Finley Embraces Heart and Home by Anyta Sunday

Oh, with you, I could conquer the world—oh, with you I could catch hold of the moon like a little silver sixpence.

K. Mansfield,Journal

We taxi to Ethan’s. There’ll be drinking tonight, and no one is willing to be the designated driver. Cress came back in the afternoon to dress and make sure we all showered, so it’s four of us in the taxi, me jammed between Bennet and Ford in the backseat as they strike up a conversation about writing and editing.

Bennet is glowing by the end of our drive. Ford has three novellas and one almost-complete novel that needs serious editing, and he knows heaps of other authors he can spread the word of Bennet’s services to, if he’d like. His excitement and genuine kindness have me smiling at him as we pile out of the taxi.

He catches my look and clutches his chest, like a simple smile has stolen his heart.

I roll my eyes.

Ethan’s front door is open and elegantly dressed guests are already flowing in and out of the house and garden, drinking champagne and orange juice out of plastic flute glasses. Classy music drifts out to us from the lounge.

“Masks on boys,” Cress says, fussing with her feathers, and we all pull ours from the inner pockets of our blazers.

“Oh, I thought . . .” Cress frowns.

I make a white lie of it. “I wanted to wear yours. But it wasn’t comfy on my nose and loosening it made it fall off.”

She nods, understanding, and we enter Ethan’s house.

Ethan is nowhere to be seen, but the party is well underway. Bennet and I help ourselves to mimosas and find a seat on a windowsill.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving tomorrow.”

“I know. Already.” Bennet sips. “Um. What was going on at breakfast this morning? Your stepdad seems to think you might be moving to Wellington?”

I grin sheepishly. “He might think you’re my boyfriend. I might not have corrected him.”

I can’t explain it. Certainly not here, like this. He doesn’t press. He’s more . . . curious than anything.

“If you do decide you want to move,” he says, “You’re welcome to stay with me while you sort yourself out.”

I raise my brows. “For real?”

“Of course. Anytime.”

I grin. It’s so . . . good, having Bennet back in my life. He’s so easy to be around; conversation is a breeze. I laugh at a story he’s sharing with me, and he takes my empty glass and heads to the kitchen.

He gets waylaid by a guy who’s clearly interested, and I wink as I pass him. It’s cool. Have fun.

Cress sidles up to me, peacock feathers tickling my hair as she leans in and whispers in my ear. “Ford said he wants to talk to you. Talk, talk.”

Dread slices through my stomach at her emphasis; I tell her I need another drink first and lose myself in the crowd.

I glance over my shoulder, making sure Ford isn’t following, and duck out of the living room. I crash into a tall, friendly guy who introduces himself as Brandon and we chit-chat for a minute about his connection to Ethan. I’m drawing a breath to issue more polite nothings when my senses stir and shift, compelling me to look down the hall.

Ethan. He’s talking to . . . someone. As if similarly compelled, he glances up.

I lose track of my conversation with Brandon in this new game of gaze tag. Ethan’s mask frames his eyes beautifully; everything about him lights up when he laughs.

Eventually, Ethan’s friend drifts away and Brandon goes after the guy with a polite “be right back.”

Ethan pushes off the wall and crosses to me. His eyes are taking in the Venetian mask and every inch of me bursts into goosebumps.

“What do you think of my place?” he says.

“Hardwood floors, stained glass windows, skylights. That’s about what I’ve seen so far.”

“Want a tour of the rest?”

I swallow. Nod.

He swallows too.

Tentatively, he hooks a finger around mine and an explosion of giddiness fires through me. I stumble as I follow him, and laugh.

He flings open door after door. Spare room—small, might be better as a study. Bathroom. Laundry. Linen cupboard. The hall extends around the corner and leads back to the kitchen, and across from it—

“Master bedroom,” he says and slowly opens the door.

The first step inside is dark, and the one point where we touch hums. “Do you sleep with the door open and the hall light on?” I whisper.

A soft chuckle. “Nightlight.”

Something stirs in the room, from the large queen bed in the corner.

“Ethan?” the voice is Cress’s. She sits up and like lightning our fingers drop.

“Cress?”

“Sorry,” she murmurs. “Some tipsy idiot opened the kitchen cupboard into my face.”

My vision adjusts to the light and I see her now, her mask off, holding an icepack to her face.

