Heartbreaker(22)

“So what are we doing today?” he asks.

“We aren’t doing anything. I have chores and errands.”

“Glamorous.” Finn doesn’t seem to notice my cool tone. He reaches up and plucks a package from the shelf and puts it in my cart.

“Finn!”

“What? You like Wheaties.”

I pause, and look at the package. He’s right. I do like Wheaties. “I can get my own,” I tell him, putting them back. “I am capable of doing my own shopping.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“So why are you following me around?”

“For the warm and pleasant company?”

“Finn!” I stop in the middle of the aisle, my frustration boiling over. “What are you doing?” I demand.

“Trying to help you with the high shelves.” He grins at me, boyish and unconcerned. “But I guess my help isn’t welcome.”

“Stop it,” I say, suddenly feeling an ache too sharp for words. “Please, Finn. Whatever you’re playing at, it’s not funny.” His smile slips at the edges, but I push on. “The house hunt, the kiss the other night, it’s not a game to me. This is my life, and you can’t just walk in and turn everything upside down like this. It’s not fair on me, okay? None of this is fair!”

I can hear the twisted pain on that final word. I hate that I can’t just play along and laugh it off, but it hurts too much.

It’s all too real for me.

There’s silence. I search his face, for clues, but Finn’s expression is impossible to read. Finally, he looks back at me, those blue eyes soft and warm. “You’re right,” he says gently. “I’m sorry.”

Sorry for what? I want to ask. Leaving me all those years ago? Never reaching out? Strolling back like nothing happened? Or kissing me like nobody’s ever kissed me – since you?

But Finn doesn’t say another word. He takes the Wheaties down again and puts them in my cart, then walks away, strolling to the end of the aisle without looking back.

I sink against the wall of cereal and try not to cry. I should be glad. I stood my ground, and he respected my wishes.

So why do I feel like I wished he had stayed?



Back at home, I unload the groceries and try to banish all thought of Finn. I have plenty to do: cleaning, laundry, planning my meals for the week ahead. Usually, I relish the time alone. Today, though, the house seems too quiet, so I leave the windows wide and play old country songs on the radio, trying to lose myself in the brisk activity. I dust and wipe, vacuum and clean. This house belongs to the Petersons, who bought it a couple of years back but spend most of their time in Arizona now. It’s one of my favorites to housesit, a rustic, woodsy place with creaking beams and a big old working fireplace that keeps the whole house warm in winter. Delilah keeps saying I should convince them to put in on the market and score a sweet commission for making the sale, but I guess I just don’t have the ruthless streak it takes to be a real estate agent. I understand why they want to keep it around.

I can’t help wondering how Finn’s settling into the big house by the creek, if he’s rattling around there alone, or if he has friends in already from out of town. When I told the owners who was interested in taking it, they tripled the price they wanted in rent, but I guess it was still pocket change to Finn. It’s weird to think of him now, such a big star, when it seems like he’s barely changed at all. Sure, he’s a little taller, more cocky and charming, and that hair is falling longer in his eyes, but he seemed at ease at Dixie’s the other night. It was like he doesn’t have platinum-selling records on the wall somewhere and people on the other side of the world who know his name. I’m glad fame hasn’t changed him. Despite everything that happened between us, I never stopped wanting the best for him, for him to get everything we’d dreamed about on those long nights together. To make a life for himself somewhere, away from here.

Emphasis on the far.

I find myself digging out my phone again and hooking it up to the speaker system to play his debut album out loud. The chords slip sweetly through the empty rooms, so familiar now that I know them all by heart. I must have played this record a hundred times over, memorizing each lyric and searching every word for some hint about his life. I remember the first time I heard the first single; I nearly hit the floor right there in the middle of the crowded Manhattan coffee shop. I thought I was hallucinating at first, hearing Finn’s voice slip through the speakers, that I’d conjured him up out of heartache and sheer longing. But no, when I haltingly asked the guy behind the counter who it was playing, and he told me Finn’s name, I swear my heart skipped a beat.

He was out there, in the world. He hadn’t just vanished completely.

I wish I could say I didn’t go off the deep end a little, but I’m only human. I must have googled every last piece of information I could find, reading his interviews with music blogs and streaming his grainy live performances online. Whoever was playing his music that day in the café must have been ahead of the trend, because soon Finn was everywhere. A genuine smash hit, climbing the charts and covering every magazine with those blue eyes and soulful, almost bashful smile. In person, he could be infuriatingly arrogant, but in interviews he always seemed kind of uncomfortable, looking away from the camera and drumming his fingers restlessly. Which, of course, only added to his appeal. The press speculated about his love life, gossiped like crazy about the latest cool singer or hot actress on his arm. Even here in town I would hear the rumors, traded over the checkout counter and morning cups of coffee. He was our claim to fame now, the wayward son made good, and even though it would have been easier if he’d just stayed gone, there’s a part of me that knew this was inevitable.