Harlyn
The Universe is laughing at me. I thought that after going to Windsor Castle with Finley and the huge success that was movie night on Saturday, we were back on track. Despite the fact that we still haven't had a chance to have a deep conversation about the possibility of moving in, I was feeling pretty good about everything. And then Monday came around, and Finley seemed to be even more distant than he had been. It really threw me off after how affectionate he was on Saturday night, especially.
Tuesday was...fine. A long day alone in the dusty attic of Highton House without seeing the sun followed by an evening in the University library pouring over old books for hours and hours wasn't ideal. But it was heaven compared to Wednesday. It starts well enough. Mum surprises me with pancakes for breakfast, and my morning class goes smoothly. But when I get to work, I discover that I'll be working for the rest of the day - a good four hours - with Brandon and Hannah in the basement sorting through and polishing silver dinnerware.
Three weeks ago, this would've been a mild inconvenience, an annoyance. Something I'd politely chit chat through and then vent to Finley about later. But after The Incident, and after three weeks of avoiding them as much as I possibly could, I have a feeling it's going to be less of an inconvenience and more of a confrontation. Thankfully, Marty stays with us for a bit to direct us, and I put my earbuds in as he's leaving. So, I'm able to ignore them for the most part, staying in my little corner of the butler's office, sorting the serving ware, and setting them aside to take to the kitchen to polish.
That works for a whole hour and a half until Mr. Wentworth shows up. He does this rather often to "check in." Normally, he checks in with just Marty, probably because he doesn't trust us to be doing anything at Highton House. But he sweeps into the butler's office, and I realize a fraction of a second too late that up until about nine months ago, this was his office. And I'm sitting in his chair. I pull out one earbud and pause my music.
"Mr. Wentworth, hi," Hannah greets from where she's pulling wine decanters from the cabinets on the other side of the room, always trying to butter up any adult within a five mile radius.
"Hello," Mr. Wentworth drawls, raising a single eyebrow. Sometimes I wonder if that eyebrow is permanently stuck like that. "Dr. Williams told me that you had made it down here today. Thought I should come supervise. Make sure you are polishing correctly. This was one of my duties, you know." For a moment, he actually looks nostalgic. "I guess you haven't actually made it to the polishing portion, have you?"
I shake my head. "No, not yet. Just sorting and cataloging now." I hold up the notebook sitting on the desk next to me. "But I'm about to take all of this into the kitchen and get started."
"Well, I will help." Mr. Wentworth hooks his walking cane over his forearm and slides his hands under one of the stacks of serving trays.
"Oh, that's alright, Mr. Wentworth," I argue, shooting out of the desk chair.
"Can't have you polishing them incorrectly, can I?" he says, sweeping out of the office and toward the kitchen before I can say anything else.
Hannah smirks at me. "Good luck with that."
I don't respond. I just gather what I can carry from the rest of the serving platters and dishes and hurry to the kitchen. Mr. Wentworth has already started polishing away at a large platter with the microfiber cloth and silver polish that was waiting on the broad butcher block island. I think just the island is the size of our entire kitchen.
As soon as I set my portion of dishes down, Mr. Wentworth hands me another cloth and starts prattling on about proper polishing techniques - don't polish in circular motions, rinse in warm water right after, dry and buff shiny with a soft cloth. There are boxes with a bunch of old towels and other packing materials in the kitchen, too, and Mr. Wentworth instructs me on some of the best ways to properly pack the dinnerware. I try to make meticulous notes as we go so we know which box has which stuff.
It's almost enjoyable until Mr. Wentworth, halfway through polishing a butter knife, says, "So... how is your...boyfriend?"
I freeze in the middle of dunking a gravy boat in the sink, heart sinking. And because - as stated before - the Universe is laughing at me, Brandon and Hannah come waltzing into the kitchen, arms full of glasses that Brandon had been busy bringing down from the servery upstairs. They share a quick look and start stacking the glasses next to the sink.
"Yeah, how is your boyfriend, Evans?" Brandon repeats, grinning far too widely.
