Finley
I watch Harlyn sleep for a while, pulling back just a bit so I can see his face. It's gone all soft, and it makes me happy seeing him so relaxed after how stressed he's been the last week. I stay in his bed until I'm sure he's asleep enough that I won't wake him by pulling myself from his arms. Thankfully, he stays asleep, and I hope he sleeps well tonight. He needs it. When I get back to my bed, I resist the urge to pull out my phone again. Instead, I bury myself in the blankets and try to sleep.
I'm woken up early the next morning by Harlyn, who's squatting next to the bed and smiling.
"Morning?" I say.
"Morning," he says, voice gravelly. "Max is already in the shower. We should probably also shower soon if we want food."
"Oh, right." I prop myself on my elbows, blinking the sleep from my eyes. "Did you sleep ok?"
He smiles softly at me. "I did. Thanks to you, I think."
"Oh, I didn't do anything."
"You did," he says. "Just by being you."
I scoff. "It's too early to be sappy."
"Never too early to be sappy." He gives me a peck and gets up, wandering over to his duffel bag.
I pull my phone out and find a text waiting from Mom. But when I swipe my phone open, it lands on what I was looking at last night - what I've been looking at since I got it on Thursday - the email from ISU saying that they received my application. I submitted it the night I talked to my parents, still mostly in an anxiety haze and needing to do something about it. It helped for a bit, but now I'm second guessing literally everything.
Now that we're in France, I don't feel the same pull that I've gotten from England for months now. So maybe it is England and not just the desire to get away. But then there's Harlyn. He doesn't know I submitted the application. I can't seem to find the words to tell him, mostly because he's now part of the craziness going on in my head. Is he skewing my choices now? But it's not just him, either. I thought about moving to England long before I thought there was even a chance to be with him. This is just a cherry on top.
I shake my head and throw my legs over the side of the bed. These thoughts have been running circles in my head for days now. I'm here to enjoy Paris with the boy I like and my best friend. I can do that. And then I switch to Mom's text.
Mom:
I'd like to call you when you get back from Paris. Talk about next year.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Of course, she does.
"Everything ok?" Harlyn asks, staring at me with his head tilted to one side.
"What? Oh, yeah." I turn my phone off and shove it back under my pillow. "Just...my mom."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, she...wants to call when we get back from Paris and...talk. Pretty sure I know what that means. She's going to fake apologize and then just say the same thing again, everything she and dad said the other day." I rub my face, trying to keep the thoughts from taking over again. "I don't know if I can deal with that."
He sets his pile of clothes and toiletries on his bed and squats in front of me again. "Then say no." A stroke of actual fear cuts through my entire body. It's silly. I shouldn't be afraid of my parents. I'm an adult. I don't need to listen to anything they say. But the thought of outright saying no to my mother... Harlyn must see the panic in my eyes, because he grabs my hand and tucks my hair behind my ear. "You can say no, Finley."
"I know." I say it too quickly, and there's an edge that I hope Harlyn doesn't think is aimed at him.
He stares at me, unconvinced, but he doesn't push it. He just kisses me and leaves to shower. I know I'm pushing him away, running away. It's easier. He's tried to help, tried to get me to talk about everything in my head, so many times since Wednesday night. But I've brushed it off. Like I told him last night, he's got enough on his plate without adding my stuff. He doesn't need me to word vomit all the crap going on in my head when I wouldn't even know where to start.
So, I try all day to be less in my head. Well, I try to make it look like I'm less in my head. I'm pretty sure I fail, because Harlyn keeps giving me concerned looks when he thinks I'm not looking, the tilt of his head a dead giveaway. Even Max keeps close. He doesn't know either. He just knows my anxiety is high.
But we see the Arc de Triomphe and climb the many many stairs at the Eiffel Tower. And we take a quick train ride out to the Palace of Versailles. By the time we're back at the hostel, resting before going out to see the lights at night, I'm not sure I have it in me to go out again. But we do. And I'm glad we do. Because it's spectacular.
"So, this is why they call it the City of Lights," Max breathes as we wander along the river.
It is a fitting name. All the streetlights cast a warm glow, and they criss cross the river, lighting up the bridges for what seems like forever. We're passing Notre Dame again, and I think of the picture we have now, the two of us kissing in front of it. I don't know why it shot such panic through me. Maybe I'm scared Harlyn won't want to date me anymore if I move back to the States for good. Maybe I'm scared of letting him in any farther. Maybe it's both of those. It's probably both of those.
We start up the long avenue to the Arc de Triomphe, and Max starts humming a tune, singing broken phrases here and there. "City of lights...just for me..."
"What are you singing, Max?" Harlyn asks, swinging our clasped hands between us slightly.
Max turns in front of us and walks backward. "That song...um..." He hums again, and I recognize the tune.
"You mean City of Stars from La La Land?" I ask.
"That's it!" Max exclaims, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk so we have to stop, too. "Yes, thank you. I could not put my finger on it."
"That's City of Stars, though. Not City of Lights," I remind him.
Max wrinkles his nose. "Oh yeah."
