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“I’m sure of it. Moving on has to happen here and here,” Ed says, pointing at head and chest. He looks at me levelly and I blink at him and a tiny, near-imperceptible moment passes between us, and I mentally put it in one of my specimen jars.
It’s one of those unpleasant moments in life you confront the fact your beliefs in theory and behavior in practice can be two entirely different things.
Seeing someone you know well in a totally different context is always disorientating and vaguely impressive. You realize you have them on loan from the other lives they lead.
It might only be a Domino’s pizza, but the act of choosing toppings feels so frivolous. It’s like a statement that life goes on. You’re not ready for that statement. You can’t find the moment, or the words, without it seeming tasteless. How can they be dead, and you’re still preferring pepperoni to ham.”
The eternity of the silence overwhelms me. The line between us buzzes with monotonous static, a line never to be busy again.
MENTALLY, I PULL the files I have marked “Finlay Hart.” They’re both dusty and slender, figuratively speaking.
“Do you ever wonder what it would be like, to drop all . . . this, with someone?” Fin says, eventually. He makes a gesture up and down from his face to his shoulders and down to his waist that leaves me nonplussed. “The defenses and the deceptions and ways we have of impressing people. To fully be yourself, with no . . . no fear, I guess? Of how you’re coming over. No management of the impression you’re making. Total honesty.”
“For what it’s worth, if you could see yourself through my eyes, I don’t think you’d think you were a busted flush at this ‘living,’ Evelyn.”
“Thank you,” I say. I parcel this incredible compliment up, mentally, to unwrap and fully enjoy after he’s gone. “You’re not doing badly yourself.”
Beauty isn’t an arrangement of features, even features as perfect as Finlay Hart’s, it’s a feeling. This is how it feels in the split second you suddenly become aware that you’re falling in love with someone. The click of a jigsaw’s last piece, the rainfall of coins in a jackpot slot machine, the right song striking up and your being swept away by its opening bars. That conviction of making complete sense of the universe, in one moment. Of course. You’re where I should be. You’re here.
“I know I’m a pathetic protector and I’m wearing a skirt with dancing squirrels printed on it . . . but . . . let me rescue you!” I blurt, half crying, half laughing. “Ah, but, you see—the thing is, Evelyn Harris. You already have,” Fin says, putting his hand to my face.
