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‘We’ve decided we need to try to complete his London bucket list before he leaves.’ I want his final weeks here to befun. I want to give him a good send-off. Especially knowing Max specifically requested continuing as normal until there’s more news.
Eventually she sighs, and it feels like resignation. ‘What’s left on the list?’
I start reading out the remaining items from my phone, until one of them sparks an idea. ‘Hey, do you think you could put me in contact with Sage?’
By midday the next day I still haven’t heard from Finn. He’s an unhinged person who keeps his read receipts on, so I know he’s seen my texts, but so far he hasn’t responded. I accidentally pour half an Americano over my hand while I’m distracted and the customer I’m serving steps back in alarm.
‘Happens all the time,’ I tell him flatly, my barista skin immune to pretty much anything. My lack of reaction seems to scare him, and by the time he’s left the counter with a new drink and an expression of wide-eyed alarm, I’ve already opened my text thread with Finn, my last two messages read but unanswered.
how did it go with your dad?
are you coming into the office?
Ava of a few months ago would’ve cringed at seeming so eager, but current Ava just wants to make the most of these next few weeks. Finn usually replies before I’ve even finished retrospectivelychecking my message for spelling mistakes and I can’t figure out why he’s staying quiet now. Is he really this wounded from our conversation the other day? I was sure we’d come to an agreement when I said goodbye to him on the rooftop. And his excitement to see his dad was palpable, brightening his eyes and making him restless on his feet.
Max still hasn’t heard back about his test results and I need some distraction in the form of a curly-haired man with a million passports. Because while I can go through the motions and keep busy at work, as soon as I’m home with nothing to do, the worry percolates, dripping into every corner of my brain and filling it up until I feel like I’m drowning.
Hours later, just as I’m leaving work, I finally get a response from Finn, but it’s the single blandest text I’ve ever received from him.
Feeling weird today, was working from home
I ruminate over his absence while I’m on the Tube. I ruminate so hard, in fact, that when the doors open at Stockwell, I stay seated. And then when the line ends at Brixton, I get off. He has less than three weeks left here; there’s no way I’m letting him mope for the entirety of it.
Finn lives in a Victorian terrace on a residential road in Brixton, not far from the leisure centre, and when I press the intercom, his tired voice comes through. ‘Hello?’
‘Hey.’ It strikes me as odd that I’m the one imposing on his space today. ‘It’s me.’
He’s wary when he meets me in the doorway, looking starkly different from the other day. Where the last time I saw him he was perfectly coiffed, now he’s gone the other way, scruff darkening hisjaw and neck, hair dishevelled, unkempt in a white t-shirt and black sweatpants. Yet the inherent pull of his still draws me in, and I cross my arms so my hands won’t do something stupid like reach out and touch his face.
‘What are you doing here?’ His voice is coarse, like it’s the first time he’s spoken in a while.
‘Nice to see you too. You were texting weirdly and I wanted to make sure you hadn’t been abducted by aliens.’
‘I’m not in the mood,’ he says, fingers running through messy hair. His eyes skim my face like he’s trying to piece a puzzle together. I didn’t cry as much last night, so the bags under my eyes probably aren’t as prominent today, but his eyebrows draw together and I can tell he’s noticed again that something is still off. This man needs to stop being so perceptive. It makes pretending to be okay far more difficult than it needs to be.
I barge past him and into the foyer, the movement of air whipping up his now-familiar scent. I rest an elbow on the banister and ask, ‘What floor are you on?’
He continues to analyse my face and while his frown doesn’t budge, eventually he closes the front door and says, ‘Follow me.’
He motions towards an open door when we reach the second floor. I step inside the flat and it’s not what I expected at all. It’s all chrome appliances, grey walls and sharp lines, out of place in a building with the potential for so much character. Out of place for someone as vibrant as Finn, too.
As if he can read my thoughts, he says quietly, ‘My landlord has an aversion to fun, apparently. Do you want a drink?’ When we walk to the perfectly tidy living room, glasses of water in hand, he asks, ‘What exactly were you intending to do if I hadbeen abducted by aliens?’
‘I’m still not sure you haven’t been. Jury’s out.’
I wince when we drop down onto opposite ends of the sofa andthe leather doesn’t give, and I wait for him to start talking. For once, the man doesn’t say a word. Shit, maybe the aliens didget to him. ‘If you’re not gonna talk about how you’ve been sulking in this flat for days, I’ll start. You’re coming with me on a bucket list item on Friday. I cannot express the effort I’ve gone to and I refuse to waste it. It’s for entirely selfish reasons.’
‘Ava,’ he says gently. ‘I’m not feeling up for it.’
Part of me wants to yell at him for wasting time, another part wants to yell at him for being so weird when there are much bigger problems to despair over than whether some cold, commitment-phobe of a woman can change.
Maybe I just want to yell, come to think of it.
‘Well, get up for it. It’ll be fun. Stop sulking about being permanently relegated to the friendzone.’
This seems to jolt him out of his stupor, and his eyes widen as he says, ‘God, I’m not moping about that. I agree it’s the smartest move right now.’ He shakes his head, curls shifting with the movement. ‘You didn’t friendzone me. That makes it sound like only being your friend is a demotion, somehow. As if it’s not my favourite thing to be.’
His words embed in my heart like an ice pick trying to breach the surface, and I have to clear my throat in the hope of dislodging them.
