Finley Embraces Heart and Home by Anyta Sunday

Somebody to sleep with at night time

K. Mansfield, “Fairy Tale”

Another month passes.

Ethan is friendlier. At least, he is when we’re alone. Mrs Norris hasn’t seemed to clue on though, forever hissing at me when our paths cross.

Tom seems happy at dinner tonight. He’s drumming his fingers on the table, hurrying us to finish clearing the table. He and Mum have “something they’d like to discuss.”

Ethan and I share a puzzled look as we truck the rest of the dishes to the kitchen. Mum comes in for a bottle of wine, humming, and when Ethan leaves the room and it’s just her and me, I ask. “What’s this about?”

The warmth of Mum’s smile bowls into me. I don’t like it, but the fact is, she’s the happiest I’ve ever seen her. “We’ll tell you in the dining room, darling—together. But I want you to know it’s completely up to you.”

“Up to me?”

“Though I admit . . . well, we’re already whānau. It would just make the loveliest gesture.”

Whānau. Family.

Tom, me . . .

With a lurching stomach, I follow Mum back to the dining room. The chandelier glitters in the centre of the room, splintering light over the dining table—over us—like big fat raindrops. Tears.

“Sit down, sit down,” Tom says. I perch on the edge of my seat, Ethan across from me. Mum stands behind Tom, hands on his shoulders. “Maata and I will be married in two weeks, forging us closer as a family. We’d both like to file for legal guardianship of you boys. So Maata has the same rights as I do with you, Ethan.”

“And Tom has the same rights with you, Fin,” Mum says.

I’m very still. “Guardianship. What does that mean?”

“It’s an official document saying we will provide a safe home for you, that we will help you grow and develop—emotionally, physically, culturally, educationally.”

Mum smiles at Ethan. “We know you’re both teenagers and close to leaving the nest, but we want you to know you’ll always have ours to come back to. Guardianship would be symbolic.”

Tom adds, “We’d like you to think of us as parents. Of one another as brothers.”

The quiet stretches for long beats. Ethan stirs and rises from his seat. He hugs Mum, but there’s a small frown etched into his forehead when he glances at me. He looks away again. “I’m okay with it.”

I’m not. I’m not sure I’m breathing.

Mum’s eyes plead with me.

Tom waits.

Isn’t it enough I’ll be his stepson soon? Why is he so insistent on legal stuff? What is this really about?

I stand, shaking my head, words spilling over my lips, “Why can’t you just get a pug or something? Play parents with that?”

Tom’s expression hardens. “Sit down,” he barks.

I reel back.

Like hell I’m sitting.

“If he keeps acting like a child, Maata, he’ll have to move rooms. The old nursery, for example.”

Move rooms? The possibility makes me cold.

“It’s a privilege, sharing the loft,” Tom continues. “It’s about maturity. Not dramatics.”

“Mum, do you hear him?”

“Honey, do you hear yourself? We meant this kindly and, while we will accept it, your rejection hurts.”

Even Ethan looks disappointed in me.

That makes my stomach twist the most. Maybe because we’re almost the same age, yet I can hear myself: whiney and juvenile.

“I’m just . . . surprised.”

“You can take your time adjusting to the idea,” Tom says. “But I feel strongly about moving you to one of our other rooms.”

My voice falters. My heart weighs so heavy, it feels like it’s in my feet. “I—I like my room. I don’t want to move.”

Throat pinched, eyes stinging, I run upstairs and throw myself on my bed.

Ethan sneaksinto my room later.

The curtains are wide open and moonlight shimmers through the windows, over the bed, the rug, the picture of my dad on the wall. I’m still sniffing when the mattress sags next to me.

“I don’t like it, Ethan,” I say. “And I really don’t want to change rooms.”

“I don’t want you to change rooms, either.” Ethan’s frown crushes his brow into one long line from my angle. “But even if you have to, it won’t be too bad.”

I scoff.

“All the rooms downstairs are nice. Some are bigger. Some have their own balcony.”

“I like living up here, close to you. Hearing you move around at ungodly hours of the morning is comforting, somehow.”

Ethan blinks, like this is the last thing he expected to hear. Heat creeps up my neck. “Um, anyway, I don’t want things to change. I’ve just gotten used to them. I know I wear my feelings on my sleeve, but that’s just who I am.”

Ethan drops back on my pillows, sighing at my ceiling. “You really are emotional and dramatic, Finley. I think it’s wonderful. Why should we have to hide our real reactions and thoughts? Why should we have to fit a role?” His voice, already quiet, drops to a whisper. “I wish I was more like you.”

