harlyn thought about it?
"I would've...definitely been ok with that."
"Well, that's good to know." He laughs again. "Maybe we'll end up there someday. I'd love to see your world. Not just see it. Live it. Live there. Experience it. But that's-that's a discussion for a different day. I just..." I can imagine him pausing and tilting his head to one side. "I want you. That's...That's the future I want, Finley Bowers. Whatever you'll give to me. Marriage. No marriage. A black and white tux. Jeans and a t-shirt. We can figure it all out, yeah?"
My lungs are having a hard time working, but I manage to choke out, "I love you so much."
"I love you, too."
"You know exactly what to say." I suck in a breath, eyes flitting to a group of people filing out of the cafeteria behind me. "I want to kiss you so bad right now."
"Well, you have class until two, right?" I hum. "Do you work tonight?"
"No."
"I'm here until five. Why don't you come by? I'll finally give you a tour."
I smile. "Yeah. That sounds great."
***
Harlyn has shown me pictures of Highton House. Almost every day, he brings home a story or photo of the house or an item or a person. He's like a little kid at Christmas, and when I finally get to Highton House for the first time, a thrill tingles down my spine. There's still a little anxiety rattling around my head, but after talking to Harlyn earlier and distracting my brain with class, I'm feeling better. And the prospect of seeing Harlyn light up while taking me through the house is so exciting.
I text Harlyn that I'm here, not entirely sure where he is or where I should go. The house is so covered in scaffolding that I can't even see a door, and there are three temporary buildings off to the side where I know the offices and storage are. But I don't know which is which. And I'm starting to get a little self-conscious in front of the construction workers when Harlyn comes swinging around the side of the house, a grin splitting his face when he finally spots me.
He drops a kiss on my forehead. "Hi, love. How are you doing?"
I know he means after our call earlier, and in response, I push up a couple inches to kiss him as deeply as I can while being very aware of the construction workers still watching us. "I'm good. Better. Thanks to you."
"Nope. You don't get to credit it all to me," he says, shaking his head, arms still linked behind me. "You brought it up even though it made you nervous. I'm glad you did. You can do that anytime, love. I promise."
I know that. Deep down, I know that Harlyn would never make me feel bad or weird about anything I talked to him about. He wants me to be open with him. Now I just need to convince my anxiety of that.
"I know," I breathe. "Thank you for listening."
"Anytime. Now..." He turns, an arm still around my shoulders, and sweeps his other arm at the house. "This is Highton House. Looks a little worse for the wear at the moment, but the outside at least will look better in a couple weeks. They should be done by then."
Harlyn fills me in on the planned renovations. There's not much - some roof patching, painting, some wood replacement that's started to rot away. On the inside, there's even less, since they want to keep it as original as possible. It's a protected historical site, too, so apparently it took forever to get the go ahead.
"That's why I didn't start until September. I think I told you that. They were getting all the legal and logistical stuff taken care of."
Harlyn tugs me around to the back of the house. We enter through the back door into the drawing room. It's exactly how Harlyn described - high ceilings and elaborate wallpaper and plush furniture that probably cost more than my tuition. It's breathtaking.
Harlyn shuts the door and stands behind me. "I know it's not as impressive as walking in through the foyer, but I'll show you that soon."
"No, it's...it's amazing," I breathe.
He tells me story after story about nearly everything in the room. Everything has a history. A lamp from a duke. A book from a princess. A couch from Belgium. A side table from Egypt. And then he pulls me through the rest of the ground floor doing the same thing. There's a painting in the library that takes my breath away, and the dining room has a table so long it could fit a whole football team.
"This is where I've been working the last few days." Harlyn points at a half full box of wrapped dishes on the table. "The infamous China set."
"Are there really seven sets? Or were you being sarcastic?" I ask, running my fingers along the top of one of the chairs.
Harlyn chuckles. "You got me. It's not actually seven. But at least four."
After showing me said dinnerware and the plate he nearly dropped when he was on the phone with me earlier, he pulls me upstairs. We take less time in these rooms, because they've mostly been cleaned out. The furniture is still there, draped in sheets or plastic. But the odds and ends that Harlyn was pointing out downstairs are gone, wrapped and meticulously documented in the temporary storage buildings outside. They'll be sorted through, some donated to museums and most redisplayed in the house once everything is deep cleaned.
On the third floor, we run into an older man in a white button down and brown slacks who's pouring over a stack of books in a bedroom. I instantly know that this has to be Marty, the slightly scatterbrained but sweet professor who Harlyn had his interview with and has some funny story about at least once a week.
