Finley
I don't think I've ever cried this much. The tears just keep coming, and I'm powerless to hold them back. Fran has, stunningly, stayed through all of it. She and Elly followed me up to my room when I got home earlier. I was trying really hard to hide that I'd started crying almost as soon as I left Harlyn's, but it didn't fool them. Elly only stayed a minute, made sure Fran had it handled, and disappeared, probably to call Harlyn. Which is totally fair. And Fran definitely had it handled.
She brought me water and half a roll of toilet paper, apologizing that we don't have actual tissues. And then she sat on the floor next to me where I'd curled next to my bed and talked me through the panic attack that hit soon after. I can now add her to the very short list of people who have experienced me having a panic attack. And while I'm not happy I subjected her to that, I am grateful she was there, especially since I haven't gotten a response to the text I sent Max on my way home. I didn't exactly tell him that I was on the verge of a panic attack and needed to talk to him specifically, and he's probably at work and will answer when he has a chance. But it's still disappointing and a cherry on top of an already lousy evening.
Fran eventually hauls me off the floor and tucks me into bed fully clothed. I haven't said anything to her, and she hasn't asked. And she doesn't ask now. She just sits back on the floor and holds my hand over my duvet, scrolling through her phone.
When my phone starts vibrating insistently on the mattress next to me, I flip it over and nearly start crying again at the sight of Max's name on the screen.
"I'll leave you to it," Fran whispers, gracefully standing and stooping to drop a kiss on my head. "Call if you need me. Polly will be home soon, too."
"Thank you," I murmur.
She smiles. "Anytime."
I swipe into Max's call before she's even out the door, and mumble out a "Hi, Max."
"Finley Bowers!" Max screeches. "Why didn't you tell me you and Harlyn had a fight? I would've called you an hour ago. I would've demanded Miranda give me my break early. But no, all you said in your text was 'Free to call?' That's it? Not 'I'm crying after a fight with my boyfriend and need my best friend'? Not that?"
His tirade hits me slowly, like molasses sinking into my bones, and for the fortieth time tonight, I burst into tears. "I'm sorry. I didn't wa-ant to bother you."
"Fin..." Max's voice softens to a low whisper. "No, I'm sorry. I'm just...I was worried. Am worried. Elly texted asking if I'd called you yet, and I started to get nervous. And then she told me about you and Harlyn, and I just...I called as soon as I could. I -"
"Max," I chuckle through a sob. "Rambling is my thing." I breathe deeply and swallow another lump in my throat. "Thank you for calling."
"Of course," he murmurs. "What happened?"
I swallow again and try to get the tears to stop trailing across my nose. "Harlyn wanted to talk about him moving in with us."
"And?"
"And I...God, I was an idiot, Max. I snapped at him." I sniff and reach for a piece of toilet paper on my nightstand. "I panicked. I couldn't...stand him getting upset with me. So, I just said it was up to him. And he got frustrated. And I still failed, Max. I still wasn't enough."
"Finley," Max says carefully. "Breathe. You're going to work yourself up into a panic. Take a second. Alright?" I suck in a stuttered breath. "Good. So, you didn't want Harlyn getting upset with you, why?"
"If I...I didn't want to say the wrong thing." I groan. "It sounds so stupid saying it out loud."
"And why would your opinion be wrong, Fin? It's your opinion."
"Tell that to my parents. Or Bridget. How many times have I made decisions for myself or done things that they don't like and been...lectured for it? Or iced out for it?" I yank my blankets up over my head.
Max huffs. "That's their problem, not yours. And Harlyn's not like that. He loves you. No matter what."
"Does he?"
There's a pause. "What does that mean? Has he done something?"
"No, but he will, won't he?" I clear my throat. "Everyone has conditions for their love." That truth beats against the inside of my skull, thudding with the rhythm of my slowly forming headache.
Max is quiet again. For longer this time. "Do you really believe that?"
"Right now? Yes." I swipe at my nose again with my already disgusting piece of toilet paper.
"Do you - Do you think my love is conditional?"
I don't say anything. Mostly because the lump in my throat is so hard that I can't speak past it. The defeat and disbelief in his voice is heartbreaking, but isn't his lack of communication the last few weeks proof that I've done something wrong? That I'm a bad friend? That he doesn't need me anymore?
"Finley? Do you think that?" he asks again, firmer this time.
