His face lights up with an expression of pure glee and he cracks up laughing. ‘That’s priceless. I can’t believe he kept it quiet.’
I can’t stop smiling as I take a sip of my drink and put it down on the window sill behind me. When I turn back to Finn, he’s regarding me thoughtfully.
‘This is more how I remember you,’ he notes. ‘With your hair up in a bun. You always looked so neat. Didn’t you use to do ballet?’
I reel backwards. ‘When I wasmuchyounger. How do you evenknowthat?’
‘I overheard you talking about it in art once. You used to play the piano a lot too, right?’
‘Yes!’ My face warms. ‘I’m surprised you remember me at all.’
We hardly spoke when we were at school.
‘I used to think that you looked like a ballerina with yourhair up like that, and the way you carried yourself, with perfect posture and your chin held high …’
‘You make me sound like a snob.’
‘Not at all. You looked elegant. You still do.’
His eye contact is unnervingly steady. I try to maintain the connection but can’t.
‘Well, I was never any good at ballet.’ I reach for a throw pillow and pull it onto my lap. ‘Leaving London gave me an excuse to quit.’
‘Why did you come to Cornwall?’ He’s been drumming on his thigh with his right hand in time to the rock song playing, but he’s only tapping out half of the beats.
‘We moved to be closer to my gran. She used to live in St Ives,’ I say, noticing that his foot is catching the other half.
‘She’s not with you any more?’
I shake my head. ‘She passed away when I was fifteen.’
He nods, dropping his gaze as his Adam’s apple travels up and down his throat. He takes a sip of his drink. His hand and his foot have stopped drumming.
I was in Year 10 when I lost Gran, which was the same year that Finn lost his mum. I imagine he’s thinking of her.
I return to our earlier, safer, subject.
‘You were good at art,’ I say. ‘I remember your still lifes.’
I thought about them this morning when I couldn’t get him out of my head.
‘Art always was my favourite subject at school.’
‘Not music?’
‘My passion for that came later.’
‘How?’
‘My dad’s a sound engineer for a studio. I used to hang out there a lot in my spare time.’
It feels like the space between his words holds more than what he’s saying. It couldn’t have been easy moving in with his dad and his dad’s other family, given the circumstances. But I don’t press him, noting his tense expression.
‘Cool. Do you live with him now?’
‘No, I room with one of my bandmates.’
‘So come on, then, band name.’ I nudge his leg. ‘I’m not letting you off that easily.’
