Heartbreaker(26)
Finn’s car is parked out front, and he opens the door for me. “Thanks,” I almost whisper, sliding inside. It’s a warm night, and the windows are down, but I’m wound too tight to enjoy the scenery as he drives us out of town.
“I heard about a new seafood place up the coast.” Finn glances over. “I thought we could try it, if you want.”
I nod, fixing my gaze out of the window so I can’t focus on how good he looks beside me in the driver’s seat, the strong line of his jaw backlit by the dusk light. The miles slip past, until we’re cruising up the coastal road, the ocean waves crashing against the cliffs below.
I can’t relax. How did it happen, this distance between us? One moment, I feel like I know him better than anyone in the world, and then, like the tides changing, a ripple of current tugging in the other direction, he’s suddenly a stranger to me again. It’s like there are two versions of the both of us sitting right here in this car: the people we were five years ago, and the Finn and Eva we are now today. Neither of those shadows are willing to dissolve away completely. They’re just lingering out of sight, haunting every new moment or word as ghosts of old love, forever reminding us of everything that came before.
Will I ever be able to let go of the past and just exist in the moment? Finn seems like he’s free, moving on without a backward glance, so maybe I’m the only one who feels the shadow of every kiss we shared, every soft, sweet moonlit word echoing through the years, keeping me trapped in this limbo – half a heart in the past, the other half grappling with our uncertain present.
Finn’s voice comes through my thoughts. “Are you going to give me the silent treatment all night? Because I hoped we would get a chance to talk.”
My head snaps around. “I’m not…” I start to protest, flushing. I try to explain, but my words stick in my throat. “Not.” I struggle again to speak, but it’s like the link between my brain and mouth is broken, and nothing but air comes out.
No. My panic rises. Not this time.
“I mean… I… I… ” I fight for the words, wanting so desperately to be cool and relaxed, but it only makes it worse. In an instant, I’m six years old again, grasping for sound, unable to get what I’m saying out while everyone laughs and whispers behind my back.
Please, I beg the universe. Please don’t do this to me.
Shame hits, hard, prickling hot on the surface of my skin. I desperately try to bite back the tears. What must he think of me, stammering away like an idiot in the middle of a simple conversation?
“Hey,” With one eye on the road, Finn reaches out and takes my hand. “Eva, what’s wrong?”
I know I shouldn’t, but just his touch is a ray of light through the whirl of darkness and confusion. I grip his hand tightly, my anchor to dry land. My speech therapist always said I just need to relax and take a deep breath when this happens, that more stress only made it worse. But relaxing is impossible when he’s so close, when I want so badly to seem like he doesn’t affect me at all.
Fuck. Fuck.
Finn must see my distress. He pulls over to the side of the road and leaves the engine running. “Eva, look at me.” He squeezes my hand, looking into my eyes. “Eva, it’s okay. Just breathe.”
I shake my head. “It’s not… I can’t…”
“I know.” He strokes my cheek, so reassuring and calm. “You don’t have to say a word. Remember? You know how to do this. Don’t force it.”
I gulp for air, hating my stupid, broken mouth for not keeping up and making me a freak all over again.
“What was that poem you used to tell me?” Finn asks, still waiting patiently. “The one about the trees.”
I take a ragged gasp. “Rosetti,” I manage to say.
“That’s the one.” Finn smiles at me. “Do you remember it?”
I nod, a jerky motion. I press my eyes tightly shut, and in the dark the words are right there, learned by heart. “When I am dead, my dearest, sing no sad songs for me,” I begin, my voice shaking like crazy. Finn squeezes my hand, and I push on. “Plant thou no roses at my head, nor shady cypress tree.”
“That’s it,” Finn’s voice comes softly. “I remember it now.”
He says the next line with me, our voices together in the silence of the car. “Be the green grass above me, with showers and dewdrops wet…”
It was the first thing I learned, that day in middle school, and I clung to it like a safety blanket in the years afterwards to get me through moments like this. And it works. With Finn’s hand holding mine tightly, and his voice steady alongside my own, I finally feel the quicksand ease away. Of course he knows exactly what to do to bring me back. Nobody knows me like him.
I breathe again, and slowly, deliberately, I manage to form a single sentence. “I’m okay.” Relief pounds through me, just hearing the words out loud. “I’m okay,” I say again, stronger this time. I feel the tracks slip back in place, so easy I can’t believe they were ever broken. “It’s nothing.” I flush, turning away. “I’m fine now.”
Finn doesn’t argue. He pauses a long minute, then nods. “Whatever you want.” He turns back to the wheel, puts the car in drive again, and eases back onto the road without another question. But he doesn’t let go of my hand for the rest of the drive. And me, I can’t bring myself to let go either.