“I figured you wouldn’t mind me resting here for a bit?”

Ethan hurries to her. “Are you okay?” He turns his side lamp on, set to very dim, and he’s on his knees before Cress taking in the extent of her injuries.

I fight the flattening in my chest. I want to tell her she’s fine and send her back to the party. I want to race out and drown my frustration in a half-dozen mimosas.

I sit next to her and pat her hand and ask if she needs anything.

“Just some rest.” She looks at Ethan. “You don’t mind me in your bed, do you?”

Yes. Yes, he does.

“No, not at all.”

I lurch to my feet. “I’ll, ah, bring some water.”

I’m out of his room in seconds and then I’m wading through guests, desperate to get to the front door and order a taxi.

I’m typing Bennet an apology text when I bump into a cascade of red hair.

“Fin!” Maria throws her arms around my neck and kisses my cheeks. Her mask bumps against mine. “Finally, someone I know. Stick with me now.”

“Where’s Rush?”

“Parking the car. Hopefully not too far, our housewarming gift is heavy.”

She hooks an arm around mine and steers me back toward the drinks.

“How does it feel being engaged?” I ask, watching her reactions carefully.

She laughs. “I love all the attention. It’s very flattering.”

“I hope . . . I really hope you’ll both be happy.”

“Why wouldn’t we be? We have everything we could possibly need.”

“Love?”

She hesitates. “That too.”

“He’s a good person, Maria,” I say quietly. “I hope you’re both serious about making it work.”

She bristles. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’ve been with Rush since high school. Of course it’s serious. I even signed a pre-nup at the request of his parents. That’s how serious I am.”

“Well, good.”

“You know, you’re not a very nice friend, Fin. You’re constantly judging me. Oh, there’s Ford. Ford!” She calls out to him, waving, and I swivel quickly and slink in the opposite direction. Rush comes through the front door, struggling under the weight of a massive potted tree, and I help him settle it in the spare room.

“That’s beautiful.”

Rush looks pleased. “Hope Ethan likes it.”

“He will. Ah, Maria’s in the kitchen last I saw.”

His smile wanes and he nods.

“You okay, Rush?”

He waves the question away. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine.”

He heads off to find his fiancé, and I head outside, relieved to find Bennet again. He’s sitting on one side of the porch, sipping a drink and enjoying the violet streaks in the darkening sky. I sling myself beside him.

“What happened with the guy?”

“His girlfriend called.”

“Oh.”

“Not interested in complicated. Or closeted, thank you.”

I look away. “I’m not sure we always get a choice.”

“Is something going on, Fin?” he asks softly. “I feel like there’s more I’m missing.”

I open my mouth and shut it again. “I . . . No. Nothing’s going on.”

He raises a brow, then claps a hand on my shoulder. “You don’t have to share. But if you ever want someone to talk to . . .”

I nod, and he excuses himself to find the bathroom. He’s passing through the door when Ford emerges, sidling past him. He’s smiling like he’s found his favourite plaything.

He misinterprets my apprehension as he settles on my other side. “You’re sad that Bennet’s leaving.”

Not it at all.

He wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Life is full of disappointments, especially when we hope too much. But a week of him gone, and you’ll feel fine again.” He holds two hands up. “We lose happiness, we’re built to find more.”

“Is that right?” I drone.

He presses his alcohol-laced lips to my temple above the ribbon, his breath drifting down my jaw. “If the first man is wrong, find a second. You’re bound to find Mr. Right somewhere.”

He hiccups and I push him away. “You’re drunk.”

“On life.”

“On alcohol.”

He waggles his brows. “On love.” He grabs my hand and presses it to his chest. “I’ve been wanting to get you alone all evening. God, you’re so hot.”

“Ford. You have your pick of anyone here. Your sister has Ethan all to herself. You don’t need to distract me.”

He gapes and then bops my nose with his finger. “You were supposed to say I look hot too.”

“Your looks are irrelevant.”

“I was hoping you maybe like me back.”

“I like you.”

“Really like me. The way I like you.”

“I’m a game to you, Ford.”

“No . . .” He stops. “You were. To start with. But you’re not anymore. I really, genuinely like you.”

I shake my head, laughing.

“What? I do.”

I continue laughing.

“I’ll prove it to you.”

