Finley
Harlyn wakes up twice during the night, but he doesn't actually throw up, which I take as a good sign. When I wake up to my eight am alarm, I shut it off as quickly as I can, so it won't wake Harlyn. I carefully extract my arm from under his head and tuck the duvet back around him. He doesn't even move. For a wild second, I wait to see his chest rise and fall under the blankets, just to be sure.
When I pass through the kitchen on the way to the bathroom, I run into Elly. She's looking a little less bright eyed and bushy tailed than normal. Not that she's much of a morning person to begin with.
"Morning, babes," she says, sipping from her freshly poured cup of coffee.
"Morning, El." Once I've done my business, I join her at the dining table where she's scrolling through her phone and nibbling on toast. "You're up early. Ish."
She arches an eyebrow at me. "Not all of us start work at noon, Finley." I stick my tongue out at her. "Very mature. Anyway, turns out 'I was partying too late last night' is not an acceptable reason to call out of work."
"Learn that the hard way, did you?" She sticks her tongue out at me this time. "Very mature, El."
"Yeah, well, that's why I only had a couple drinks last night. Unlike some people's boyfriends." She raises an eyebrow again over the edge of her mug.
"He's, uh...yeah. He's dead to the world up there." I slouch against the table. "I'm going to make him some eggs and toast. I don't think he has class until eleven today, and he shouldn't have work. But I've got class in an hour and a half, so I gotta be quick."
Elly nods. "Did he talk to you last night?"
"He did. I tried to get him to wait until this morning, but he insisted." I bite my lip. "The, uh, thing with Brandon and Hannah really freaked him out. But, of course, he's Harlyn, so he didn't want to inconvenience me or anyone. Didn't want to downplay my bad coming out experiences. Didn't know how to talk about everything he was thinking about."
"Oh, Harlyn," Elly says with equal parts fondness, exasperation, and worry.
"I know. But I think he'll be ok." I push aside my own lingering anxiety to sort through when I'm alone. I don't need to worry Elly with it now.
As Elly heads out for work, I start scrambling some eggs and making toast. Fran's boyfriend, Nate, strolls past me shirtless to get to the bathroom, and I try not to stare. He's a good-looking guy - tall, taller than Fran, tan, and fit. Not just "British fit" as in good looking. "Fit" as in he looks like he works out every day. I still don't know much about him, but from what I can gather, he does manual labor for a construction company and wants to work his way up to project management. Fran is head over heels for him.
Speaking of Fran, she comes through the kitchen only a few moments later wearing a silky robe and a smirk. She freezes when she sees me and blushes to the tips of her ears.
"Oh, morning," she chirps, looking between me and the bathroom door. The shower starts up, and a slow smile creeps across my face. She blushes deeper. "Shut up, Finley."
"I didn't say anything," I say, still grinning. "Go get your man, girl."
She rolls her eyes but immediately slips through the bathroom door.
I'm still grinning when I get up to my room with two plates of food. I only have forty-five minutes before I need to leave for class, so I change as quickly as I can and then sit next to Harlyn with my food. I'm torn between wanting him to wake up so I can say goodbye before I leave and wanting him to stay asleep so I can watch him. I've watched him sleep before, so it's nothing new. But it still makes me all giddy.
I'm halfway through my eggs when his eyes blink open, and he groans.
"Morning, sleepyhead," I say, reaching out to play with his curls. "How are you feeling?"
He groans again. "Nauseous."
"That'll happen." I waft my plate under his nose. "Food?"
"I just told you I'm nauseous, and you offer me food?" he grumbles, his nose wrinkling.
"Mm, someone is not a morning person today."
He squints one eye open. "No dip, Sherlock. My head feels like it's going to crack in half, I'm about to lose what's left of my stomach contents, and I feel like a particularly sadistic dentist stuffed my mouth with way too many cotton balls."
"Well, apparently you're awake enough to sass me," I quip. I don't often see Harlyn's snark in full force.
And even now, his eyebrows dip inward, and he mutters, "Sorry. Just in a bad mood."
I set my now empty plate on my night table, slide down until I'm face to face with him, and smooth out the furrow in his brow. "It's ok, sweetheart. I'm just giving you a hard time. I don't think I've ever seen you that drunk or hungover."
"Mm. Yeah. Not good choices were made last night. I'll pay for them all day, I'm sure. Starting with having to explain to my mother that I stayed here last night because I was so sloshed I didn't want to disappoint her." He blinks both eyes open this time, still squinting against the sunlight. "I guess I should explain to you first, shouldn't I?"
"You explained everything last night."
"Not why I got so drunk. At least...if I did, I don't remember." As I'm shuffling through our conversation last night, trying to remember if he said anything, he continues. "I got nervous when we got up to the dance floor about people...seeing us and... I dunno. Saying something like Brandon did. Or look at us funny. Which is silly. There were other obviously queer couples there. But I was so...self conscious. Drinking helped. It wasn't healthy. I know that, but -"
"Hey." I take his face fully in my hands. "No more apologizing from you, ok? You've gone through your apologies allotment for at least the next two weeks." I fix him a look that stops him before he argues. "Now, I want to talk more about this. I want you to process with me and talk it out and all of that. But I have to leave for class in fifteen minutes. And I really don't want to leave you here miserable. So, why don't you eat a little, drink some water? And then you can stay here as long as you need to before you head home or to class or whatever. How does that sound?"
Harlyn nods and slowly sits up while I get his plate of food for him. He grimaces again but after forcing down a couple bites, he starts to relax. I watch him eat every bite, handing him his glass of water every few forkfuls. When it's time for me to leave, I kiss him soundly just to convince him that everything's ok.
