Finn laughs again. “It’s alright. It’s none of my business anyway.”
I nod, and we’re quiet for a moment. The silence is heavy with unsaid things. For the life of me, I can’t think of one small-talk type of topic. The only thing that comes to mind isWhy did you ghost me when I needed you the most? But I can’t say that. The answer wouldn’t even matter.
It’s like Finn can read my thoughts. He fiddles with the heat, putting it on full blast, and then says, “I’m sorry.”
He’s so quiet, I can hardly hear him over the whoosh from the vents. “Sorry?”
Finn nods. “I should’ve called when I heard your mom died. I should’ve been there for you.”
It’s so unexpected, I don’t know what to say. I know I’m supposed to saythat’s okay, ordon’t worry,but I can’t. It wasn’t okay. “Why didn’t you?”
Finn runs a hand through his hair. “It was hard the first few years in New York. I was broke as fuck. The band wasn’t going well. I was afraid that if I talked to you, I’d come running back home, and I wasn’t ready to give up my dream.”
Finn turns down the dirt road, thick with trees on either side.
“I wasn’t asking you to give up your dream or to come home, even.”
“Aye. I see that now. And my dreams have…not changed, exactly, but shifted. I’m moving back.”
My mouth falls open. “Moving back, for good?”
Finn nods. “That’s the plan. And I was really hoping you would forgive me and that you might want to hang out a bit?”
The holiday park comes into view with two neat rows of cabins on either side of the road, lit by their dim porch lights, some with glowing windows.
Finn stops the car and looks at me with his blue eyes glistening in the dim light. He takes my hand. “Please forgive me, Skye.”
I take my hand back and clutch my bag to my chest. “I have to go.”
Finn blows out a small breath. “You sure you’re going to be alright here?”
I nod.
“If you need a ride back, just call. I promise I’ll answer. I’ll always answer from now on.”
I don’t know what to say, but part of me wants to yelltoo little too late, and the other part wants to call right now just to try it out. Just to have Finn be there for me. A rewrite of history. But you can’t rewrite history. I get out of the car without another word.
“Take care,” Finn says after me.
Finn swings his car around,coming very close to hitting one of the cabin’s little porches, still a terrible driver. It seems some things never change. I’m reeling from his apology. Never in a million years did I expect him to come back, let alone hear the wordsI’m sorryfrom him. Accountability was never Finn’s strong suit. Even when he made that dent in his mom’s car, he told her he came back from the shop and it was like that. But I guess we all grow up. What exactly did he mean byhang out? Does he want todate?
Not that it matters what he wants. It’s absolutely not what I want anymore. I’m here to see Miles. I check our text thread for his cabin number. Cabin eleven. I walk past one, then three, odd numbers on one side and even on the other. It’s late, so I climb the porch stairs to eleven at almost tiptoe, but then notice all the lights are on inside. I can just make out Miles’s shadow in the window. He’s pacing back and forth and probably running lines. Even though he says he’s been more distracted on this film, he works so hard, and he’s equally as hard on himself about it. I think it’s one of the things we share—our persistence in the process, me with my writing and him with his acting.
I pause for a moment, watching him, when another shadow passes in front of the window, a distinctly female shadow. My hand flies to my mouth to muffle my cry of outrage. I creep a little closer on theporch, feeling like I’m moving through molasses. Time slows as I peek through the small opening in the curtain.
Miles is in his jeans—the tight black ones that make me crazy—and no shirt, shaking his head. The female figure comes into view and grabs his hands. It’s Ava, in red satin shorts and a nearly see-through white tank top that hardly comes down past her taut belly. She grabs his hand and leans her face up to his. There is a scratch on his chin. From shaving? Or from her?
My stomach seizes as if from a physical blow. But no matter how hard I clench, it’ll never be as flat as Ava’s. I want to cry, but not here.
How long have they been seeing each other? Have they been together the whole time we have? Late-night shoots… Were they really late nights caressing Ava? And their runs together every morning. Were they stopping in hidden places? Was she giving him a diddy ride amongst the trees? I know Miles and I said it was just a fling, but I just never thought he was sleeping around. We never discussed monogamy. I just assumed.
I turn to leave, my bag swinging and hitting the house on the way with a thud. The door opens behind me, the creaking hinges as loud as a scream in the quiet night. I keep going.
“Skye. Wait.”
I stop but don’t turn around. I can’t look into his eyes now. I’ll break like that record carelessly yanked off the shelf by another American.
“Skye, it’s not what it looks like.”
