Page 81 of Songbird
“I know, and the idea of another man performing it with you hurts like hell, but I’m not going to be that guy who tells you what to do with your career or your art.”
“Our art,” I correct him softly. “And if you’re not going to record it with me, then I won’t record it at all. If it was only ever written to be a song for us, that’s okay. I can absolutely live with that because I love you, but can you help me understand it? Please?”
Finn meets my eyes, and for a moment I’m sure he’s about to sayno, but he sinks into the armchair I used to play for everyone, and when he opens his arms to me, I accept the invitation to snuggle up on his lap.
“I’m not sure what the problem is,” he confesses. “I just know that something inside me is fighting so hard to remain unseen. Out of the way. Quiet. Simple. Sharing a song I helped write is too much like handing strangers all the best parts of me and inviting them to tear it apart.”
I sigh, because I know exactly what he means, and rest my head on his chest. “I think we all feel like that sometimes. That’s part of being an artist. You have to find strength in vulnerability and hold tight to your vision even when certain people can’t connect with what you create. Someone else will. That’s the magic of music.”
“That’s not it,” he says. “I am okay with people not liking it, but putting my thoughts and feelings on the outside is like sitting still while bugs crawl across my skin. Hopes and fears become real, they take on a life of their own, and I can’t get them back. I can’t pretend like they never happened.”
I grow still, sensing there’s so much more to Finn’s words than fear of being on stage or putting his name to a song we wrote together. “Why would you want to pretend your hopes and fears never happened?”
Finn inhales deeply and breathes out again slowly. “I can’t stand the idea of another person looking at me and seeing the pain of not being there when my mom died or the regret of missing my dad’s last breath. The horror of witnessing thedestruction of war. The guilt of not knowing what Jack needed before it was too late for me to help him.”
I burrow closer, tears in my throat, love in my heart, and so much gratitude that Finn has finally found a safe place in me to speak about his silent regrets.
“Life is easier when I know what the goal is, when I’m on a path, when there’s something to focus on,” he says. “I can keep the mess from spilling out, and I can explain why the world doesn’t make sense. I can say: this thing had to fail so I could serve my country… or so I could protect you.”
I sniffle against his shirt, and Finn rubs my back as he adds, “I don’t want people to know that I dream of making a difference. That I want to make more of myself than I have in the past, or that I’m delusional enough to believe there’s a way for me to leave this world a better place. What if I can’t? What if I fail?” He sighs. “I don’t want to share my hopes and fears with the world because then I’ll have to face them, and I’m not ready for that.”
I slip my arms around his waist and wish I could hold him together with my love alone. “I’ll never make you do anything you don’t want to do, but I think you’ve got this all wrong. Fears and hopes don’t make a person weak. They make themreal. How can we experience the big highs of love and truth and art and music if we don’t sometimes open our hearts, even at the risk of getting hurt? I don’t know how a person can have one without the other, or how we’re supposed to appreciate the sweetness of the good times without enduring the difficulty of the bad. That’s how we know when we’ve got something right.”
Finn gathers me closer as he buries his nose in my hair. “How did you get so wise?”
I smile up at him. “Not wise. I’ve just got a good reason to be brave.”
A little moan sounds in his throat but his lips have barely met mine when his phone starts to ring. He shifts to retrieve it fromhis back pocket, eyes widening at Drew’s name on the screen, and he answers the call with a fast swipe.
“Drew?” he says, tapping into speaker mode. “What’s going on?”
“I’ve got good news,” Drew replies. “Stanley Lowe has just been arrested for an unrelated assault in Tucson.”
Finn’s eyes widen on mine, and his heart races under my palm, echoing the galloping relief in my own chest.
“Are you serious?” Finn demands. “When? How?”
“Never been more serious in my life,” Drew replies, his tone light and victorious. “Police picked him up about an hour ago and it’s serious enough that he’s not getting released anytime soon. He’s done. It’s over.”
Finn’s head falls backward with a relieved sigh. “Thanks for letting us know. Thank you so fucking much.”
I don’t realize tears are leaking down my cheeks until Finn brushes them away with his free hand, and then he’s ending the call and kissing me. It’s deep and real in an entirely new way, the unspoken fear that’s been cushioned between us all this time only obvious to me now that it’s gone. I melt into him, kissing him and needing him harder than I ever have, knowing thatthisis what I meant by vulnerability being a balance of the bitter and the sweet.
We earned this. I earnedFinn. It’s time to put my pain in the past and step into the kind of love I’ve been waiting for all my life.
thirty-one
Finn
Rosiehastotapeher guest appearance onThe Night Showthe next day. We’re due at the studio at five p.m., which means we spend part of that morning in Rosie’s suite going over the details with Pia and a freelance stylist.
“So you’ll wear this,” the stylist confirms, pointing at a peach-toned mini dress with beaded detail hanging on a rack next to a dozen other outfits they’ve already discarded.
“And these pumps,” Pia adds, moving a pair of coral shoes to one side before gesturing at a set of simple gold hoops, a matching bangle, and three plain gold rings arranged on Rosie’s dressing table. “And those accessories. Hair and makeup will be here early this afternoon, so you’ll arrive at the studio ready to go.”
“That sounds great,” Rosie replies. “I can’t stand being holed up in those green rooms longer than I have to be. Let’s get in and out as quickly as we can.”
Her freshly washed hair hangs in damp curls down her back, her face is scrubbed clean of makeup, and she’s swathed in a fluffy white terry robe. I wish we were alone so I could wrap myarms around her waist and bury my face in her neck. I love her like this, natural and relaxed, but there’s more to it today. The undercurrent of apprehension that had become so ingrained in both of us this last month is gone, and the brightness in her eyes is less guarded. She’s even more at ease than she was at the cabin. Now that we know her stalker is in jail where he belongs, a dark cloud has lifted, and Rosie looks and feels lighter.
