Page 56 of Hearts Adrift
It feels so shitty in hindsight, how selfish I’ve been.
After the sun’s up, I’m lounged on the couch again. I feel like such a good boy, doing as I’m told, staying inside, staying unseen, letting Finn’s sister work her social media magic while I twiddle my thumbs. I feel so useless. I open an app on my phone, and the first thing I see is my face—but it’s laughing.#RiverSoReal. Did Brooke move on from the video-doubt-planting already to posting endearing stuff about my goofy, human side that apparently exists? I didn’t think to ask how close together her first and second waves of her strategy were. I figured this kind of thing would take weeks, not days. But here I am, scrolling through post after post, amazed at how a tide can turn so quickly. The hateful comments are still there, calling me out for my past acts of arrogance, but now they’re seasoned with people laughing with me (or at me, which is probably just as useful) and commenting about how adorable I look while trying to keep a straight face, or tripping on a simple answer in an interview—or this shot of me picking at my nose when I thought no one was looking at last year’s Oscars.
Where did Brooke even find these clips? How long did it take her to dig these up? She did so much work on her own with little to no assistance from me.
I’m back on the porch again, elbows on the railing, and gazing down the shore at the house. In the bright daylight, it’s difficult to see any activity there. For all I know, Finn is keeping his mind as far away from thoughts of me as he can, throwing himself into his work at the Fair. I wouldn’t blame him. If I was in his shoes, seeing me the way he likely sees me now, I’d probably keep my distance, too.
I decide that’s how it’ll be: I’ll give him space. That is clearlywhat he’s communicating by not dropping in or answering my cryptic text to the guest line. I’ll stay here in this quaint little house on the rocky shore, mind my own business, andnotstir up any further trouble in his life.
Ten minutes later, I’m texting the guest line again. “I am in need …” I narrate out loud as I type. “… of the cute guy …” This is why I need more friends: to stop me from doing these impulsive things. “… who was here the other day. There is a …spider… in the corner of the …room… that requiresimmediate…exterminating. Please … and …thank you. Heart emoji, praying hands, kiss, kiss, spider emoji, skull and crossbones. And …send.”
So much for giving space.
Am I literally incapable of honoring my own choices?
There is seriously something fucking wrong with me.
I put myself to bed, toss my phone at my opened bag of belongings on the floor, and pretend I never sent the text.
At midnight, I’m wide awake and texting. Again. “I … think I may … be in need … of a … human-sized pillow to cuddle … that may or may not … be in the shape … of the cute guy … who was here the other day. Wink emoji, cry-face emoji, monkey hiding face emoji three times. And …send.” Then I toss my phone at my bag again and sit there on the edge of the bed, drumming my fingers on my skull.
Four minutes later, I’m at it again. “Disregard message about pillow … Send me the real thing … I would like … to talk … please … thank you …” I change my mind seven times about using any emojis, write and delete “sorry” nine times, then finally throw my phone away from me and collapse back onto the bed, frustrated, and shut my eyes.
I don’t understand boundaries.
And I’m really the first person who should, considering how many people in my life have crossed mine.
Last guy I dated, he was a total disaster and left me doubting whether I knew the first thing about love at all. The one before that moved in after dating me for a week, then cheated on me with my local hairstylist. And the one before that got my face tattooed on his back, which I only found out about the final time we had sex and I stared at my own face the whole time, distorted across his shoulder blade in off-putting bluish-black and red ink.
I have no savable history with love.
Might as well flush it all away and call me a virgin.
I’m probably a decent handful of years older than Finn and here I am, playing the role of a lovesick schoolboy. No clue what to do with my big feelings. No friend to process them through. I don’t know what’s right or wrong. What’s too much or not enough.
Finn makes me wonder if I ever even had feelings for someone before. Real feelings. This might be the first time in my life that someone has meant something to me.
Is it possible for something like this to develop so fast? How am I supposed to know, considering my history with men? Against what standard can I possibly measure this?
Either I’m playing the role of a lonesome actor who’s caught feelings and is losing his mind, or some sad stalker fan with an obsession. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with either role. Bit off-brand for me.
Regardless of which role I’m cast in, it doesn’t help me get any closer to ridding my mind of Finn’s face when we spoke at his bedroom door the other night. If only he knew how unappealing the idea of returning to my life is at this moment. How meaningless it feels.How lonely.
But no text is going to convey that.
It’s a miracle I ever fall asleep, because the next time I open my eyes, it’s morning.
My texts have gone unanswered.That’s for the best.
I have a bowl of cereal while thumbing through my social feeds. Stunningly, I am hard-pressed to findanythingabout me being an arrogant director-hating fiend anymore. The entire conversation has shifted to how “relatable” and “dorky” and “cutely clumsy” I am.
I don’t feel like any of those things right now.Maybe being a lovesick monster really is more on-brand for me.
And it honestly doesn’t matter anymore.
Next thing I know, I’m pacing the house, one room to the next. Then I’m jogging circles. I know every creak of every floorboard. Every discolored spot on every wall. And the number of steps it takes to get from one end of the bungalow to the other. It’s not many.
Would it kill you to reply to a text, Finn?
