Finley Embraces Heart and Home by Anyta Sunday

—it had opened dazzling bright.

K. Mansfield, “Her First Ball”

He comes to my room later.

“I can’t sleep.”

Neither can I.

“I know we’re—”

I flip the blankets down for him.

He sighs and crawls and collapses next to me. His naked chest gleams in the moonlight. There’s nothing sexual about the way he’s sprawled. He’s exhausted. Even lifting a blanket is too much.

For long beats we say nothing, but our breaths are short and hitched, always on the cusp of breaking the silence.

He turns on his side. Soft fingers touch my arm. “She scratched you.”

“I’ll swap out her cat cream for water tomorrow.”

He laughs softly, then stops. Swears.

I press a finger to his lips. “You can hurt for him and still laugh.”

“I’ve barely visited since you left. When I saw him, I . . . for the first time in my life, I hated him.” His face screws up and his chest heaves. I feather my hand down his side, to his gleaming scar. “We’re a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions, Ethan. You can hate someone and still very much love them.”

“I don’t want him to die. I don’t want his last memories to be of me ignoring him.”

“They won’t be.”

“How do you know that?”

I close my eyes. I can’t quite explain how I’m so sure. I try anyway. “I never let myself remember the good things about Tom.”

Ethan frowns and I stroke his scar with my thumb.

“We pick and choose memories to support the narrative we’re living in.” I swallow. “I can’t have someone I love, so I need someone to hate. I focus on everything he’s said and done that supports my theory that he’s the bad guy.” I look into Ethan’s eyes. “It’s not entirely fair.”

Ethan is quiet, waiting for me to reach my point.

I struggle to make it.

“It’s like . . . I remember wadding my t-shirt and holding it against your wound. I remember you calming me down. When I remember, I leave out Tom. But the truth is, he heard my yell. He came. It was half an hour’s walk back to the parking lot, and he heaved you into his arms and raced for the car. He drove to the hospital and when they were stitching you up, when we were in the waiting room, he shook and shook. The point is, your dad is wiser. He won’t waste time on memories where you hurt his feelings. There are far too many where you make him smile, make him proud, make him happy.”

Ethan’s breath shudders over my jaw. “Thank you for coming so fast, Fin.”

I take his hand and press it to my chest; the beat of my heart pulses between us.

In the forgivingyellow light of dawn, we stand in the bird’s nest. We’re showered, ready to jump into the car as soon as Mum’s ready and Noah comes over to look after Julia.

Ethan swings his baseball cap around one finger, gaze stretched over lines of trees toward the river.

“I heard Ford came to see you in Wellington?”

“Yes.”

“Did he . . . get what he came for?”

“Yes. And then no.”

He stops swinging his cap. “Yes and no?”

“I kissed him. But I couldn’t . . . and I . . .”

“It’s okay.” He bridges the foot gap between us, his hand falling alongside mine on the balustrade. My skin burns where we touch. “I missed you, too.”

I look at him. He looks at me.

How do you always read me so well?

Feelings on your sleeve, remember?

Ah, that’s right. Emotional and dramatic Finley Price.

It’s wonderful.

You’re wearing your feelings on your sleeve too.

You think?

How else are we having this conversation?

Ethan smiles.

The gentle curve of his lips is potent, amplified by the vast skies around us and the miles of shadow-draped landscape.

I can’t believe there was ever a time I vowed I wouldn’t like Ethan. I can’t believe there was ever a time I hated being at Mansfield.

He and this place have anchored my heart.

I bounce on the balls of my feet. A moist gust clings to my skin and Ethan’s gaze still roams over my face, so open, so warm.

I move to him. I press my head on his shoulder, and he wraps his arms around me. His cap drops to our feet and neither of us care to chase it.

Breath tickles through my hair and fluttery weightlessness grows at my navel.

I cling to his shoulders and draw my head back to look at him.

He’s flushed. His hair shines brightly, his nose has me bumping mine against it. God that kink at his chin is adorable.

His dad is in hospital.

Not the moment for asking what the hell we’re doing.

We quietly break apart. Below, Noah is coming through the shared back garden gate. I head for the turret door, and Ethan speaks. Softly. A small drop into water that ripples and stills.

“Kei te aroha ahau ki a koe.”

I love you.