Page 76 of Chaos

An ear that fingers that aren’t mine touch, gently tugging the delicate chain that hangs from my helix piercing.

Ducking out of his reach, I shoot Finn a scowl. “Can I help you?”

I can, apparently. By standing still and letting him fiddle with my ear some more, thumbing the myriad of ridged rings and sparkling diamonds and plain, gold studs decorating my lobes, my cartilage, my tragus. “These are cool.”

I think so too. Hence why I picked them. Although, when I spent entirely too long curating the perfect aesthetic collection, I didn’t imagine Finn would be the one to appreciate them.

“I like ‘em.” He tugs on the tiny, silver sword hanging from my left lobe before his hand drops to try and slide the tote off myshoulder and onto the one of his that’s not already occupied. He tuts when I resist. “Oh, come on. Let me be a gentleman.”

“With your sticky fingers?” I scoff and hold my bag even tighter. “No way.”

“Hey, I gave you back your lighter.”

He did.Afterhe smirked like a dickhead while using it to light the A-frame’s fire pit, and I threw an empty bag of marshmallows—because apparently, I am becoming someone who sits amongst a group of happy, chatty people and makes fucking s’mores—at him. “And my cigarettes?”

“Maybe they grew cancerous legs and walked away.”

“Ha.” I plant a palm on his torso, right above the hem of the loose, long-sleeved shirt that shields him from the cooling temperatures yet still exposes the‘v’of muscles I’ve taken to thinking of as apenis ravine—thank you, Yasmin—and shove him away. “Go bother Eliza.”

“She banished me,” Finn claims, matching my pace as I sidle to the next stall. “Said there’s no way her cheesemonger will believe she’s flirting with him if I was with her.”

“Persecuted for your stunningly good looks. Poor baby.”

That full bottom lip pops out dramatically. “It’s really hard being so handsome.”

I snicker, and like every other time he’s pulled a begrudgingly humored noise out of me, a triumphant curve pulls at his mouth. And like every other time, I’m distracted by it. Confused by the pride he seems to take in the simple accomplishment of making me laugh. Unsettled becausewhy?Why does he care? Why does he try so hard?

I look away, pretending to be enthralled by a table laden with artisanal honey. “Why’s she flirting with a cheesemonger anyway?”

“Don’t ask her that question unless you want a multi-hour rant on the price of dairy these days.”

My mouth twitches, but I don’t laugh. I stifle it. I can’t handle two of those smiles in as many minutes. I fear I can’t handle any of this friendly shit, not the smiling or the joking or the consistent stream of random compliments about inconsequential things. Like the color of my nail polish or whatever belt buckle I choose to wear or the way I talk to Ruin, literally anything, always something. And the touching,fuck, I’ve never been touched so much in my life. Casual grazes and little squeezes, and the most unsettling part is I don’t hate it. Any of it. It makes me nervous and uncomfortable and unsure, which I do hate, but I don’t hateit. He stands close enough that every breath is tainted with the scent of him, and I definitely don’t hate that.

Beeswax candles, a drop of sweat, spilled wine, and smoke.

That’s what the label on the empty bottle I found in my old room in the main house read. Sure, he could’ve started wearing something else since he moved out of there, but I don’t think so. It sounds right. Smells right. Smells nice, really nice, I like it a whole fucking lot, and I figure that makes sense, considering the last two fragrance notes.

“Hey.”

Assuming Finn’s talking to me, I look up only to realize it wasn’t a call to attention, but a soft, surprised greeting. Only to find his gaze elsewhere. Only to be abruptly reminded that I’m not special. The touching, the smiles, they’re not all for me. He’s generous with them—with the girl I recognize easier than I should, considering our single, fleeting encounter.

Joy. What a fitting name for someone radiating with it. Shit, I guess I’d be pretty damn joyful too, if the man I was so obviously infatuated with had his arms wrapped lovingly around me.

“What’re you doing here?” Finn asks and Joy shrugs, all demure, like she just happened to stumble upon a small, local market in buttfuck nowhere. “It’s good to see you.”

You saw her a week ago, I think, snarkier than he deserves, snarkier thanIdeserve.You’re not long-lost lovers.

I must make a noise, a sigh or a snort or something, because two gazes swing my way, one impossibly dark and the other bright and light and ever-so-slightly narrowed.

Joy might be looking at me, but it’s clearly Finn who she asks, “Who’s this?”

She knows. She remembers me. In her eyes, I see a reflected memory of me and Finn sitting in that booth for God knows how long, sharing food and talking about nothing, or literally not talking at all, just sitting in comfortable silence. And just as clearly, I see the jealousy. The confusion. The question—what the hell is he doing with her?

Finn doesn’t. He’s oblivious as he makes the introduction, and he’s just as blind to how her entire demeanour changes when she hears my last name.

Ah, I practically hear her think.He’s working. They’re working, not taking a friendly jaunt through the market. That makes much more sense.

Just like that, I’m dismissed. Invisible. Threat neutralized—different target acquired.

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