"He's fine."
"Just fine? Trouble in paradise?" Brandon presses, turning the water on to fill the other side of the sink.
I pull a breath in through my nose. "No, we're good. Just wondering why you're asking about my private life at work."
"Hey, we talk about our private life at work all the time," Hannah says, leaning around Brandon to look at me.
"You two are dating." I try to keep my expression as neutral as I can. "You bring your private life to work."
"You did bring your boyfriend to work," Brandon reminds me.
I huff. "Can you stop saying 'boyfriend' like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like it's some big secret or something. I'm bi. I'm dating a guy. Move on." I grab for the drying towel and start buffing the gravy boat, wishing that I had a good reason to stick my earbuds back in. I could probably get away with it, but it doesn't seem like a great idea.
Brandon rolls his eyes like I've made a corny joke. "Oh, come off it, mate. We just want to know more about you."
"No, you want to tease me. You're not interested in actually getting to know me or my boyfriend or how we met or anything like that. You want to pass off your homophobia as interest."
That shocks the three of them into silence, and they all turn to look at me. Even Mr. Wentworth looks scandalized. It's the most emotion I've ever seen on his face.
"Evans, we're not homophobic," Brandon says. I try to gauge his facial expression. He really believes that. And maybe he's not. Maybe he is ignorant or going off what he's been raised on or heard at school or work or whatever. But I'm really not in the mood to educate him. I don't feel like I have the knowledge to educate him yet. And is it my job to educate him? "I just can't...believe that you're gay. That's all. Hard to wrap my head around."
I squint at him. "I'm bisexual, actually, as I told you. And you literally saw me holding hands with Finley a few weeks ago. We've been dating for, like, eight months."
"Alright, what's the difference between gay and bisexual? Bi? Like you date girls, too?"
I'm having a really hard time believing he doesn't know what bisexual means. I understand not knowing all the vocabulary around the LGBTQ community. I don't really yet either. But bisexual? That seems pretty straightforward.
"Yes. I've dated girls in the past. I've had crushes on boys in the past. And I'm dating Finley now."
Brandon frowns as he carefully lowers a glass into the soapy water. "Does that, like, count, then? Is that why you don't look gay?"
I sigh. "No, it definitely counts. And, as Finley told you, there's no one way to look gay."
"Can you be an historian and be gay?" Hannah muses. "I mean, aren't you just going to look into every little thing and see it as queer? I've had so many people in my classes who insist on pointing out all of the smallest inklings that someone in history was gay or whatever. Even if it doesn't matter whatsoever to the topic we're discussing."
"You think I'm going to be biased toward history because I'm bisexual?" I ask. This is new. I never thought someone would think I'm unqualified to be a historian because I happen to also like boys.
Hannah shrugs. "Maybe."
Before anyone can say anything else, Marty appears in the doorway huffing and puffing. "How is everything - Oh, Mr. Wentworth. I didn't realize you were still here. You don't need to help with that. That's what these kids are paid for."
"Well, it's what I was paid for for almost forty years," Mr. Wentworth says. And he almost - almost - smiles. "Just reliving the glory days."
"If you insist. How's the progress going?" Marty moves farther in the room. I'm able to gather myself enough to fill him in on what we've done so far. He tells us to finish up what we're currently polishing or cleaning and then we're good to go.
It doesn't take me long to rinse the last of the silverware that's been polished and leave before anyone can make more comments about my sexuality. Unfortunately, it also doesn't take Hannah and Brandon long to finish either, and they get to the office just as I'm pushing my timesheet back into my cubby.
"Got any plans with your boyfriend, Evans?"
I'm not sure how he doesn't see it. The stress on the word boyfriend? The tone? The smirk?
"No, actually. Not tonight." But God, I wish I did. "And honestly, I don't really feel comfortable talking about this kind of thing at work."
"Sensitive," Hannah whispers.
