Finley Embraces Heart and Home by Anyta Sunday

The heavens opened for the sunset to-night. When I had thought the day folded and sealed, came a burst of heavenly bright petals.

K. Mansfield,Journal

“. . . it wasn’t something Fin wanted.”

I halt at Ethan’s voice in Tom’s office, clutch my laundry sack against my chest and listen. The last time Ethan confronted Tom like this, he’d stood up for me. The last time, I came away from this door elated. The last time, it’d brought Ethan and me closer together again.

“He wrote it,” Tom says sternly, and I shiver as I inch to the door and peer around. Tom’s sitting behind his desk, staring at his open laptop, Ethan pacing before him.

“Years ago!”

“Whether then or now—”

“Ford found a couple of scenes on his desk,” Ethan blurts out. The pacing stops. “He finished the play.”

I lose my grip on my laundry and catch it against my thighs, freezing there, hoping no one saw me.

Tom looks up from his work—not in my direction. In Ethan’s. “Ford?”

“He moonlights as a writer, erotic fiction. He took off with the idea.”

He’s lying to help us, me, but . . . the opposite of pride rises in me. This time I fear I’ll come away from the door disappointed. This time, I fear it’ll push Ethan and me further apart.

“I see.” Tom hums, not entirely convinced. “Why didn’t you stop him?”

“He’s our guest, and he’s very single-minded. We figured it was very Shakespearean and went with it. Fin had little to do with it except to direct.”

“Are you saying there’s no truth to the play?”

Ethan flexes his hand at his side. “No! Never.”

“Or maybe you just don’t see it?”

Ethan shakes his head; his fingers curl. He does that when he’s panicked, trying to maintain control. “I think Fin might be seeing a guy long-distance? Someone from Wellington. Bennet or something?”

“Oh really?”

“He’s coming to visit soon. Staying here.”

“That would be the first time he’s brought anyone to Mansfield.” Tom’s approval feels like a double-edged sword.

Be with whomever you like, just not my son.

“What about you, Ethan? Anyone you’re interested in?”

Ethan swallows, and as Tom’s eyes narrow, he says, “I quite like Cress?”

“Ah, yes. She seems lovely. Must have talked over an hour about my business last night. She even enquired if there’s any possibility of internship alongside her studies.”

Tom’s enthusiasm is too much for me to take. I start backing off when the direction of their conversation takes a hard turn.

“Tell me, how was paying rent and groceries on only your part-time pay?”

I frown. Tom had made Ethan pay rent? To force his hand so he’ll—what? Work for Tom full time? Give up on his dreams?

“I made do.”

“Didn’t have to do any extra babysitting on the side to supplement?”

Ethan casts his gaze towards the door and I shrink back, hoping he hasn’t seen me. “I would have done the babysitting anyway.”

“The money you’re earning part time is as much as you’d get full time at a kindergarten.”

Ethan says nothing.

“Look, I know it feels like I’m being unfair, but I’m trying to give you valuable life lessons. I want you to understand the consequences of your decisions.”

“Like being happy?”

Tom is quiet. “You might be happy for a while.” I slink further down the hall, heart sinking for him. “Next week I’m expecting rent again.”

“Next week I’ll have moved out.”

Another week.Not the rest of summer I thought we’d have. A week is all we have left, and the first day we’re so quiet together. We lean against the parapet on our turret in the morning, the evening too, but the gap between us is as large as the skies.

Conversation is trivial, pointless. Laughter, half-hearted.

I don’t mention overhearing his plans to move out.

He doesn’t share them with me.

He spends moretime with Cress, showering her with sweet compliments whenever Tom is nearby. He even helps her hire a harp from the university music department. The big instrument sits in the billiard room and in the evenings, when I hide in my room, I hear the delicate music floating through the house, sweet and skilful.

Later, Ethan and Cress’s voices.

“Listening to you in a word? Tranquillity. But aren’t you tired of playing for us?”

“As long as I enjoy it, nothing tires me.”

I grab my headphones and plug my ears.

It’s Friday.For the first time I watch Cress, Ethan and Ford perform the entire play. It’s for our final grade; I have to.

The scene at the end comes at me like a fist shoving into my chest and pulling out my beating heart.

Those wordsare dropped, softly, on stage, in a dark theatre. I’m not even in speaking distance.

