And a larger, more terrifying question: Have I just made the most dreadful error, which I will regret for the rest of my life?
But I’m not going to sink into terror. I’m determined to shut down the fear, the catastrophizing, the self-doubt. I have savings. I have experience. I have a CV. I will find another job.
“You OK?” says Finn.
“Yes!” I say, trying to sound confident. “Yes.” I pause, then add more honestly, “I will be.”
“Leaving a job isn’t nothing.” He sits beside me. “That took guts.”
“I had to go.” Putting it in the past tense is already more relaxing, I realize. “I had no choice.”
Finn hands me my fish and chips, and I reach for a chip to stuff instantly into my mouth. “I think you did the right thing to leave. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think you should be rushing into any new job. If your finances can bear it,” he adds carefully.
“They can bear it.” I nod, still chewing. “For a while.”
“Good. And when you do decide to take the plunge, if you ever want any headhunting contacts, ask me. Or a sounding board. Whatever. You’ll get a job,” he adds assuredly, perhaps noticing my wavering doubt. “You’ll get a great job.” He gestures at the dark sea. “Remember what Terry says? Infinite waves. Infinite chances.”
“I remember.” I laugh. “And thanks for the support. I couldn’t have done that without talking to you. You helped me understand myself.”
“OK, now you’re flattering me,” says Finn, his eyes crinkling. “You would have worked it out. But I’m glad.”
He’s a good person, I find myself thinking. He’s wise. He doesn’t have an agenda. As we sit there, peacefully munching our fish and chips and swigging our Cokes, I feel an overwhelming affection toward this strong, kind man who sees what I can’t see but doesn’t feel the need to boast or brag or even share his thoughts unless you ask him.
“What about you?” I ask, determined that our little support network of two should be fair. “What about your work? What’s the situation there?”
“Oh.” Finn shrugs, and his face closes up like it always does. As if he’s not interested and I can’t possibly be either.
“Are you going back?” I persist. “Is your company dysfunctional too?”
“Not like yours.” He shakes his head. “Where I work, it’s not perfect, but … No. The company was not the problem. I’ll be going back to work there. But I had …” He pauses for so long, I hold my breath. “I had other issues,” he finishes at last. “There was other stuff.”
Something has changed in his face as he’s been speaking. There’s a downward, weary cast to his forehead, to his eyebrows, to his eyes. Just for a moment, he looks as though he can’t endure the world.
I gaze at Finn in dismay, feeling that whatever I say will be inadequate. I have no idea what he’s been dealing with; I can only see how much of a strain it’s been. But unless he gives me any kind of detail, how can I help?
“I’m a good listener,” I venture. “You can tell me. Tell me anything.”
“Thanks.” He flashes me a semi-smile. “I don’t think it helps me to … But thanks.”
I feel ridiculously hurt that he won’t confide in me. But at the same time, I know what it’s like when the timing is wrong. Maybe he’s just too exhausted to share.
“You should see someone, maybe?” I suggest. “A therapist.”
“That’s what they want me to do at work.” Finn rolls his eyes.
“How do you mean?”
“They sent me off to do two things: Have time away and start therapy. They actually made it a condition of my coming back.”
I sit up straighter and stare at him. “You have a therapist?”
“Haven’t started yet,” says Finn, looking evasive. “There’s a woman. She’s called a couple of times, left messages.”
“Have you called her back?”
Finn is suspiciously silent, and my eyes narrow as I begin to work out what’s going on.
“You haven’t called her back?”
“I will,” says Finn defensively.
“When?”
“Don’t know. I will.”
“Are you avoiding this?” I say incredulously. “Are you avoiding professional help?”
“No!” exclaims Finn. “I just—” He breaks off and rubs his face. “I’ll get to it.”
He is avoiding it. He’s hiding here in Rilston Bay instead of doing the therapy he needs to get his life back on track.
“What’s so scary about therapy?” I say, and Finn makes an expression of such horror that I start laughing. “OK. Even so. You need to call her.”
“I know.” Finn gets out the box of chocolates. “I plan to. Have a chocolate.”
“You can’t bribe me with chocolates,” I say, taking one at random. “I’ll bug you about this. I won’t let it go. Because that’s what you do when—”
I stop awkwardly and stuff the chocolate in my mouth, wondering: Where was I going with that, exactly?
That’s what you do when you care about someone.
I was about to tell Finn I care about him.
Which is fine, I argue in my mind. It’s true. I don’t need to be embarrassed. I do care about Finn. I mean, not like that, obviously … Not like that …
Then … like what?
What are we like, exactly?
I glance at his strong, stubbled jaw and feel a rush of self-conscious heat, combined with …
Hang on.
Just … hang on.
What is this flicker inside me? What is this rippling and tingling that I thought I’d never feel again? This sensation is like the flutter before—but tenfold. I can’t quite believe it. Things are revving up inside me at last, at last! It feels as if the pilot light to some ancient stove is dimly coming alive, right at my core. Nothing’s on fire, exactly, but nor is it cold and dead.
My whole body feels alert. My breathing is more shallow. I’m super-aware of Finn’s thighs resting on the wall next to mine. I can smell a faint scent of aftershave. I can imagine what his skin feels like, how it would feel to kiss him. As I glance at him again, my stomach flips over and I blink in disbelief. Do I want sex?
No. Noooo. Easy there, tiger. I’m still at base camp; I don’t know what I want exactly.
But still. Still. Oh my God. I have a sex drive. What now?
Later that evening, we travel back to the Rilston in a cab, and I can tell from Finn’s easygoing manner that he’s oblivious to my new sexual frissons. He can’t feel the prickliness between us; only I can. He’s not darting constant sidelong glances; only I am. Everything has changed for me—but not for him.
It’s around ten o’clock when we arrive back. The lobby is empty when we enter the hotel, and we walk up the creaky stairs together, for all the world like a couple going up to bed.
“Where’s your room?” I ask at the top of the stairs. It seems odd that I don’t know this, but it hasn’t seemed relevant. And still isn’t, I tell myself firmly. Still isn’t.