The Burnout(96)

“You’re very kind!” exclaims the woman after I’ve scribbled down her details. “And I’m so glad Finn’s got a nice friend down there looking after him.… Oh, I never asked. What’s your name?”

I feel a spasm of panic and swallow several times, thinking how to play this.

“Don’t worry about me!” I say at last, easy-breezy. “I’m nobody. Goodbye!”

I put the phone down and stare ahead, my heart heavy with sadness, feeling everything crack around me.

No wonder he didn’t talk much about his burnout. That’s not why he came here. He came here after a bad breakup and that’s why he assumed the same of me when he saw the ice-cream tubs in my lodge.

I suddenly remember him staring out to sea, saying Heartache. Burnout. Breakup. Fuckwit bosses.

I glossed over heartache. I glossed over breakup. But he was telling me something. He had a broken heart.


That evening I sit on my bed, hunched over my phone, wretched. I’ve pieced it all together, from remembered snippets of conversation, from Google search, and, most of all, from Instagram. Not his, hers. He doesn’t do Instagram. He just does the odd business-like tweet about his consultancy. But Olivia obviously loves taking photos, loves sharing them, loves engaging with her family and friends in chatty comments—and why wouldn’t she, with such an attractive face, such a great sense of humor, such a gilded life?

It’s not gilded in a conventional sense. That’s the worst of it. It’s not glossy or glamorous or stage-managed. It’s just warm and down to earth, with photos of her and Finn and family and dogs and barbecues and a new nephew in a onesie and cheesy Christmas sweaters under the tree and …

After a bit I have to stop scrolling. I’ve gone back seven years of their life, gazing at every moment, even watching Olivia’s sister’s “baby’s first Christmas” video because it’s so damn adorable. This is ridiculous. It’s tragic. I’m not supposed to be doomscrolling. I’ve promised myself I won’t. Yet with every photo I see, the doom increases. That colleague on the phone was right. Finn and Olivia are a glorious, perfect couple with a hinterland, a past, a joined-togetherness that I can only marvel at.

Then it ends. The photos dry up, bar one image of Olivia in silhouette, with a million loving comments, broken hearts, and kisses from her friends underneath. That must be when they split. Two months ago.

So they’ve had a blip. What kind of blip, I can’t imagine, except that it made Finn distraught and angry and unable to sleep. Angry at her? Angry at himself? How would I know?

But ten years. Ten years. It makes my heart ache. You don’t give up on that in a hurry, even if you have a blip. You have the blip, the row, the moment of madness, the standoff—and then you go back to normal. You recommit. You realize what you’re in danger of throwing away and you go and grab it again.

Finn and Olivia will grab each other again. I know it. I see their faces together—happy, connected, relaxed—and I know it. If he’s been manifesting anything on the beach, it’s that. It’s her. His desolate eyes make sense. His anger at the world makes sense. It all makes sense now.

No wonder he didn’t tell me. No wonder he didn’t want to rewind something so painful. Now I think back, he just mirrored whatever I said. He said he was overworked, like me. Burned out, like me. He was just saying whatever would close the conversation down the quickest.

And, of course, the biggest proof of all is, he didn’t want to have sex. At this thought, I close my eyes, and tears seep out. No wonder he didn’t want casual sex—he was still nursing a battered heart. But I guess the truth—the truth I wouldn’t even admit to myself—is that I hoped it would be more than casual. It would be serious. It would be the beginning of something strong and long-lasting. The beginning of us.

Maybe somehow Finn realized that, and that’s why he turned me down. He wasn’t ready for the beginning of us when his heart was still in turmoil over the end of him and Olivia.

I don’t blame him for changing his mind. I’m glad he changed his mind. Oh my God, am I glad. I’ve found sex again, and it was incandescent, and nothing can take that away from me. But I do blame myself for seeing it as anything other than what it was: two strangers comforting each other. Two needy, broken people. Kirsten was right. I can’t bear it, but she was right.

I sink my head into my hands, my face soaked with tears now, because I’ve been so deluded. So stupid. I’ve been trying to find all the answers in other people. First I latched on to Wetsuit Girl. Then I latched on to Finn.

At that moment my phone buzzes and I stiffen, because it’s a message from him.

Therapy was great. Intense. Finn x

I quickly type out a response and send it:

I’m so glad! Good for you! X

As my phone buzzes with his name again, I feel guilty. I’ve been watching his entire life with Olivia, like some sort of movie, and he has no idea. He’s never told me Olivia’s name; he’s not tagged on Instagram. If it hadn’t been for that phone call, I wouldn’t have known where to look.

It’s kind of surreal that I know so much and he’s oblivious. But I can’t tell him what I’ve found out. I won’t tell him. If there’s one thing I’m 100 percent resolved on, it’s that.

I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. Looking forward to getting back.