“Thank you,” I told her, shocked by how badly I’d needed to be recognized as more than muscle.
“No one’s ever called you that before,” she said matter-of-factly.
I dropped my spoon in its bowl and stared at her. “Never,” I answered after a moment’s pause.
She stared back, “How is that possible?”
I didn’t know how to answer so I just watched the expressions change on her face from disbelief to empathy to something else I didn’t recognize, something I was burning to decipher, though.
“Ethan,” she whispered.
That single utterance turned the room invisible. Suddenly it was her and me. Finley and Ethan.
“Yes?” I asked her softly, my voice dropping an octave, surprising even me with how deep, how raspy it sounded.
Her eyes softened, glistening with unshed tears. I reached across the table, running the back of my hand across her porcelain cheek. One single tear fell as she tucked her face into my palm, so I swept it away with my thumb. I pleaded with her with words unspoken, begging her to stop hurting. My hand slid down her face to her neck and rested there. I let my skin soothe her, hoping my touch helped her as much as hers helped me.
“It’s like a balm for a blistered burn, Ethan,” she answered, making me wonder if I’d spoken out loud. She must have read the confusion on my face, because she explained, “You wear your words, Ethan. In every pained expression, I feel your meaning. I’ve seen what my skin does for you. Know it works for me as well.”
My fingers threaded through her hair at the top of her neck, the weight of that revelation burying itself in my chest with a permanent ferocity. My stomach flipped on itself. Check yourself, Ethan. She needs you more than you need to fall in love with her. And you’re starting to.
With a slam, I shut that door, checked my expression, letting my hand fall to her shoulder, squeezing in the friendliest way I could think how. Don’t think about standing up. Don’t think about the fact that you want to stand, walk over to her side of the table, and take her in your arms. Don’t think about it. Don’t.
I rested my forearm on the edge of the table near my bowl and smiled at her but when my eyes met hers, she wasn’t smiling. She looked scared, actually, and I wondered if I’d offended her. I opened my mouth to speak but the moment passed when her eyes broke our gaze and she reached for her spoon. Deflated for reasons I couldn’t fathom, I followed her lead, picking up my spoon again.
When I looked up, everyone was busy eating, seemingly unaware of our exchange. Everyone, that is, but Sister Marguerite. She sat with her hands folded on the table, watching me closely. Her eyes met mine and I wondered if she was upset that I’d touched Finley but when one brow shot up, her expression said that she had my number. Frightened that she might blow my cover to Finley, I shook my head at her, making her grin. I practically fell into my bowl, desperate to erase that moment but knowing how disappointed I’d have been not to have known Finley’s skin one more time. Any touch I got or received from Finley was a windfall I didn’t think I could live without, and every single touch since that first was building my addiction to her.
Check yourself, Ethan Moonsong. Don’t worry, I answered myself, kicking that ajar door shut with every ounce of strength I had.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
After dinner, Father Connolly ushered me through the front door without a real opportunity to say goodbye to Fin as he said he needed to “bed early and rise early.” When I ducked under the front door with my bag, I looked back to see Fin, standing in the middle of the room, facing the door, her arms wrapped around herself, rocking back and forth from foot to foot, making my stomach drop. Her go-to coping mechanism. I pierced her eyes with a gaze so fierce she stopped rocking, staring straight back at me, her mouth parted. I nodded slowly at her, reassuring her that I was here, that I was there with her.
Her breath noticeably steadied and she nodded back. When I turned away from her, it physically hurt. I gripped the fabric of my shirt near my chest, pressing to relieve the screaming need to protect. I wanted to run back to her, stay with her, but Sister Marguerite would have shooed me with a broom right back out so I continued on, ignoring my instincts. Men weren’t allowed on property at night so I fought the urge and followed Father to the houseboat down the shore.
We walked the sandy path through the canopy of trees and came upon the beach where Finley and I had sat earlier that evening. As we passed the spot we sat, I recognized the indents of our bodies in the sand highlighted in the moonlight. For some strange inexplicable reason I wanted to run to that spot, kick the sand, shatter the imprints of our bodies as if I could physically remove the pain that had buried Finley there. The ghost of that ache lingered there so I turned my face from it and caught up to Father since he’d gotten a bit ahead of me.
“...and it rocks a bit but have no fear, it’s nothin’ but nothin’,” I caught him saying, confusing me.
“I’m sorry, Father?”
“The boat! The boat, boy. I been talkin’ to ya ’bout the boat.”
Caught up. “Oh, I see. Sorry. Yeah, so it rocks a bit. That’s okay.”
“Don’t worry yourself none, son. Unless ya see water on the floor, then ya might want to jump ship,” he said, laughing. I wasn’t sure if he was joking, though. “Oh!” he continued, “We canna be on the same soide of the boat at any point ’cause she’ll sink a bit an’ that can cause a bit o’trouble.”