Fin & Rye & Fireflies

by Harry Cook

  He’s facing the water and doesn’t hear me. I stand and watch him for a minute. He looks self-conscious, running his hands through his hair a few times and bouncing up and down on his heels.

  “Nice, huh?” I say, leaning over his shoulder.

  He jumps.

  “Hey! I mean, yeah!” His face turns red almost instantly. “Do you come here often?” he says, and I can’t help but laugh. He’s really cute when he’s nervous, even though I’m not sure why he’s nervous. Or why I am for that matter.

  “Nice line,” I say and he looks at me puzzled. “Are you trying to pick me up?”

  “Pick you – oh god. Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be like, funny, or anything. I was –”

  “It’s cool, Fin.”

  “Cool.” He nods about thirty times in a row.

  “Cool.”

  I walk around the edge of the water and I hear Fin kick off his shoes and follow behind me.

  Our feet are in sync as they crunch on the pebbles and I let the cool water tickle my toes as we near my spot.

  When I first started coming to Kettle Lake, Mum suggested I make it my own somehow. She explained that, when my anxiety was bad, I could come here and feel like I was in another peaceful home. An old driftwood tree hangs low near the water creating a cave-like spot that over time I’ve attempted to furnish. Inside sits a rustic old blanket that Aunt Sandy gave Mum years ago, a bunch of small lanterns strung up in the tree, a makeshift kennel I crafted using some bits of washed up driftwood for when I bring Thelma, and a wooden box in which I keep a couple of empty jars that I sometimes use to catch fireflies before letting them go again.

  I crawl in and pat the blanket next to me, then instantly regret it because I’m scared he will think I’m coming on to him. Fin hesitates before rolling up his neat sleeves and crawling in after me. He dusts the sand from his feet and trousers and looks around like a meerkat.

  “This is AMAZING,” he says, touching Thelma’s driftwood house like it’s made of gold.

  “Nah, it’s just my little cove.”

  “I wish I had somewhere like this,” Fin says, taking in the string lights.

  “Well, you can use this whenever you like,” I say, my cheeks burning the moment the words leave my mouth. I have no idea why I’m so weird around this guy. He’s not really my type. Not that I even really know my type. Eric has a decent body I guess, which is kind of awesome, but it’s more the smile and eyes that get me. Fin has nice eyes. His smile is pretty rad too. His lips are plush as well and . . . Okay. Enough. This is insane.

  “So, how long have you actually been coming here?” Fin asks.

  “Since I was about five. The decor was Mum’s idea.”

  “Nice. What do your parents do?”

  He’s being sweet and I can feel his nervousness pulsing through his skin.

  “Mum’s got a lot of feathers in her bow . . . Cleaner, tarot reader, crystal healer, naturopath and massage therapist to name a few. Dad’s not around.”

  “Okay, firstly, that’s amazing about your mum. Second, sorry about your dad.”

  “No, I mean. He’s not dead. Well, not that I know of.”

  Fin nods.

  “He left . . . When I was a kid.”

  He nods again.

  “Alcohol, drugs, anything he could get his hands on . . . It’s . . . He went to rehab for a bit. Got out, stayed clean but then . . . I guess . . .”

  Fin’s eyes are wide.

  “I’m sorry, this is heavy talk. We don’t have to –”

  “Oh god, no. Are you serious? We can talk about it . . . If you want . . . But not if – like only if it’s . . . If you want.”

  He’s crazy keen to do the right thing and it makes me smile. I don’t know quite why, but he’s outrageously adorable.

  I take a breath. “Dad and Mum used to fight a lot and when he came out of rehab and relapsed things were different. Darker. Like he had tried and failed and then totally given up. He walked out one night and we haven’t heard from him again since.”

  Fin is staring at me, really staring, like he’s listening with all his heart. He blinks. “I’m so sorry.”

  I shrug, pulling up some grass around my ankles. Fin does the same near his. We sit for a bit and listen to the sound of the crickets and cicadas clicking and humming.

  “What about you?” I ask. “What else don’t I know about Fin?”

  He smiles and something happens inside my tummy. Some weird buzzing that I haven’t had before.

  “What do you want to know?”

  Everything I think, but instead say, “What’s your favourite food?”

  “Hmm. Pizza.”

  “Wait, out of everything on the planet, Pizza is your favourite food?”

  “Uh-huh.” Fin’s deadly serious. “Wait no, Pop Tarts.”

  I blink and hold back a laugh. “So, if you were stranded on a desert island and had literally nothing but Pop Tarts, you’d be happy?”

  “I’d be ecstatic,” Fin says, cracking that perfect smile again. “What about you?”

  “Probably . . . mango. Wait, no, kiwi fruit. I love kiwi fruit.”

  Fin rolls his eyes sarcastically. “Oh okay, mister ‘my body is a temple’ health-nut.”

  I give him a nudge and laugh, then instantly feel self-conscious.