I’m just one of a crowd looking on. Witnessing happiness that isn’t quite tangible.

And then they kiss onstage . . .

Later,we all dress up and head—me separately—to Rush’s party. It’s hosted in a historic house in town, in a large wood-panelled hall with crystal chandeliers. He’s organised a black-tie catered dinner with live entertainment. Someone plays a piano. A violin.

No harp. I’m happy.

Two-dozen guests are seated around four tables. Rush’s parents and grandparents and Maria’s sit at the table closest to the musicians.

Seeing family here puts me on edge. It’s supposed to be a celebration of their graduating. It makes sense both sets of parents are here, but . . . My gaze keeps darting between smoothly dressed, nervously smiling Rush and Maria, in a long crimson sequined gown, seated between their mums.

Ethan arrives with Cress and Ford; he follows a few paces behind the grinning siblings, and my voice is rough as I order at the open bar in the back corner of the hall.

“Whiskey on ice.”

He’s in dress pants and a black vest over a black shirt and tie and a mustard blazer. In a sea of black and navy suits, he stands out. The best dressed for sure.

I take my whiskey, clutch the cold, dewy tumbler, and take a long, burning sip.

His footsteps close in behind me. The scent of the cologne he uses on special occasions; the last time, my birthday.

My neck prickles. I shiver.

Ethan leans against the bar and orders what I’m having. Unusual. He so rarely drinks.

Is he just as in need of anaesthetic as I am?

He stares at his glass. “You always make it so hard.”

I look over at him.

His eyes flicker sideways. “Looking so beautiful.”

I yearn to hear it; I’m giddy at hearing it. It’s a burst of bright petals when I wanted the day to end. “You can’t say things like that, Eth. It’s unfair.”

He bows his head. He sips.

Does it burn the taste of Cress off his lips? “We should . . .” I motion to our table, where Cress and Ford are waving us over.

We take our seats beside them, me to Ford’s right, Ethan to Cress’s left. It puts us opposite one another; impossible not to see some part of him the entire dinner.

“Gosh this food is amazing,” Cress murmurs. “To live like this. Such wealth, such opulence. Rush is a lucky guy.”

I grimace, side-eying Ford lounging on his chair, an elbow thrown casually on its back as he surveys the room—or this evening’s potential conquests? “He has money, anyway.”

His green eyes hit mine with humour. “Oh, he has the girl, too.”

“Does he?”

“I might be a wicked tease, but I never cross the line.”

“Not sure I believe that.”

His laugh rumbles out of him. “A doubter.” He leans in, speaking at my ear. “You’re not the first, you know. But I always manage to change a woman’s—or a man’s—mind.”

I roll my eyes, and he smirks again.

Cress and Ethan have exchanged words that I’ve missed.

“You’d have to be very wealthy,” Ethan murmurs.

“Perhaps I will be?”

“Good for you. I’ll be happy just not to be poor.”

“I was thinking about your early childhood thing,” Cress says. “What if, with a partner, you started up your own concept of childcare? Had a chain of wonderful centres that could pop up through the country. Perhaps other countries, too. You could work as a teacher as well, of course.”

Ethan thinks about this, sinking back in his chair, and I’m not sure if he’s thrilled with the idea or can’t be bothered to fight anymore. I hate not knowing, I always know—or feel close to knowing. Now he hides his future from me. Like there’s no point sharing. I won’t be part of it.

The table between us seems to stretch and stretch and stretch. Music crescendos, the murmur of other conversations fills my ears, waiters move in a wave of black to take our plates away. Raised glasses blur his face.

“What do you want, Fin?” Ford asks.

Huh?

“If you could be anything you wanted to be?” Cress clarifies.

“A writer,” I murmur.

Ford’s hand lands with a stinging smack between my shoulders. He laughs. “For a living? Might want to work on your spelling then.”

Ethan leans forward, coming into focus. His gaze hardens on Ford, eyes narrowed, jaw twitching. The cleft in his chin seems to deepen. He looks angry. Beautiful. Like a God about to cast a thousand bolts of lightning to earth. His voice is strong, but utterly in control, calm.

I love it.

I hate it.

“Do you always criticise your friends?”

Ford swirls his merlot and sips it. “Pretty much. What else is there to do but laugh at others and have them laugh at us in turn?”

“A little Austen reference doesn’t make you charming.”

