Finley Embraces Heart and Home by Anyta Sunday
It seemed to her that she had never known what the night was like before.
K. Mansfield, “Her First Ball”
Istare at an unpainted townhouse with a scruffy lawn. The afternoon sun is blocked by a massive Pohutukawa tree in bloom and the breeze makes its red needles rain over me. Jogging ahead, Bennet opens the door and leans against it, waiting.
I grip the handle of the suitcase I’ve been dragging behind me from the bus stop.
This is it. Here we are.
Starting over.
I’m fifteen again, arriving at Mansfield, battling the intense hate I have for moving, for Tom, for our new family. I feel insignificant, trapped.
When had Mansfield become so important, so necessary, that I’m afraid the rest of my life will be dwarfed by my time there?
In his butterfly shirt, Bennet is bright against the faded blue of the door.
Here is the boy it hurt so much to leave; the man my life has circled back to. It’s supposed to feel different. Returning to the beginning is supposed to feel cathartic. It’s what journey stories are all about. The main character learns a lesson, something that will give peace, and lives contently the rest of their lives.
“You look like you want to go back home,” Bennet murmurs softly.
“It’ll just take time to adjust.”
“You can stay as long as you want.”
My throat pinches on his generosity. I know my heavy chest is unfair to him, but it’s hard to find a smile.
It’s strange,living with Bennet. He’s all bold colours and bolder opinions. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him. He lives his life; he raises his chin to anyone who dares to sneer.
He is everything Ethan and I have longed to be.
Days turn into weeks, a slow succession of busy nothings.
I interview for jobs but my spirit is never in it. I go back to my tiny room above Bennet’s and dictate happily-ever-afters.
I’m here so often that Bennet has taken to hanging out here too. He sits on my bed with his laptop, editing Ford’s erotic novellas while I work on the transcripts of my stories, my own developmental edits, typing carefully into my document. It makes my shoulders ache with tension.
Bennet stretches, hops off the bed and opens the window. A cool Wellington breeze bursts into the room, the most the air has shifted for hours.
He peers over my shoulder at my screen.
“What do you write?”
“A bit of everything. Except tragedy. Let other pens bleed sorrow.”
He laughs. “May I read something?”
I pause. So far my stories are simply swept into a folder on my desktop to languish. The only person who’s seen any of them is Ethan. It always felt safe to share my words with him, no matter how raw. He’d read through. He’d encourage. He’d gently point out where things might be strengthened.
How would Bennet look at my work?
He’s an actual editor. It might be like school again. Stomach crunching with hope only to be punched with devastation when a sea of red pen rolled in.
The fear is paralysing.
I mess around with a sentence, trying to make it stronger, better. But Bennet is still watching and I can’t shake the feeling I’ve made it worse.
Heat creeps up my neck.
I could say no. Bennet would understand.
But . . . but fear stopped Ethan and me from admitting the truth. It took the most important part of me. I can’t let it take the rest. I need to live this part of myself truly.
“I’ll, um, email you something.”
It’spast midnight and Bennet is still reading my story. I hear him tapping on his laptop keys every other minute.
I toss and turn. I can’t fall asleep.
In the morning, coffee is our best friend. He leans against the opposite counter in his tiny kitchen. Over his mug, he keeps looking at me funny.
“What?”
“What I read . . .”
I clamp my hand around my hot mug.
“You need to keep writing.”
My head snaps up. “I do?”
“I would love to be your editor, if you ever decide to publish.”
“You think it’s publishable?”
He stares at me. “Yes, Fin. I do. Hasn’t anyone told you how good you are before?”
It feels like the road dipping suddenly under me; for a moment I’m weightless, giddy. Then the concrete catches up and an ache splices through my chest. “Ethan.”
“Your stepbrother.”
My nape tingles. “What do you mean by that?”
Bennet sips. “Every other conversation we have, Ethan comes up. Whenever he texts, you barely look at the message, and yet you keep checking your phone like you hope he might have sent more. On the heels of the rushed way you left Port Rātapu . . . It’s the only conclusion I’m coming up with.”
“I . . . I check my phone so often because I’m waiting for Mum to send her daily pic of Julia.”
“It’s okay, Fin,” he says softly. “I’m not against any feelings you have for him. I’m just sorry it hasn’t worked out.”
It bubbles up then, everything I’ve been trying to suppress.
One kind word, and tears burn behind my eyes. My throat stings like it hasn’t felt water in weeks.
Bennet sets his mug down, then mine, and hugs me. “It’s Saturday,” he whispers. “How do you feel about a shot of Baileys in our coffee?”
Gently tipsy, we collapse into two sun chairs in his backyard. Our view is a cloudy sky, weedy grass, and a washing line with sheets and yellow tea towels swaying. The air is salty, carried off the sea.
No taste of the river here.
“I was afraid. I couldn’t make him choose between his little sister and me.”
“You wish he’d chosen you anyway.”
I bow my head to my coffee. My sigh stirs the liquid, and it wakes against the edge of the glass. How many ripples Ethan has made in my life.
“It’s a terrible truth.”
He drinks.
The surface of my coffee has already stilled. I shiver and blow on it again. We’re silent.
Bennet bleeds for the brother he’s not allowed to know. I bleed for the brother I’m not allowed to have.