Harlyn
"What would you like to watch?" I ask, sliding onto my bed next to Finley with my laptop.
He shrugs. "I don't care. What do you want to watch?"
My nose twitches, but I brush past it and pull up Netflix instead. Thankfully, I paid attention when he added Inventing Anna to his watch list. He smiles softly and sinks into my side when I slide my arm around his waist.
It's been a week since Thanksgiving, and I only have a few days until my self-imposed deadline to tell Elly and the girls whether I want to move in or not. And I still haven't brought it up with Finley again. I tried. Sort of. But he practically fell out of his chair trying to get out of his room to avoid me. Between studying and work, it was only the second time we had the chance to spend time together. And once he came back from "getting some water," it was tenser than the train ride from Paris last term. I left soon after.
We have to talk tonight. He seems to be a bit more comfortable, tucked against the wall on my bed and eating Mum's beef stew. But it still takes me two episodes to work up the courage. He takes a bathroom break, and I psych myself up for when he gets back.
He gives me such a soft smile when he gets back in that I blurt it out as soon as he closes the door. "We need to talk about me moving in."
"Um," he stutters. His entire body is stock still, and he flicks his eyes to the door behind him like he might bolt again. "We did."
"Finley, don't run away from me, please," I say, holding my hand out to him.
He hesitates but eventually shuffles forward and takes it, sinking to the edge of the bed. "I wasn't going to run away."
I give him a look. "Right. You looked like a gazelle staring down a lion."
"Sorry," he mutters.
"It's alright, love. It's just...it's important." I slide my laptop onto my night table.
"I know it is. And we already talked about it," he says again. "It's up to you, Harlyn. It's your decision."
I blink at him. The annoyance that's been building up for the last few weeks boils over, and I huff. "Can you stop doing that?"
He whips his head up at me. "Doing what?"
"You've been shrugging off my questions for weeks."
"No, I -" He cuts himself off, and takes a deep breath, looking like he might melt into a shaking puddle.
I frown. "Is something the matter?"
He shakes his head. "No, I just don't get how this has anything to do with me? It's up to you."
"But it has everything to do with us," I splutter. "Do you care about us?"
A look of utter bewilderment and a hint of hurt cross his face as he stares at me. "Of course I do."
"Really? Because it doesn't feel like it."
"Harlyn..."
"No, you...you've been saying 'it's up to you' or 'whatever you want.' And not just about the moving thing. About everything. What we watch. Where we go on dates."
"Well -"
I try to reign in the anger in my tone, but it seeps through anyway. And I snap, "It can't always be up to me!"
I immediately regret raising my voice when all I can see is fear and sadness on Finley's face. I don't have a chance to apologize or even drop my scowl before anger flashes through his eyes, and he mutters, "God, Harlyn, what do you want from me? I've tried to be perfect for you. And it's not enough, is it?"
"What does that mean?" I ask as he stands from my bed and starts gathering his stuff.
"Exactly what I said." He stares at me, exhaustion washing all the other emotions away. "I won't be enough for you. For anyone."
And then he hurries out of my room, down the stairs, and out the front door. I'm still staring at my now empty bed when Mum pokes her head in.
"Finley left in a hurry. Everything alright?" she asks.
"I don't know," I whisper. "I think we just had a fight."
Mum's face drops. "Oh, Harlyn."
"Yeah. It's...fine. We'll figure it out." I don't really believe that, but Mum brightens a little and bobs her head.
"Of course you will. Fights happen." She tilts her head to the side. "Anything I can do for you, darling?"
I shake my head and shake it harder to clear it. "No, I'm fine. I'll - I have work tomorrow. I should get to sleep."
She ducks out with another sad smile, and I slide down my pillows. And it all crashes into the pit of my stomach. Anger. Sadness. Confusion. I feel dizzy with the rush of emotions. And nauseous. And like I might cry. I'm definitely going to cry.
My phone vibrates, and I tear through my sheets to try and find it. It's Elly texting. Not Finley.
Elly: Finley just came home crying. Wasn't he at yours? What happened?
I take a stuttered breath and text back.
Me: We fought. Is he alright?
Elly: He's fine. Fran's with him. How are you?
Me: Not great.
Elly: Oh, Harley.
Elly: I'm on my way.
Elly: I'll be there in twenty.
I can't make my limbs move, so I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling.
I don't know what to make of this whole thing. We've fought before. Our miscommunication at the end of last term culminated in a snappy conversation on the stairs of some random museum in Paris. But that seemed straightforward compared to this. That was simply us not talking to each other. We were so new and unsure of where we stood with each other. At the time it felt devastating and confusing. Now, though I still have a hard time forgiving myself, I can see how it happened. We just...weren't on the same page. This seems like we're in totally different books.
I'm still simmering in anger and confusion when Elly barges into my room, still unzipping her heavy coat and huffing like she ran a marathon. She doesn't even pull her coat off all the way before launching herself at me.
"Oof. Careful, El. You'll crush me."
"Sorry," she groans, rolling off the bed and finally ridding herself of her coat. When it's successfully flung over my desk chair and she's sat herself cross legged at the end of my bed, she gives me a searching look. "What happened? Finley was in a spiral, and you look like you just found out about a death in the family."