Brandon chuckles. "Yeah, that definitely sounds -"
"Look, I don't care what you think about me," I cut in. "I just don't think it's appropriate to talk about at work. See you tomorrow."
And then I leave. And by the time I get to the bus stop, I feel like I'm going to pass out. I'm shaking so badly that I almost drop my phone trying to scan my pass getting on the bus. The bus ride feels like it takes three times as long as it normally does. And I can't organize my thoughts into any sort of coherent order. It's the exact feeling I had all those weeks ago when Finley came to work. It's like I'm hanging upside down by my feet - all the blood is rushing to my head, and I can't feel my toes.
When I get off the bus, the first emotion that finally surfaces is anger. I'm not a person who gets angry often, so it's not a feeling I like very much. It just sits in my stomach, swirling and stewing and burning. I'm not even sure what I'm angry about. All of it? The casual gaslighting? The teasing that's not really teasing? Mr. Wentworth bringing up Finley? I'm not surprised Brandon and Hannah leapt at the chance to rib me about everything. But Mr. Wentworth bringing it all up in the first place? I expect a bit more professionalism from someone almost three times my age.
By the time I get home, the shaking has gone down, but it still feels like my entire body is vibrating. I kick off my shoes in the entryway, ignore Mum's customary "Harlyn, is that you?" from the living room, and book it to my room. I curl up in my bed and pull my comforter over my head. I want to be anywhere else. I want to not be me. I want to not exist. That thought stops my breath halfway out of my chest, and I have to fight my lungs to work properly.
There's a knock on the door, and Mum calls, "Harlyn?"
I swallow hard. "M'fine, Mum."
"Are you sure, darling?" The door creaks open a few inches.
"I'm fine," I say as firmly as I can. "Just tired."
"Alright." She pauses. "Dinner will be ready soon."
The door clicks closed, and I narrow all of my focus to my breathing. If I fixate on that, I can't fixate on the mess in my head. I can't fixate on the anger and the gnawing exhaustion in the pit of my stomach. I can't fixate on how much I wish Finley was here to hold me and kiss me and tell me everything is going to be alright.
That rips a sob from me, and my carefully measured breathing stutters out of control. I lose track after that - of time, of how many tears I cry, of the many places my mind whirls through.
An indeterminate amount of time later, there's another knock on my door, and I manage to croak, "I'm not hungry, Mum."
The door creaks open again. "It's me, sweetheart."
In shock, I sit up and whip around to stare at the door, just to make sure this isn't some sort of delirium dream I've conjured up. But no, there's Finley, closing the door behind him and padding to the side of my bed.
"What are you doing here?" I ask.
His eyebrows furrow. "Your mom called me."
"She shouldn't have bothered you."
"It's not a bother, sweetheart," he murmurs. I wish I could believe that. I wish I could not read his tightly crossed arms and the tension in his shoulders as me bothering him, inconveniencing him. I wish he wasn't waiting for my lead, that he'd reach out first - because I don't think I can. I wish I could convince myself that it's all fine. "She's worried about you."
"I'm fine. It's nothing."
Something shifts in his eyes, the uncertainty disappearing and something like determination taking over. He sinks onto the bed next to me and takes my face in his hands. Relief floods through me instantly. "It's not nothing. What's going on?"
And it's the look in his eyes that gets me. He's looking at me like he hasn't looked at me in weeks - like I'm the only person in the entire world. And then the guilt slams into me. I'm not the only person in his life. He has things going on. He shouldn't have to take care of me like this. I mean to say all of that, but instead, I curl forward, bury my head in his chest, and let out a pathetic sob.
Immediately, his arms are around my shoulders, and he's murmuring, "Oh, Harlyn. It's ok. I'm right here." in my ear. And I let out all of the pent up anger and fear and guilt and hopelessness. After a couple minutes, once my crying has downgraded from sobbing to light whimpering, he shifts just so and lays us back on my pillows. And he gathers me tightly in his arms and presses my face to his neck. "I've got you. I'm right here. I'm right here."
