The clamor of the room seems to die away as I look at Finn’s warm face.
“We’re not a couple,” I say softly to him. “Friends, though.”
“Friends always.” He takes my hand and kisses my fingertips. “Always.”
Twenty-Six
It’s Finn who helps me carry all my stuff down to the station, after I’ve said my fond goodbyes to Simon, Herbert, Nikolai, and been hugged about twenty times by Cassidy.
The two of us stand on the platform, occasional spatters of rain hitting us on the head, and we don’t say much. Occasionally one of us will send the other a wary little smile as though to say, Are we still good? And the other will return it. Of course we are.
“Never did get to the watercolor kit,” I say, after one of the silences becomes too unbearable. “I was going to paint Rilston Bay. Become the next Mavis Adler.”
“Always save something for next time,” replies Finn. “How many steps did you get through in the end?”
“Oh, at least twenty-five.” I smile ironically at him. “Can’t you tell? I’m transformed. I’m a whole new me!”
“I think you are,” he says seriously. “You’re transformed from the person I first met.”
I flash back to the way I was when I first encountered Finn. Exhausted, defensive, binging on chocolate and wine. He’s right: I am a different person now. More assertive. Stronger. Calmer. Fitter.
Then I remember the angry sociopath I thought I heard in the dunes and look up at the balanced, wise, kind guy in front of me.
“Same,” I say. “You’re a whole new you.”
“I’d better be,” says Finn with a wry smile. “The old me is unemployable.”
The sound of the approaching train comes faintly through the air, and I feel such dread I’m almost giddy.
“So!” I muster every acting power I possess to sound cheerful. “Train’s on time.”
“It’s pretty reliable.” He nods.
“Yes, it’s a good service.”
We’re into platitudes, because where else can we go?
“Finn …” I meet his eyes, and just for a moment his guard drops and I see it in his face too. A kind of loss. And bewilderment that this is happening.
He couldn’t love me—I’m convinced of this to my bones. He couldn’t share his anguish, his loss, or anything of his heart. He closed himself off—and he’s still closed off, because his heart is reserved for someone else.
So I closed myself off too—because something I’ve learned these last few weeks is self-preservation. I couldn’t let myself get hurt. Not now, not after everything that’s happened. I’ve been hurt enough by life; I’m still mending.
“Finn … thank you.” I reach out to touch his fingertips, the safest level of connection. “Thank you.”
“Sasha …” His eyes crinkle. “Thank you. Without you, I never would have known the joy of noni juice.”
“Oh, you didn’t try the noni juice!” I burst into shocked laughter. “Please tell me you didn’t.”
“I got Nikolai to bring me a glass yesterday. It is vile. It is unspeakable.” He shudders. “Recommended by Sasha, huh?”
“Sorry!” I can’t stop giggling. “I should have warned you.”
The train is already pulling into the station. Thirty more seconds.
“Well, good luck. I’ll be manifesting for you.” I pull a piece of paper out of my pocket and show him. “ ‘Finn’s wellness,’ see?”
“Snap.” He produces one from his own jeans pocket, and I see Sasha’s wellness written on a sheet of Rilston notepaper.
The train doors are opening. We shove all my clobber onto the train and then I force myself to step on too, leaving Finn on the platform. Ten more seconds.
“Bye.” Tears are gathering in my eyes as I turn to face him. “Bye. It’s been … Bye.”
“Bye.” He nods, then draws breath as though to add something. But the train doors are closing, and I feel panic. Wait. Wait. I had more to say.
But then, maybe I didn’t.
I don’t sit down. I stand at the door, my eyes fixed on Finn’s face, as he gazes back at me through the rain. I’m trying to memorize him, absorb every pixel of his image, internalize him. Until the train is round the bend and I’m staring at a bank of weeds.
For a while I don’t move. Then at last I make my way to a seat and sit, staring ahead. I feel kind of blank. Like a void.
I know this is good. New life. New start. I just have to wait for it to start feeling good.
After a minute or two my phone bleeps, and I feel an almighty pang of hope as I pull it out of my pocket with scrabbling fingers. Finn?
No. Kirsten.
I’ll need to wean myself off those pangs of hope. It’s fine. I’ll manage it.
I open the text from Kirsten and read her message.
Hi, was looking through old photos of Rilston Bay and found this. Is this Finn Birchall?!
I open the photo, my heart thumping, and find myself staring at Kirsten and me in matching pink gingham bikinis, which I’d forgotten about. I look about eight years old, which makes Kirsten eleven. We’re holding spades and sitting in a sand hole, and I’m making one of my trademark funny faces. Mum’s sitting beside us in her swimsuit, which means Dad must have taken the photo. Her face is light and carefree as she smiles up at him. The Mum we had before we lost Dad. She never quite came back in the same way.
And behind us, several feet away, is a boy in red swimming trunks. He has dark hair and he’s holding a fishing net and he’s looking off into the middle distance. Even at the age of eleven, he has distinctive eyebrows, lowered in a frown. He shows no sign of having noticed me or Kirsten, and we’re oblivious to him.
I can’t help smiling, because he’s so totally Finn, even then. But I also have a tightness in my throat as I survey the scene, because we all look so blithe. None of us knew what was coming our way back then.
As the train gathers speed, I gaze and gaze at the image. At the holiday-happy faces. At the beach that I’ve come to love again so dearly. At this snapshot of everyone that I cherish in the world. Then, at last, I put it away.
Maybe I’ll show Finn this photo one day, over drinks or something. Maybe I’ll be detached enough to see it as a novelty. Maybe I’ll have got my heart back from him.
Maybe.
Twenty-Seven
Six months later
I’m not saying it’s easy, running the marketing department. It’s super-busy. It’s complicated. Every day is a heart-thumping mix of strategy and firefighting and diplomacy. Oh, and emails. The emails haven’t magically disappeared.
The difference is, now I have ownership. I have agency. I hadn’t realized how stressful it was, sitting at that old desk of mine, seething and brooding and worrying, waiting to be told what was possible, what could happen, what couldn’t happen.
Now I don’t wait. I make things happen.
I have slightly more respect for Asher than I did, since learning how many facets there are to this role, how many demands, how many problems. But also slightly less respect, because what the hell was he thinking? （From “Asher’s video diary,” which I stumbled on a few weeks ago, he was just thinking, I’m Asher, I’m cool, look at me.）