"Hey, Marty," Harlyn says.
Marty's head snaps up. "Ah, Harlyn. Thought you were long gone by now."
"It's only four," Harlyn chuckles.
"Oh." Marty moves his sleeve and peers at his watch. "Wow. So it is. I should probably open a curtain or something. Get some natural light. Oh, who's this?"
Harlyn pulls me farther into the room. "This is Finley."
"Ah. Of course. Wonderful to finally meet you, son." He scurries forward to extend a hand. In my slightly shocked state, it takes a fraction of a second for me to take it.
"Oh, uh, nice to meet you, too." I sneak a glance at Harlyn, who's blushing slightly. "You've been talking about me?"
He blushes deeper. "Maybe."
"My fault, I admit." Marty returns to his stack of books. "We were working in the same room a couple weeks back, and I got nosy. He had nothing but good things to say, of course."
"Obviously. There's no bad."
I can't help the bark of laughter that bursts out, and I slap my hand over my mouth. "Sorry."
"It's alright. Life isn't all rainbows and butterflies," Marty says, aiming a soft smile at us. "But the way Harlyn talks about you? That's special."
Harlyn is still blushing. "Alright. We're going to move on. Thanks, Marty."
"Of course. I know it's not five, yet, but you can head out once you're done showing him around," Marty says, already nose deep in the book again. "We'll see you tomorrow."
"Thanks!" Harlyn chirps, grabbing my arm and dragging me to the next room. He starts chattering about this room before I can give him more of a hard time, so I drop it. But I smile through the rest of the rooms on the third floor and our quick stop in the attic. I'm proud of him for talking about us, being so open about our relationship at work - especially a new job.
He drags me across the courtyard to the carriage house, a two story, u-shaped brick building surrounding a dirt lot. He rattles off the history of this part of the estate, too - when it was built, what it was used for. The land that used to be part of the Earldom was all sold off years ago, so the house, the carriage house, and the little bit of land they sit on are all that's left of the Palmer Estate. Everything in the Carriage House is mostly untouched, and I get distracted by piles and boxes and things poking out that catch my eye. We stop in the middle of the courtyard when we're done, and Harlyn gestures to the Carriage House again.
"They're trying to decide if they're going to restore the Carriage House to how it was - or close to it, anyway - or if they're going to convert it to a wedding venue with some suites on the top floor for the wedding party and family to stay in."
I only just hear a couple scuffling footsteps before someone behind us drawls, "I think His Lordship would turn over in his grave just thinking about his home being opened up to...weddings." I spin around with a slight smile, thinking whoever this is is joking about the late Earl only to find a tall thin aging man wearing a three piece suit and a scowl. "It was not one of His Lordship's wishes."
Harlyn stutters. "Of course. Right. It's not a done deal."
"It had better not be."
"I'm not -" Harlyn stops himself, and I can see he's barely concealing an eye roll behind the smile he flashes the man. "Mr. Wentworth, this is my boyfriend Finley."
The man - Mr. Wentworth, who's name I vaguely remember as belonging to the Earl's butler - moves his eyes to me and looks me up and down. His left eyebrow is just slightly raised, his entire body has tensed even more than it was, and I'm almost certain that if he was just a fraction less polite, he would have downright sneered. But he is endlessly polite. "A pleasure to meet you, young man. I was just coming to have my weekly check in with Mr. Williams and spotted you out here. I thought he would be with you."
He directs the last sentence to Harlyn, who looks incredibly uncomfortable but answers calmly. "He was in the Jasmine bedroom last we checked."
Mr. Wentworth nods to each of us, spins on his heel and strolls to the back door of the house. I search Harlyn's face and find relief and some of that lingering unease as he watches Mr. Wentworth's back.
"You ok, sweetheart?" I ask, sliding my hand into his. He nods, forces the corners of his mouth up, and leads me to the first temporary building. This is the office. It's small and has a couple desks, some filing cabinets, and a set of cubbies. There are also two people leaning against said cubbies and obviously tidying themselves after a round of snogging.
"Evans!" the guy exclaims, flattening his hair with a palm. "Didn't, uh, didn't expect you to be done already."
Clearly. This must be Hannah and Brandon.
Harlyn drops my hand and wanders to the cubbies, pulling his backpack and sweatshirt out of one along with a piece of paper. "I didn't think you two were still here."
Hannah shrugs, smoothing a hand down her sweater. "I forgot to write down my hours today, so we came back after class." She turns her gaze on me and looks me up and down in almost exactly the same way Mr. Wentworth just did. "Who's this?"
