I am kissing Finn, and for a moment, just this moment, these few sweet seconds after midnight, these first blinks of a new year, Finn is not the boy who calls me Eleanor. He is not the man who is always late. He is not the vessel of untested talent who quit hockey after high school despite his draft potential.
Finn is not the boy who jumped off Faraz’s roof into the pool to make his friends laugh and almost broke his neck. He’s not the guy who does keg stands every Canada Day like a frat boy. He is not the man whostilltakes bong hits even though he could lose his job if he got drug tested.
He is not unserious, silly, contradictory, and contrarian Finn.
He is sweet, safe, and warm. A wall between me and the world.
For this fine moment, these sweet seconds, these first blinks, Finn is my friend.
Someone whistles, a friendly taunt. A round ofooooohhhsrising from our friends because, of course, there’s nothing funnier than when your friends kiss, especially your friends who hate each other.
It’s just the reminder I need. I push him away. Press the back of my hand to my lips, where they buzz, warm and electric. Finn’s face is unreadable. He tucks his hair behind his ear. For once, no crease between his eyes.
And I feel like I should say sorry? Or maybe, mortifyingly, thank you? But before I can say anything—certainly notthank you, because what could I possibly thank him for—he says, hesitantly, “Happy birthday.”
His pointer and middle finger come to rest against my collarbone. The whisper of his touch grounding me and maybe (maybe?) him, too. If the way he blinks, rapidly, his lower lip caught in his teeth, is any indication.
“Thanks,” I say. “You, too.”
His words fully register. My birthday was yesterday. Well, two days ago now. December 30th. “I mean…” I shake my head. “Thanks.”
Everyone always forgets my birthday. Even Bea has let it lapse once or twice before.
He smirks, snorts a little laugh at my gaff. And it doesn’t hurt, not really. It is objectively funny to wish someone happy birthday back when it’s not their birthday. But it’s exactly the reminder I need: That Finn and I argue, that we aren’t friends. That I don’t even like New Year’s Eve parties.
New Year’s Eve parties are for looking back on the past, and I only ever want to look forward.
I step back, narrow my eyes. “Happy New Year,” I say, before I turn on my heel and walk away.
THE DREAM TEAM, NOVEMBER 21, 2022
6:38 p.m.: Bea:
6:38 p.m.: Josh: Nora Party!!!!!!!! LFGGGGGGGGGGG
6:39 p.m.: Faraz:
6:41 p.m.: Nora: Sorry, friends. Casa de Nora is closed this year. Parents are having their own NYE bash.
6:42 p.m.: Josh: BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
6:44 p.m.: Brendan: Nora’s apartment????
6:45 p.m.: Nora: Nora lives in a very tiny one-bedroom and her landlords are jerks.
6:46 p.m.: Bea: doesn’t matter I’ve already figured out what we’re doing.
6:46 p.m.: Bea:
6:46 p.m.: Nora: cool!
6:47 p.m.: Brendan: this looks expensive…
6:47 p.m.: Deepti: you had me at MASQUERADE
6:48 p.m.: Bea: it *is* expensive except since you are all friends with the hospital’s NEWEST PUBLIC AFFAIRS TEAM LEAD, I got us discounted tickets!!!!
6:48 p.m.: Deepti: AHHHHHHH