I swallow hard before responding. "Maybe."
"Fin," he sighs. "Why?"
"I don't know."
"Yes, you do."
"I... I just...I feel like we're growing apart. And that's s-scary. Because I don't want to lose you. And I guess it-it feels like it's because I've let you down somehow. Like I'm not a good enough friend to keep you. That the only reason you were my friend was because we lived in the same town and went to the same school."
Max lets out a slightly hysterical laugh before sucking in a long breath and blowing it out dramatically. "Finley Bowers. Are you listening to me?"
"Yes."
"You are an idiot. No. Sorry." He chuckles again. "That's not true. Your anxiety is an idiot. So may I remind it of something?"
I blink a few times. "Not sure it will listen, but yeah."
"When you shut down senior year, did I screw off like you so obviously wanted me to?"
"No," I mumble.
"No. I kept showing up at your house and at your work and at your locker every single day. And do you know why?"
"Because you felt sorry for me?"
"Because I love you," he says fiercely. "Because I care about you an absolutely ridiculous amount, and because you're my best friend. Not because I felt like I had to or because I felt sorry for you. Just because I wanted to. And there's absolutely nothing that's going to make me stop loving you."
I feel my throat closing up again. "Ok."
"I know we've been talking less, and I've got new friends. But that doesn't mean I've forgotten about you or moved on to better things or that you did something wrong. It just means you're living in a different country, and it sucks, and I miss you and I'm trying to cope."
"I know you're not replacing me." It takes every ounce of energy I have to say it. It's a knowledge so deep my anxiety can't even touch it. But it's hard to accept.
"Are you sure?"
"Logically, I know you're not replacing me. And I'm so happy you've been so happy, that moving out and taking time off school and making new friends has been so good for you. I just -"
"Have a stupid brain that likes to convince you that everyone can have a good time but you." He says it so casually that I can't help but huff out a laugh.
"Yeah." It's so simple when he says it. It's so simple to look at the last few weeks and see that everything I was thinking was my anxiety warping reality into something scary. Max has always been good at that, reminding me that my anxiety isn't me. It's a part of me, but it's not all of me. "I'm sorry."
Max sighs. "Fin. I love you. And not because of anything you do or accomplish. But because of who you are." He giggles. "God, I sound like a love interest in a Hallmark movie. Maybe we should be dating."
"I'm not sure Dana would be too happy about that."
"Yeah, well, guess who else loves you? For nothing more or less than all of you?"
I squeeze my teeth together. "Harlyn."
"Yes. And it sounds like he's trying to have a healthy relationship with you by asking your opinion on things. And not because he's looking for the right answer or for you to agree with him. But because he actually, legitimately wants your opinion."
He's right, of course. Harlyn's request to discuss what would be a very big step in our relationship is perfectly normal - mature, healthy, brave. And I've been the opposite of those things, pushing him away and probably making him feel like I don't care about him at all. God, I'm a basket-case.
"Yeah."
"Is that a 'yeah, I understand' or is that a 'yeah, I'm agreeing so you'll stop talking'?"
"I hate how well you know me sometimes."
"Tough." He pauses. "So. What are you going to do about this?"
I sigh. "I'm going to wallow in self pity for just a little longer."
"Fin..."
"And then I'm going to call Harlyn and ask him to come over. And I'll explain the shittiness going on in my head. Or I'll try." The thought makes my stomach churn and the ball of anxiety in my chest grow three sizes, but I owe it to him to clear all of this up.
"Good."
I check how long we've been talking. He's probably gone way over his break time. "You should go back to work."
"Only if you're not in a downward spiral anymore."
"Nope. Upward spiraling only."
"Right. I'm unconvinced," he scoffs. "And I'm going to message Harlyn later to see if you actually called him."
"Max."
"It's only fair."
"I hate that you're such good friends with my boyfriend."
"I don't. Text me if you need anything. And be explicit about it, ok? You won't be asking too much or bothering me. I promise." He really does know me too well.
"I will. Thank you, Maxie."
He sighs. "I'm going to let that one go, but for future reference, I hate you."
"No. You love me. That was what this whole conversation was about, remember?"
"Yeah, yeah. Ok. I really should go. Miranda will kill me. We'll talk later, ok?"
I manage to squeak out a "Please."
And I can hear the smile in Max's voice when he says. "Of course, Fin. Anytime."