I breathed a sigh of relief. It’s only Finley. I breathed a little deeper and closed my eyes. I felt the bed move and cracked one lid open. She’d shifted around, facing me, the blanket covering her, exposing her face, and her hair spilled around her pillow. She looked angelic.
Her hand came up and scratched the tip of her nose, but she stayed asleep. Then her hand fell on top of mine and for some reason, my heart rate slowed down and my eyes became sleepy once more. Before I knew it, I was asleep again.
I woke a second time in Finley’s room, but this time the room was flooded with light. My face rested against the wall, so I stretched and turned over face to face with Finley about a foot apart. She was still asleep but her makeup was gone, revealing how porcelain her skin really was. Her tawny strands fell across her cheek, ran down her neck, and gathered on the bed, like a coppery river. Her lips were parted. She was undeniably beautiful, even I could admit it. It was the strangest feeling admitting that to myself.
I’d always thought her beautiful, but I was faithful to Cricket and wouldn’t let my thoughts trail any further. I reached out and pulled at a strand that had fallen over her eye and tucked it with the rest of her rivulets of hair. She had a wild look about her.
I compared her to Cricket.
Cricket was always polished, her hair perfectly in place and her clothes stylish and refined. She was very well put together and she never deviated from it, not even when in the fields.
If I were being honest, it was disconcerting since I was the exact opposite. I’ve never cared about my appearance. In fact, I’d consider myself the disheveled sort. I didn’t even own an iron, let alone a tie. All my jeans had shredded knees. All my undershirts were waffle-knit. All my overshirts were plaid and button-up. None of them were anything but faded. My boots were dusty and my hair was long. I was Cricket’s opposite.
My eyes narrowed on Finley.
Finley was more like myself, much more down to earth, much more provincial. This wasn’t to say she wasn’t intelligent because, from what I could remember, Finley was often the sharpest in my classes.
She had long, wavy hair always pinned half up or full down in charmingly hot disarray, with wisps of hair constantly around her face. Her bright blue eyes were occasionally covered with Holly-esque frames. Her clothes were vintage, probably thanks to a limited budget, and I remembered her frequenting thrift stores a great deal. I thought she still did. She layered unusual pieces together a lot too, wore a lot of odd jewelry. She pulled it together pretty well. You could probably pluck her up out of Kalispell and drop her in New York City or London and she’d fit right in. The only thing that wouldn’t have jibed were her bare feet. She was obsessed with bare feet. On more than one occasion, even in high school, I remember her getting sent home from school for not wearing shoes.
I looked back on my memories of her and couldn’t remember a time I felt more relaxed. That’s what Finley did for me. She relaxed me. She claimed we weren’t really friends, but I knew differently. Yeah, I was careful around Finley, but I did pay attention to her. I just never told her I did. I watched her probably more than I should have, probably more than I could have admitted to myself.
When I was with Cricket, I was constantly on edge, nervous about her medical condition. Toward the end, it was all we could talk about. Growing up, Finley was a mini-break from that tension because we talked about the obvious. So Finley may have thought we weren’t friends, but our conversations about nothing helped keep me sane, and they meant more to me than she could have ever known.
“Finley,” I began, but my hoarse voice broke. I cleared my throat. “Finley,” I said deeply from sleep and rough use.
She opened one eye. The surprised look on her face priceless, and I almost laughed for the first time in many months. Except it wouldn’t have been the first time, would it? She’d made me laugh at the bar. That shocking feeling sobered me, and I was never more determined to get out of there.
“Good morning,” she said, remembering I was there. “Did you sleep all right?”
“I, um, I did,” I answered self-consciously.
“Good,” she said, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. “Come on,” she ordered, throwing off the covers, standing, and stretching.
She wore a huge T-shirt and baggy flannel pajama pants and she looked ridiculous.
She must have seen the expression on my face because she looked down at herself then back up at me.
She narrowed her eyes. “Well, excuse me, Ethan Moonsong!” she ranted. “I’m not a silk pajama kinda gal, okay?” She stood straighter and smoothed the front of her shirt. “Besides, though this shirt may have been made for a robust two-hundred-pound man, it’s still M83 and they rock socks, so can it!”
I raised my palms. “Fine.”
“Good,” she said, relaxing a bit. “Now,” she continued, “breakfast. Come with me.”
“Uh,” I began, “that’s cool. I need to get going.”
She swirled around, her hair fanning around her. “Nope. Sorry, but I drove you here. Meaning, your truck is still at the bar and I’m not going anywhere without breakfast first.”
I kicked my legs over the side of the bed and stood to my full six-foot three. Finley was tall at five-foot eight, but I still towered over her. I tried to intimidate her into taking me to my truck but it didn’t work. She only gritted her jaw and set her hands on her hips. We stood there quietly, long enough for me to start getting uncomfortable, defeating my purpose.