"And it's about LA, not Paris," I say.
"Yeah. She does sing about Paris, though, right?" Max asks, turning back around and starting to walk again.
Harlyn nods. "Yeah. I mean, there are probably also a million and one songs about Paris."
"Yeah, but that's the one stuck in my head," Max whines. I flip through the songs about Paris that I do know. There aren't many coming to mind, though I'm sure Harlyn is right. There's got to be a million. And then inspiration strikes.
"What about Anastasia?" I say, swinging Harlyn's hand this time. "The last third is set in Paris. They sing a whole song about it. And Anya sings a whole song about the Alexander bridge in the Broadway show."
"Oh yeah!" Max blurts, abruptly cutting off his one man musical and spinning around again.
I lean toward Harlyn and stage whisper, "Max has an obsession with Anastasia." Max stops again and scowls at me.
"I do not have an obsession!" he says, looking like a four year old who doesn't want to go to bed on time.
I scoff. "You do. You dressed up as Vlad for Halloween when we were ten. You had a stuffed dog named Puka." I turn to Harlyn. "And he has a major crush on Anya."
"Yeah, well, you have a major crush on Dimitri," Max counters, folding his arms and falling in step next to me so we can keep walking.
Before I push the blush down enough to answer, Harlyn says, "Hey, Dimitri is hot." He glances at me. "You look like him a bit."
"Oh my God, he does," Max gasps, leaning forward to stare at me.
I'm pretty sure Harlyn just called me hot, but I don't comment, grasping for something that will get the attention off me. "You said I look like Flynn Rider, too."
"You do!" Max exclaims, practically skipping.
"Flynn Rider is hot, too," Harlyn mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. He's blushing, too, and he definitely called me hot that time.
Max cackles. "You have a type, Harlyn."
Harlyn's face goes a little slack and he blinks quickly a few times. It's the same face he made when he told me about Larson Keen, like something clicked in his brain. I tug him to a stop as Max keeps going, now humming "I See The Light" from Tangled.
"I know that face," I say, smiling. "That jogged something, didn't it?"
"You could say that," he says, keeping his gaze on Max.
I smile wider. "Will you tell me about it later?" He just nods, still blinking furiously.
We stand in awe at the Arc de Triomphe, taking pictures. And my second wind makes it all the way to Pont Alexandre III, the very bridge that Anya sings about in the musical version. When Harlyn admits he's seen the movie but never heard any of the Broadway music, Max immediately makes plans to make him listen to the entire soundtrack when we get back.
From the Alexander Bridge, we can see the Eiffel Tower in the distance, lit up in soft orange light. When it hits the top of the hour, the light show starts. It shimmers, sparkling like a thousand camera flashes going off. I stand in awe, trying to take a picture, but knowing it will never do the real thing justice. Harlyn steps between Max and me and puts his arms around our shoulders. He kisses my temple, and Max makes a third wheel joke. But then he backs up and makes us turn around so he can take another picture of us.
"You two...are just...can I officiate your wedding?"
And my second wind dies. I freeze. I know it's a joke. It's a joke. It's a joke. It's Max being Max, teasing us and getting ahead of himself. Marriage is far from on the table, obviously. Harlyn knows that. I know that. But that panic is back, clawing its way up my throat and holding me still.
Max spots my face and steps forward to put his hand on my shoulder. "It was a joke."
I shake my head, fighting with the thoughts threatening my perfectly happy evening. "I know. It's all good." I spring away from both of them, walking farther down the bridge and taking my phone out under the guise that I'm taking a picture instead of trying not to hyperventilate. It's fine. I'm fine. It'll all be fine.
***
The sun has shown up sporadically all weekend, but it's out in full force today. And the stairs we're lounging on are soaked in the sunshine.
"I feel like I haven't seen the sun in months," I sigh, adjusting my head on Harlyn's lap.
"You haven't," Max says. I peek at him. He's a couple steps down, laying back against my stomach. "You've been in England."
"Oi, England is not all clouds and rain," Harlyn protests. His hands settle in my hair, and for one blissful moment, I actually let myself relax. With the sun on my face, I can almost forget everything going on in my head. Almost.
"Yeah, yeah," Max mutters. He sits up and turns to face us. "I'm hungry. I'm going to find that stand we passed earlier. Want me to get you two something?"
"Mm, just something sweet," I say, closing my eyes again. "I need some sugar."
Harlyn's fingers graze my scalp. "Yeah. Same."
Max's footsteps patter down the stairs and fade. Harlyn continues to lazily brush his hand through my hair. His other hand rests on my sternum.
We didn't make it home until nearly one am, limping the last few streets and collapsing into bed without changing. We slept in past breakfast and got out just in time for check out. We thankfully only had one thing planned today, so we've been having mercy on our feet and taking it slow. We wandered around a zoo and botanical gardens before finding this big beautiful building - I think it's a museum - and claiming the front steps to relax before we have to walk to the train station.
"Oh, you were going to tell me what epiphany you had last night. When Max said you had a type," I say, turning my head to look up into Harlyn's face. He squints down at me.