“Uh huh.”

Ford throws his hands to my cheeks and plants a sloppy kiss on my lips. “This is real, Fin. I’m falling for you. And I’m sure at least half of you is falling for me.”

Movement at the door catches my eye and I glance up to see Ethan frozen on the threshold. He’s not looking our way, but I can tell he was by the stiffness in his posture, the tick at his jaw.

He turns back into the house, and I’m on my feet, hissing, “We don’t have anything, Ford.”

“We could.”

“I don’t dig guys who sport with people’s feelings.”

“There’s no sport this time, I promise.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“I’ll convince you,” he calls dramatically after me. “I’ll catch the moon if I have to.”

I leave him lying on the porch like a wretched soul. Whatever he proclaims, he’ll be over it when the next cute person walks past.

Inside, Rush thwarts my plans. He’s yanking Ethan into the sunroom. “It’s a pear tree! I thought that way you take a bit of Mansfield with you. Make this place feel like home.”

“Big ask, of a tree,” Ethan murmurs. He’s standing just inside the door; I’m just outside.

“Sorry?” Rush says.

“I said it’s a beautiful tree. Thank you.”

“Can I have your advice on something?” I assume Ethan’s acknowledged that because Rush continues. “Do you think, if I asked, Fin would be my best man?”

There is something achingly hopeful in his request. I don’t think I know him well enough to be his best man, but that there’s no one else for him to ask . . .

Ethan feels it too, I hear it in his voice. “I’m sure he would.”

“Good. Excellent. He’s a good man, that Fin.”

“The best.”

“I bet he’ll make someone real happy one day. Maybe that Ford fella. They seemed to get on at my engagement party.”

Ethan is quiet.

“Right,” Rush claps his hands. “Let’s get a drink.”

I conceal myself as they leave the sunroom. Rush is grinning and following behind, sombrely, Ethan.

I can’t anymore with this party. I need . . . I need home.

I call a taxi.

I text Ethan from the road: He kissed me, Eth.

. . . you are overcome, suddenly, by a feeling of bliss—absolute bliss—as though you'd suddenly swallowed a bright piece of that late afternoon sun and it burned in your bosom, sending out a little shower of sparks into every particle, into every finger and toe . . .

K. Mansfield, “Bliss”

Isneak quietly through the house to the bird’s nest. I’m still wearing my mask, I like the weight of it on the bridge of my nose. If I close my eyes I can feel Ethan next to me.

“I like when you speak te reo.”

“Yeah?”

“K-ka rata ahau i a koe.”

I pull out of the memory, opening my eyes and clutching the balustrade.

A taxi pulls up in front of the house. I wait for Cress and Ford to emerge. Seconds pass—

Ethan.

He pauses on the path, straightening himself. Then he looks up. His gaze snags on the bird’s nest, on me. Time stops. Or maybe it’s my breath. Both.

Ethan stares. I stare.

He moves.

His stride eats up the path and he disappears from view. He moves quietly inside, but I feel his presence burning the stairs under me.

The turret door shuts quietly behind him; he pauses, breathing hard, uncertainty in his stance. My skin is buzzing, it rings in my ears. My feet are ticklish in my sneakers. I’m not sure what comes next either. It’s frightening. Exhilarating.

“Your party . . .?”

“I left Rush in charge.”

We’re a few long feet apart; he crosses half of it and stops. The timber groans under him, encouragement to move closer. Another step.

He’s still wearing his mask, too. “You came.”

“You left.”

He studies every inch of my face, reading me intently. Carefully.

“What about Cress?”

His eyes lift to mine. “She’s fine. Sleeping.”

“That’s not . . . all I meant.”

He’s quiet. “What about Ford?”

“Ford’s . . . fun. But I don’t take anything he says seriously. He’s a series of over-the-top gestures and sexual innuendos. Nothing behind it.”

Ethan expels his breath; it combs over my jaw.

I whisper, “Why are you here, Ethan?”

He glances over my shoulder, to all of greater Mansfield. His voice is a whisper. “I’m afraid. I want to sleep with you.”

“You have a nightlight.”

He looks at me and joins me at the rail. “There’s something I’m far more afraid of than the dark, Fin.”

The night sky glitters with stars and the trees below are silver in the moonlight. It’s as pretty as a painting, the gentle murmurings of nature more tranquil than any music.