***
I sleep fitfully, dreaming of towers of silver platters and rows of smirking Brandons. When I wake up, my face is still squished into the side of Finley's neck and the room is much darker than it was when I passed out.
"Finley?" I mumble, still blinking the last of sleep from my eyes.
His fingers comb through my hair. "Hi sweetheart."
"You stayed." I pull back just far enough to look up at his face.
His hand drifts to my cheek, and he makes a slightly offended, slightly amused face at me. "Of course I stayed."
"How long was I asleep?"
"Mm. About an hour and a half." Finley shuffles a little so he can look at me straight on but keeps his arm securely around me like he's afraid I'm going to pull away.
"Don't you have anything better to do than sit here with me for an hour and a half?"
"Nope," he says simply, his half smile melting through the rest of my grogginess. "Besides, I've been doing stuff on my phone. No big deal."
"Good. Didn't waste your time." I attempt to pull away, but he hooks his other arm around my shoulder before I can.
"Hey. You're never a waste of time." His face is just serious enough that I believe him, and I relax back onto his shoulder. Unfortunately, I relax right back into a puddle of drool.
I groan. "I drooled on you. I'm so sorry." I crinkle my nose, and now I'm very aware of snot and tears drying on my face. "And I'm all snotty and wet. I'm disgusting." It's almost too much again, all of the events that lead to this moment flooding back into my mind. I have to fight back tears.
But Finley just laughs and sits us up. "It's ok. Here." He grabs a tissue box on my desk and nearly knocks over a glass of water, both of which definitely weren't there when I fell asleep. "Your mom brought these up," he says when he sees my confusion, handing me a tissue.
"Thanks." I scrub at the dried tears with no real result and grimace when I blow my nose. And I grimace harder when I realize just how big the patch of drool I left behind is.
"It's ok," Finley says again, chuckling and shucking off the sweatshirt. "It's your sweatshirt anyway."
I take a closer look at said sweatshirt and crack my first smile of the day. It's the sweatshirt he borrowed on my birthday. I hadn't realized he never gave it back. "It is."
"There's that smile I love." He touches the corner of my mouth with one hand for a second before using both hands to toss my sweatshirt across the room toward my laundry basket. He misses miserably but doesn't seem to care. All of his attention is on me for the first time in what feels like forever.
"I can't believe Mum called you," I whisper, scrunching and un-scrunching my fist around the tissue.
"Well, she said you really worried her. Didn't know what to do. And... well..." He looks down at his lap a bit sheepishly. "When I didn't show up, she decided to see if I knew anything or if we had had a fight or something. She was really surprised when I told her you hadn't said anything to me. I was, too." He says the last part hesitantly like I might snap at him.
I try to ignore the tension once again filling every muscle in my body. "I didn't-didn't want to bother you."
"You said that earlier," he says, curling his fingers around my wrist and kneading the taut tendons until I relax my hand. "You're not a bother, sweetheart."
"I'd beg to differ." I can't keep the bitterness out of my voice.
Finley searches my face for far too long. It feels like he can read my mind. Again, I don't hate the idea. Maybe if he reads my thoughts, I won't have to say them out loud. Instead of saying anything, he plucks the used tissue from my hand, tosses it on my desk, and tucks himself behind me like I always do to him - one leg around my back, the other under my knees. I can't help the little breathy laugh I let out when he slides his arms around my waist. He's still just a hair shorter than me even though I'm sunk into the mattress farther than he is, so he still has to look up at me. But he holds me so tight that I feel like I'm completely enveloped. Is this really what it feels like to be held like this? I'm a genius.
"Mm, I understand why you like this," he muses, pecking my jaw. Then he drops into an English accent. "Now, what's in your head, love?"
I snort another laugh and curl up so I can push my face into his neck again. "A lot."
"That's my line."
"Well, you stole mine. I thought I'd steal yours."
"Mm. Well, what do I always say? Take your time."
I just breathe for a moment, reveling in the feeling of Finley's hand running up and down my arm, the kiss he presses to my head. And then I start talking.