"I wouldn't really call it an epiphany. Just...realized that most of the guys I've been crushing on have been fictional? And apparently animated?" he says. "Must be why I couldn't really pinpoint many. But Flynn Rider and Dimitri...whatever his last name is are obviously on that list. And..."
"And?"
"I think bisexual feels right? I guess?"
I smile. "Yeah?"
"I think so." He cocks his head to one side. "I mean, I'm still not like a hundred percent certain, but it feels right. And it feels good to have a word, ya know?"
"I'm sure," I say, rubbing my hand across his forearm. "I'm happy for you."
"Thanks, love," he whispers, his smile faltering just a little. "Finley?"
"Yeah?"
He takes a deep breath. "I think there's more in your head than you're telling me."
The unspoken has been spoken. I guess this is as good a time as any, right? I sit up and turn to face him.
"Yeah," I say.
His eyes soften, and he takes my hand from where it's fidgeting in my lap. "You want to talk about it?"
No. I mean...yes. I think I do. I do. But my anxiety doesn't. Screw my anxiety. I squeeze my eyes shut.
"I applied to ISU," I blurt.
There's an agonizing stretch of silence before he says, "You what?"
"I sent in my application to ISU," I repeat, keeping my eyes closed.
"When?" he asks. I try to read his tone. I'm too scared to look into his eyes.
"Um, the night I talked to my parents."
He's quiet again. "So...four days ago?" I nod. "Why didn't you tell me?"
I have to face him, so I finally open my eyes. "I don't know. I was scared."
His eyes soften from hurt to sympathy for a fraction of a second. "Finley..." He lets out a frustrated sigh. "I don't...I don't get it."
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I'm sorry I...did it. I've just been so anxious ever since I talked to my parents. I - It's not like I'm definitely going to ISU. It's just -" He stands and trots down the stairs, stopping at the bottom. "Harlyn."
Max appears, arms filled with paper plates of food. "I got - everything ok?"
"Did you know that Finley applied to ISU?" Harlyn asks. His back is still toward me, and I just want him to look at me again, let me explain. This is what I was afraid of. I'm going to lose him. He's going to walk away and never look back.
Max meets my gaze, and so many emotions pass through his eyes that I can't tell what he's actually thinking. "No, I didn't." He sets the food down on the bottom step.
"It's not that big of a deal," I squeak. But it is. I know it is.
Harlyn spins around. "Of course, it's a big deal! Have you put your UCAS application in?"
"N-No." His eyes are boring into mine in a way they never have before.
"Are you going to?"
"I-I don't know," I say. It's the truth, but as soon as the words leave my mouth, I wish I could take them back.
Harlyn's shoulders slump. "Then...what happens now? You go home? We never see each other again?"
"No," I say desperately. I'm still glued to the stairs, gripping the edge like it's the only thing keeping me from floating off into space. "Unless...that's what you want."
His shoulders slump farther, and he rubs a hand over his face. "I don't care that you applied to ISU, Finley. I care that you didn't tell me. That we talked about figuring this out together. That you've been telling me for weeks to just be myself and take care of myself and do things I want to do and now you go and just do exactly what your parents want you to do."
My entire body freezes. Max looks between us, licking his lips nervously. The rational Finley part of my brain is yelling at me, telling me to actually listen to what Harlyn's saying and actually see what's in his eyes. But anxiety is the captain now.
"You have no idea what you're talking about," I say, finally standing and descending the steps until I'm eye level with him. "You have no idea how hard this is for me."
"What? Lying? Stringing me along this whole time thinking there's a chance for us?"
"No! Making decisions that-that impact my whole life!" My brain is working a mile a minute, all of the chaos coming out in chunks and blurbs. He has to know how big of a deal this is, how much I'm thinking about this. "This isn't just about you and me. It's about everything that comes after I leave. Jobs. Money. This isn't some little thing."
His tone softens. "I know."
"Do you?" I ask. "Because you're acting like I did this to hurt you on purpose. I didn't. I wouldn't do that."
"I know."
I should stop. I need to stop. But the words just keep tumbling out of my mouth. "If anyone is stringing someone along, it's you. Last time I checked, you haven't even told your parents about us."
Finley. You absolute idiot. You selfish, stupid idiot. Harlyn stumbles back a step, and Max steps in between us. He says something, but I don't hear it over the voices in my head, telling me how stupid I am. I can't tear my eyes from Harlyn's face. He snaps his mouth shut, pressing his lips into a thin line. His eyes go hard, and he looks away. And I just stand there, a statue of regret and fear and anxiety.
He pulls his phone from his pocket and checks the time. "We should probably go. It's a bit of a walk to the train station." And then he turns on his heel and walks away.
Max steps into my view. "Finley..."
"I know," I whisper.
"That was a low blow," he says, fixing me with a disappointed look.
It looks so much like a look my dad would give me, and it ramps my anxiety up higher. "I know, ok?" I snap.
He sighs, gathers the food, shoves a plate with a nondescript pastry on it into my hand, and follows after Harlyn.
What have I done?