Ford cocks his head. “Sure about that?”

Ethan parts his mouth to retort and I cut in, holding his silvery eyes. “It’s fine. You know I’ll always have issues with spelling.”

“You work hard to write despite that though, Fin, he—” Ethan gestures to Ford.

I cut him off. “He, at least, is telling me how things are.”

Ethan’s expression shutters and he blinks at me.

Glasses start to ding. Cress murmurs: Rush is on stage.

The music has paused.

Rush takes the microphone. He doesn’t speak. He sings, and I wince. Poor Rush, baring his soul on stage to the love of his life, and all of us on the sidelines wondering: is he hers?

My stomach crunches at what will happen next. I feel it in the air like a black cloud rolling over a town parade.

I recall our drunken conversation at his pool party. He’d known Maria was trying to make him jealous. I thought that meant he knew their time was up. Not this.

An awkward silence meets his breathily uttered proposal, and then Maria stands. She glances once toward our table—as if waiting for opposition?—then straightens her back and moves to the stage. She takes the microphone from him. “Yes.”

The audience erupts into applause, and Ethan and I do too, but we’re still staring at one another. Still trapped in our own moment, waiting to be allowed to carry on.

Everyone sips their champagne, their wine, their beer, their whiskey.

Ethan’s eyes beg me to explain what’s wrong, so I do.

“When will you tell me you’re leaving Mansfield?”

We leaveour cars in town and split a taxi back. It’s three in the morning when we get home.

Cress and Ford are sparkling with energy, like they could stay up until dawn. They walk slowly up to the house, dark heads thrown toward the Milky Way. Ethan and I trail silently behind.

Ford breaks from the path to climb a tree. He plucks a pear and tosses one to Cress, who catches it laughing. “Are they ripe yet?”

Ford bites into another one and spits it out. “Nope. Another few weeks. Nice up here, though.” He admires the view from the tree, leaning back on the trunk and hooking his hands behind his head. “Any of you want to join me?”

Cress passes her unripe pear to Ethan, who takes it, smiling gently. “Isn’t it a bit late for tree climbing?”

“It’s always too early or too late for something. I won’t let time tell me what to do.”

I wish I could claim the same so confidently. But it’s officially Saturday, and by Monday . . .

I grab Ethan by the wrist and drag him into the house. His pulse ticks wildly under my fingers, like a clock. A countdown.

We emerge onto our balcony.

It’s breezier up here; reluctantly, I let Ethan go so we can huddle into our suit jackets. We round the turret to the spot that’s sheltered most from the wind. Below us, the night-shadowed front lawn, moonlight touching the swaying leaves of the pear tree where Cress and Ford are perched, respectfully quiet. Their whispers don’t reach us, and ours won’t reach them.

“I’ll be here all the time.” His eyes are dark, sombre. “During the day, when Dad’s at work. I just won’t . . . eat here. Sleep here.”

It won’t be the same. Rationally, I can’t put a finger on what distresses me so much. We’re not sleeping in each other’s beds anymore anyway.

This should make things easier.

My foot taps and taps. I can’t shake off this . . . this disappointment. “I’ll get a job and we’ll pay the rent Tom wants together.”

He shakes his head. “This is the natural course of things, Fin. I was always going to move out. So are you. A few weeks won’t change that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you grieving before you had to.”

“So you admit it’ll be different?”

“It’s the first real step of separation. Our lives are forking.”

I expel a frustrated breath. “Where are you moving to? Can I come with you?”

He wants to say yes, I can see in his eyes he wants to say yes. “That would be—” he swallows. “Too tempting for me.”

“Why do we have to change?” I whisper. “Why can’t everyone else just change around us?”

We’re quiet for long beats, looking down on our friends below. My throat is raw.

“So. Cress, huh?”

“She’s a good person.”

My stomach twists. I stare at the pear in his hand. He’s still holding it, for her.

“She likes you, too,” he continues. “That’s important to me.”

I slam my eyes shut. My voice doesn’t sound like my own. “Her idea at dinner . . . about franchising early childhood centres. Did you like it?”

No. Say no. Say you won’t let her change you.

“I mean, if I could still teach . . .”

My throat is so sore from swallowing. “I think I’m beat. I gotta . . .”

Ethan opens the door for me.

I inhale his scent as I pass. I don’t look back.