I guess I'm trying to convince myself, too. The last four days have felt like an eternity. We've gone longer without seeing or talking to each other, of course, but it felt different. I didn't know what was going on in his head. I didn't know if he was rethinking everything - me, us. We've had it...not easy exactly. But it's been smooth the last few weeks. We've found a rhythm. And once again, I found myself wondering if I wasn't enough, just like I seem to be for other people. Wondering if the only reason he's stuck with me is because it's been relatively...easy, for lack of a better word.
It's absolutely ridiculous, of course. He stuck with me long-distance for four months. He told me over and over that no matter what happened, we'd figure it out. He even thought about moving to the States if me coming here didn't work out. That's commitment. That's...That's love. That's getting pretty close to unconditional love, a concept that I have a really hard time wrapping my head around.
It doesn't help that I haven't talked to Max on the phone in at least two weeks, and I haven't heard from Bridget in twice that long. Max and I text, and I've been seeing Bridget's cheery updates of her first semester on Instagram and Snapchat. But I feel a little old news. And my anxiety is doing its "I told you so" dance, reminding me that this is what I was afraid of when I first got here - all summer actually. That Max was only my friend because we've been friends forever, so he feels like he has to be. That Bridget has only jump started our relationship because she wanted to commiserate about Mom and Dad.
That Harlyn was only with me still because I moved here, and he felt pressured.
There's this tug of war yanking back and forth in my head, giving me literal headaches. Even after everything Harlyn told me last night - all of the completely understandable, valid, caring, and heartbreaking reasons he stayed away from me - I can't stop my brain from listing all of the buts and what ifs. Even as Harlyn and I have a few more conversations over the next couple of days about everything that went through his brain and all the things he's worried about - none of which include anything about wanting to break up - and him apologizing over and over even when I tell him not to, I can't turn off the line of thoughts dancing through my mind at every opportunity.
I know I should talk about it - to Max or Elly or most definitely Harlyn. It's what I've been telling Harlyn all week - he can tell me anything, no matter how insane or seemingly stupid or silly or embarrassing. So why can't I tell him this.
It all comes to a head Thursday night when I get a call out of the blue from Bridget. I'm sitting in my room, working on a paper and listening to Harlyn and Elly giggling one floor down where they're studying in Elly's room, when my phone lights up with Bridget's name. I can't remember the last time Bridget called me.
I swipe to answer the call and put her on speaker. "Bridg?"
"Fin?" I can't completely read her tone over the crackling connection, so I lean closer, giving her my full attention.
"Everything ok?"
"No," she sighs. Ah. One of her venting sighs. Of course. I try not to get ahead of myself. Maybe she really wants to vent about school and needs her big brother to help. I could deal with that. I'm not thrilled about our relationship existing solely on complaining but...it's a start, I guess.
"What's up?"
She blows out a long breath. "Mom and Dad are insisting I come home for Thanksgiving in a couple weeks."
"That's-That's pretty normal, Bridg."
"You're not coming home for Thanksgiving."
I roll my eyes. "Because I'm in England. It's too expensive to only come home for a weekend. Plus, I don't have those days off from classes like you do." I pick up my pen and click it a few times, just to have something to do with my hands. "And this is the first time Mom and Dad have been empty nesters. I'm sure they miss you. Miss both of us."
"I don't think they're capable of that sort of emotion."
I whistle. "God, Bridg. Chill."
"Fin, you know what they're like."
"They're still our parents. They still..." Love us. Do they? I think they do. They have a strange way of showing it. And it tends to be...a bit finicky when you don't live up to their expectations of your life. But they love us. They have to. "They're trying, Bridg."
She scoffs. "You said that all summer. They need to try harder, in my opinion."
"Maybe. But they just want their daughter home for Thanksgiving. You can stomach a day, right? Just go down for Thanksgiving Day, stay the night, and then head back to school."
Bridget is silent for a long time, and if it weren't for the fact that I'm staring at her name on my phone screen still, I'd think she hung up. Finally, she lets out another long breath and says, "I thought you would understand, Fin." And then she hangs up.
And I'm left with a swirling pool of dread and regret in my stomach. I defended them. Again. Why is that always my fall back? Why couldn't I acknowledge that Bridget doesn't want to spend even one day alone with them when she told me how much she wanted - needed - to get out of there all summer long? This just seems so small. It's just Thanksgiving. But would it just be Thanksgiving for me? Would I want to spend all of Thanksgiving Day alone with Mom and Dad?
And then that one part of my brain that's been way too overactive the last week speaks up.
Why is it that she called? To complain. Again. She hasn't called you in weeks, hasn't texted. And only now she calls you because she wants to vent, as usual. And now she's mad because you didn't agree with her. You weren't enough. You ruined your relationship once again.
I slap my hands over my ears and rest my forehead on my desk. But I can't sit still. So, I start pacing around my room in tiny little laps. Harlyn appears in the open doorway a few minutes later, eyebrows creased.
"I can hear you thinking from downstairs, love. What is it?" he asks, moving forward to take my elbow. I shrug away from his hand. The thought of being touched makes my skin crawl.
"Nothing. I'm fine," I snap.
Harlyn, undeterred, snags my elbow this time and turns me to face him. "Hey. Slow down. What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I'm fine. Just leave me alone," I snap louder, and I can see the effect instantly. Harlyn's face falls, and he clicks his mouth shut.
"Sorry, love. Of course. I'll let you have some alone time." He leans down to press a quick kiss to my forehead. "Text me if you need me, alright?"
And then he leaves. And it's only after he closes the door that I realize I don't want him to go. But I can't seem to move. I just sink to the floor against my bed and breathe, "Shit."