I squeeze my eyes closed. Finley's spiraling. Finley's probably having a panic attack, and I'm not there. I think I'm the one who caused it. But I don't know how.
"I don't know, Elly," I whisper. "I'm so..." I scrub my face. "Frustrated. I'm frustrated. That's the word. I've been trying to figure it out. I'm frustrated."
"And why are you frustrated, babes?" She gazes at me.
I huff and sit up against my pillows. "I just wanted him to say something. I wanted him to give me some sort of-of opinion, thoughts, anything. He's so smart, and even if at the end of the day, he says it's really up to me, that's fine. But I need something. It's...both of us. It's not just a me thing."
"I assume you asked him about you moving in again," she says slowly.
"Oh. Yes." I backtrack a little. "Sorry. Yes. I told him we needed to talk about it again, and he brushed me off. Said we'd already talked about it, and it was up to me. So, I...snapped a little. It's not the only thing he's been brushing off the last few weeks. He's been letting me make decisions on all sorts of things - where we eat out, what we watch, when we hang out and for how long. It's...well, frankly it's exhausting. But it's also...it's not how I want our relationship to be, Elly. I want a partnership. I want to decide things together." Elly opens her mouth, but I keep going. "And I don't mind it if, every once in a while, he's tired and doesn't want to make a decision. But on the things that matter...God, I feel like I'm going insane. I'm not going insane, right?"
Elly huffs a sympathetic laugh. "No, you're not. I've noticed it, too. He's been...off. Quieter. Keeps to himself more. Apologizing all the time - well, more than usual."
"Exactly! Anyway, I snapped. And then he snapped back. He never snaps. But he said something about being perfect and that he's not enough or something." I bury my hands in my hair. "I mean, what the hell does that mean? I'm too much? I expect too much? I...I press too much?" A stone sinks in my stomach. "I'm too much, aren't I? I've always been too much. I try too hard. I chased him away."
There's a brief moment of silence before Elly scoffs, "You're an idiot, babes."
I drop my hands and scowl at her. "Wow thanks."
"Not about all of it. Most of what you just told me is very mature," she assures gently. "But you're dead wrong about why Finley snapped at you."
"What do you mean? I asked for too much. I pushed too hard. And he...he left."
"And you don't see any flaws in that particular argument?" She raises an unamused eyebrow.
I give her a petulant glare. "No."
"Well, I do. Do you want to hear them?"
"You're going to tell me no matter what I say."
Both of her eyebrows shoot up. "First off, you're being a child. Chill."
"You just told me I was being mature and grown up."
"In general, yes. Right now, you're acting like a teenager." She fixes me with a glare, and I drop my pout and motion for her to go on. "Have you stopped to consider that Finley hasn't been brushing off your requests for an opinion because he doesn't care but because he cares a lot?"
I squint at her. "You don't see any flaws in that argument?"
"Oi! Stop it. And listen." I clench my jaw shut. She nods approvingly, and her face falls into a soppy sort of smile, the kind she reserves for rom-coms. "Finley Bowers adores you deeply. It's written all over his face every time he looks at you. And I have a feeling he doesn't want to lose you as much as you don't want to lose him."
"Then why doesn't he care about me asking his opinion?"
"I think he cares a lot. And he doesn't want to say the wrong thing. So, he defers to you."
"But I don't want a specific answer. There's no wrong answer."
Elly rolls her eyes. "Oh, Harlyn, think, will you? Of course you know that. But I have a feeling he's had plenty of experiences with people who did want a specific answer, did want him to make a specific choice. And when he didn't, they got upset with him. Remind you of anyone in Finley's life?"
A million conversations with Finley flash through my mind. His parents. Bridget. The way he shut down when he was moving in and his parents barrelled past his preparations like they didn't even matter. The way he's talked about missing Max and that he hasn't called. Bridget's call ranting about his parents and how it didn't go well. The look on his face at Thanksgiving dinner, like he thought he didn't deserve it. It all comes clear in my head like a terrible car wreck I can't look away from. He defers to me. He takes my lead. He tiptoes around me like I might yell at him if he does even one thing different or wrong. God, I want to strangle all the people who have ever made him feel like he can't say what he wants or needs and have made him feel like he has to earn love.
"Oh" comes out in a whoosh of air, and I let my eyes drop closed.
"Yeah. Oh. I don't think this has anything to do with you." She pauses. "Well...I can't say that. Obviously it does since you're in a relationship with him. But I don't think he's brushing things off because he doesn't care about your relationship. I think he's brushing things off because he's afraid you're going to think his choice or opinion is wrong and dump him. You may remember that his head isn't exactly kind to him most of the time."
"That's an understatement," I mumble. "Ugh, Elly, I just wanna - kill anyone or anything that hurts him."
"I know."
I blink my eyes open. "What do I do?"
She takes a deep breath through her nose. "Well, he's with Fran, now. He mentioned calling Max. Why don't you both take some time to breathe?" I open my mouth, but she shakes her head. "He'll be fine, love. He has Fran. And Max. They'll calm him down and take care of him." Carefully, she slots herself next to me against the pillows and pulls me close. "You two will set everything straight. I promise."