Harlyn is scribbling furiously on the piece of paper he has laid on one of the desks. I want to tell him that he doesn't have to tell them that I'm his boyfriend. I want to catch his eye and smile and tell him it will all be alright. I want to get him out of here. But I can't see his face, so I start talking before he does.
"I'm Finley. You must be Hannah and Brandon. Harlyn's mentioned you." I leave out the boyfriend part and the context in which Harlyn mentioned them, still trying to get Harlyn's attention and communicate through pure force of will that he does not have to come out to these bozos if he hasn't yet just because I'm here. They were so busy trying to make it look like they hadn't been making out in their place of work that I don't think they noticed us holding hands. I can tell he's already shaken from Mr. Wentworth's less than helpful reaction, and there's an anxious pit in my gut with how they're going to react too.
"I didn't know you were friends with an American, Evans," Brandon says, grinning at me.
Harlyn slides his paper back into the cubby and looks Brandon dead in the eye. "He's my boyfriend, actually." The entire room stills, and my eyes are glued to Harlyn's. There's defiance there, but fear, too. And I want nothing more than to grab his hand and hold on tight, remind him he's not alone, that I'm not leaving. That these two don't matter. But I'm glued to my spot by the door.
Brandon looks between us, finally settling his gaze on Harlyn with a look I haven't seen since high school, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Wait...you're gay?" he chuckles.
"I'm bisexual, actually," Harlyn says, finally joining me by the door.
"What's the difference?" I open my mouth to answer, but he talks right over me. "You don't look gay. He does a little." He nods to me, throwing an arm over Hannah's shoulders. "But not you."
"What is that supposed to mean?" I mumble.
Hannah hasn't taken her eyes off me. "What was that, darling?"
"I said... what is that supposed to mean?" I repeat, louder this time. "You don't have to look a certain way to be gay. Or bisexual. Or lesbian. Or anything. You don't have to look a certain way to be straight, do you? So, what do you mean by me looking gay?"
Brandon grins wider, and I realize too late that he's the type of person that's egged on by a reaction. Any reaction. I should've just pulled Harlyn away when I had the chance.
"Oh, you know..." Brandon drawls. He raises a hand and flops it at the wrist, sticking a hip out. "Gay. You know."
Of course. The gay hand flip strikes again.
I roll my eyes. "Whatever." Without saying anything else, I snag Harlyn's hand and yank him out of the building. He doesn't say anything. I don't say anything. I just keep pulling him until we make it to the bus stop, praying that Brandon and Hannah drove themselves and aren't going to end up on the same bus. We're the only ones, though, and after staring back the way we came for a few moments, I sit Harlyn on the bench and stand in front of him.
"Are you alright?" I ask, resting my hands on his cheeks. "Harlyn?"
"M'fine," he mumbles.
"Look at me?" He lifts his head, and his eyes break my heart clean in half. Tears are dripping onto his eyelashes, and he glances around self consciously. I pull his head into my stomach and squeeze. "It's ok, sweetheart. I'm right here."
He's still holding back, and I don't blame him. The bus will be here any minute, and no one wants to be openly weeping on public transportation. Sure enough, the bus pulls up far too soon. Harlyn scrubs at his face before getting on with a smile at the driver. Again, he doesn't speak, just stares out the bus window. I scramble to put together a plan in my head and before we get too close to my stop, I lean into Harlyn's shoulder.
"Why don't you come with me? We can...cuddle for a bit and... talk if you want to."
He nods, still staring out the window. "Alright."
We get off a few blocks from my flat and walk once again in silence. When we get to the door, Harlyn stops on the front step.
"Actually, I'm going to walk home."
"Harlyn -"
"I'm fine. I promise. I just...don't feel like talking to the girls about all of this." He curls his shoulders forward. "I don't really feel like talking to anyone about this."
I've never seen him shut down like this before. I don't have a protocol for this. What do I do? Do I push? Do I insist? Do I let him walk away?
I face him fully and take his hands. "Are you sure? We can just go straight to my room. We don't have to talk to anyone. You don't have to talk to me."
He gives me half a smile. "I'm sure, love. I think walking will clear my head. We'll talk about it later. I promise."
"Ok. If you're sure." I tug him down to peck him on the cheek. "Text me when you get home?"
"I will." He starts to turn away, stops, turns back. "I love you."
"I love you, too."
I watch him walk down the street and around the corner, itching to follow, to pull him into my arms and not let go. But I have to trust his boundaries. I have to trust that he'll talk to me when he's ready. Even if it's hell watching him walk away.