“Like me? But, downstairs . . . you looked upset with me.”

Ethan turns his head; his eyes are dark, face pale against the pillows. “Not you. Myself, that I couldn’t be as honest.”

I hesitate. “You’re being honest right now.”

“With you it’s easier. But I’m not sure I’m being totally honest with you, either.”

My brow lifts toward my hairline.

He rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. He doesn’t explain. An unsettled tendril in my belly forbids me from asking.

Ethan blows out a breath. “Can we, like, get to know each other better?”

My body betrays me, inappropriately sparking to life; I pull down a pillow, hugging it. Hiding behind it. “Sure. So, Ethan. What’s your favourite music?”

I expect him to say indie rock or pop. Instead he says, “The harp.”

“The harp?”

“I mean, it’s just a bit different, isn’t it? Such a massive instrument and the sound’s so gentle. What about you?”

“Not the harp.”

“Are you hating on the harp?”

“No, I just wanna harp on it a little more. You and the harp up a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G—”

He rolls his eyes and shoves my shoulder.

“Okay, for real. I like it fine. More now. I like all kinds of music. Crowded House.”

Now Ethan’s smirking, and it’s my turn to shove him. “Cool, cool.”

I peek at him. “Why do you always leave the light on in our living area at night?”

I’ve been burning to ask that for months. It always felt like I might embarrass him. Now, though . . . embarrassment feels like part of opening up.

The bed rumbles with Ethan’s groaning laugh. “I didn’t think it bothered you. You always close your door at night.”

“You don’t?” I know he doesn’t.

Ethan shifts onto his side and pushes the pillow down so we can see each other properly. “Will you tell me why you always listen to audiobooks but rarely read?”

I stiffen. He’s noticed stuff about me, too.

I blow out a slow breath. “It’s just . . . better, listening to stories being read to me. Reading makes me tired.”

“If it makes you tired, maybe you’re reading the wrong books?”

I feel a rush of vulnerability, exposing this failure to Ethan. His opinion means too much. My mouth is dry when I swallow. “I love the same stories as audiobooks. I’m just too lazy to read, I guess.”

Ethan frowns gently.

“You study, though. For your tests. Sometimes for hours.”

I flush at the thought he’s seen me studying. “Hours poring over the same paragraphs.” I laugh at myself, but it’s hollow and painful and I hope he doesn’t laugh too.

He doesn’t. “Hours . . . Is that why you were so crushed about your Achieved?”

The reminder of that day is painful. “I got marked down for spelling and reading comprehension. I think . . . it’s also, like, I read too much into it? Like I’m always expecting a trick question? I have to read the questions three times before I can answer any and then time runs out before I ever finish answering.”

“Time pressure in exams is difficult even when you read fast.” Ethan pauses. “Do the words sometimes trick you? Jump about.”

“More like I’m too impatient? I want to just read but I must move my eyes too fast. It jumbles and I have to tell myself to slow down.”

“Have you ever been tested for a reading disorder?”

“Yes. I don’t have one.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

“I might have some sort of emotional blockage, the psychologist said. Now, what about the light?”

He must read my need to change the subject because he nods. And then he groans and buries his head in the pillow. The tips of his hair tickle my mouth as he shifts again to look at me. “I’m . . . scared of the dark.”

“A big, strapping guy like you?” I mean it as a joke, to lighten the mood.

Ethan sits up. “What does that mean?”

Shit. I shove onto my knees and curl an arm around his tight bicep. “Sorry. That was stupid.”

He doesn’t look at me, and the disappointment sinks into my skin and settles heavily in my stomach. I feather my hand up and down his arm, over his shoulder. “I’m really sorry.”

He shrugs. “I know the light thing has to stop. It kinda keeps me up at night, too. Just seems the lesser of two evils.”

“Would it help if, like . . .”

“Like what?”

“If we had the light off, but I kept my door open? So you know someone else is there?”

“Are you offering?” Ethan laughs at himself, and I urge him awkwardly back down on my bed, hand drifting to his waist to keep him there.

“I’m not afraid of the dark,” I say. “But I have bad dreams sometimes.”

“What do you do about it?”

“I sleep with my mum.”

“Really?”

I hesitate. “Well, not since Tom. But . . . sometimes I want to crawl into her bed.”

“Yeah, Dad is so not letting me sleep with him.”

I come forward and press my forehead against his, clasping his warm neck. The pillow is still jammed between us, but his warmth leaks toward me anyway. His breath caresses my cheek, the edge of my lip, mixing with mine.

I look into the night-darkened pools of his eyes and whisper, “You can always sleep with me.”