For a brief moment, there’s the possibility of perfection. Nothing confusing, nothing saddening exists here.

I know what the rest of this night will bring.

We absorb our home quietly until Ethan shudders in the chill air.

I slide my hand over his and wait until he tangles our fingers together. I feel the drumming of our pulses as I lead him to my bedroom.

We strip. Our clothes, our underwear, make a puddle between us.

He trembles and I reach out and hook my finger around his, like earlier. That point is a conduit between us.

It roars through me—his yearning, his desire, his apprehension. Mine.

I shift my finger, just slightly, the slide of skin against skin.

We stand like this, getting used to the rippling shivers. We’re here. He and I. Two rivers rushing toward the chasm dividing us.

“Ethan,” I whisper.

“Fin?” he whispers back.

“I’m afraid too.”

He walks backwards, finger gently tugging around mine. I move with him, swallowing, and we climb into my bed.

He rolls on his side, I roll on mine, facing him. We’re quiet, the sheets around us are cool, the pillows soft. We look at each other through the shadows, like we’ve done thousands of times before.

We’re both hard, achingly, but it’s secondary. The passing moments are pleasure and hope. He splays his hand over the greenstone at my chest, close to the mattress, nearest my heart. It feels intimate, powerful, like he is imbuing the stone—me—with this moment.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

I trace my fingers over the veins in his hand.

The five points of his fingers and thumb lift off my skin and touch my cheek. His thumb is at my lips and I kiss the tip.

He looks at my mouth and rolls his thumb gently over the seam. The pillow shifts as he inches forward. I meet him halfway. Our lips barely brush. We breathe each other in, heartbeat after heartbeat.

I feel the entire house.

The pictures on our walls. Mum and Tom and Julia on the floor below. Mrs Norris scampering after a spider.

I feel the beat of us.

The press of his lips against mine. Our gasps. The urgency of our bodies colliding.

We’re frantic limbs as we kiss, rolling on top of one another, hands roaming every inch of skin. The only point of me he hasn’t touched is my Achilles, and it sings too by contrast. His fingers are careful, explorative, wonderfully firm and rhythmic where I need them to be.

There are whispers.

You’re so beautiful.

I want . . .

Can I?

There is the snap of a bottle lid, the press of my fingers, his hitching breath. His arms go around me. I slide my lubed tip over him.

His legs spread, surrendering. Our gazes meet, noses bumping. His breath and mine become a hiss and a gasp as I push inside him.

I pause, knotting my hand around his shaking one. He’s warm and tight and pulsing around me.

Are you—?

Keep going.

My eyes are rolling back. I whisper how incredible he feels, how long I’ve dreamed of being so deep inside him. He touches my hair, pushes it behind my ear. You’ve always been deep inside me.

My soul is shivering. When I move in him, I’m writing the words back. A promise: he’s just as deep in me. Literally too, sometime, I hope.

His grip tightens on my back. He lifts his head, our lips lock.

The slide of his tongue, the slide of me inside him.

He moans, bucking his hips toward my thrusts. He’s stiff again; the wet tip leaks against my stomach.

I shift.

He pulses in my hand. My fingers get slicker and slicker.

Hot grunts tickle my ear, my neck—

I quicken, and tip over the edge.

He clenches around me, throbs in my hand.

Fin,at my jaw.

The rush, water falling, merging, crashing.

We stay, pressed close, catching our breaths against each other.

I don’t want to slip out. He doesn’t want it either. We feel the loss when it happens.

I kiss him again, languidly. Dreamily. He smiles into it. He holds me tight and rolls me over. His laughter is soft at my clavicle, drifts to my armpit. He groans in awe at what we’ve just done and I find his fingers and thread them with mine. The edges of our palms touch and we shiver.

When we can’t bear the stickiness anymore, we shower, sharing a hundred kisses under a warm rain.

We nestle close, blankets up to our ears, whispers fine lace in our cocoon.

“Can you stay the night?”

“Can I stay all the nights?”

“Can you say that again in the morning?”

“Can you move in with me?”

“Can we tell Mum and Tom the truth?”

“Can we do it together?”

“Can we run away, if . . .”

“Can they stop us?”

These thoughts and reflections are my new closest companions. We’re together in my dreams, the whole night, making plans for the future.