  He keeps glancing over at me as we both stare out at the lake. It’s almost dark and so I light some of the little lanterns and we sit in silence for a while.

  Something is happening and I don’t really understand what. Fin makes me nervous in the best possible way. He looks over at me again and smiles and even in this semi-darkness I can see him blushing.

  As the last flicker of sunlight disappears I have that same feeling again, that bumbling in my tummy that feels like lightning mixed with helicopter propellers, like I’m running downhill, like . . . I look up as my mind searches for the word. A flicker catches the corner of my eye. Then another and another. The lake is glowing, the reeds look like they’ve been hit by fairy dust and the night erupts and comes alive. It’s absolutely beautiful. They’re everywhere.

  Fireflies.

  19

  Fin

  What the hell is happening right now? Is Rye flirting with me or am I losing my mind? Did I just say Pop Tarts when he asked me what I’d eat if I was stranded on a desert island? What in the fresh hell is wrong with me? Am I five?

  I cannot believe I am sitting here with this guy, in this unreal makeshift Neverland cave thing that he has created, talking about nothing and everything and watching fireflies – yes, actual fireflies – burst to life around us. I feel like I’m in a fairy tale. All I need now is a little red crab to start singing and I’d be in my element.

  Rye looks up at me and I’m almost certain he can see me blushing, even though it’s practically pitch black now besides the lanterns and fireflies and – see what I mean? Lanterns and fireflies? What?!

  “They’re beautiful,” I say, gesturing to the thousands of blinking lights that dip and dance through the reeds and brush.

  Rye nods, with a faint hint of a smile. “It’s – did you ever see that movie Swiss Family Robinson?” he asks.

  “Nope,” I say.

  “Me neither,” he says and I burst out laughing.

  He cracks a smile too. “I mean, not the whole way through. I just remember my dad watching it a couple of weeks before he left. I must’ve been about five. They lived in this insane treehouse and lived off the land. It looked so peaceful. Maybe it was the family thing I was looking for – they all seemed so happy. So together.”

  “Families are weird,” I say which makes him smile.

  “Yeah.” Then: “When Dad left I came here and tried to make my own hideaway like the movie. I mean, it’s not a treehouse, but I always feel better after coming here. I get . . . My anxiety messes with me sometimes.”

  “As in, like, panic attacks or . . .?” I ask, tentatively.

  “Sometimes. Mostly it’s just this morbid, t
errified feeling inside that doesn’t shake. It can be specific, like getting sick or crashing my boat or losing Thelma. And then it can just come out of nowhere and I feel terrified of nothing and everything all at once.”

  Nobody has ever spoken so openly with me before. Not about stuff like this.

  “Did it start when your dad left?” I ask. Then, quickly: “Sorry – you come here to relax. This is probably the last thing you want to discuss with a random new guy at school who –”

  “No, it’s fine,” he says and gently touches my arm which sends my heart into the atmosphere. “Dad leaving was definitely something. The drugs and alcohol was what scared me, though. Seeing someone you love and depend on lose all control and not remember what they’ve done or said the next day is terrifying. I mean I was five, so I don’t remember it all, but what I do –”

  I let the words settle around us as he stares off across the lake.

  “That sounds pretty rough, but I think you’ve turned out pretty awesome,” I say softly, because I don’t care if he thinks I’m pathetic. I really don’t. Rye is awesome. He deserves to know.

  He looks over and smiles, holding my gaze.

  “I think you’re pretty great too,” he says, his words quieter than before.

  He stares kind of intensely at my mouth, at my bottom lip before quickly looking away and I feel my body hum.

  Rye gazes out at the lake and ruffles his hair, his curls landing wherever they want. He takes his phone out of his pocket and opens up his music library. I try to get a glimpse but I know he’s not a big fan of Broadway musical numbers, so I’m assuming he’s into hipster bands or something. What I don’t expect is Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” to start playing. I love this song.

  “This okay?” he asks, looking up at me like I’m some world-renowned DJ and like I’d be judging him on his music.

  “I love Fleetwood Mac,” I say.

  “You do?”

  “Oh my god, are you kidding? They’re legendary.”

  He smiles.

  I smile back.

  We sit and listen; the crickets and bullfrogs trying to harmonise with Stevie Knicks.

  “My friend Emily back in Pittford gave me the thirty-fifth anniversary vinyl of Rumours for my birthday last year,” I say, desperate to break the silence.

  Rye’s looks over at me so fast I worry he will get whiplash. “What?!”

  “Yeah, but I don’t have a record player.” I laugh. Emily’s the most thoughtful friend I’ve ever had, but she would always forget stuff – like me not having a record player for her vinyl gift or making a stack of PBJ sandwiches for a picnic one afternoon, which we had to cancel and instead listen to music in her car when I reminded her, for the sixteenth time, that I’m allergic to nuts.

  “I have one!” Rye says, practically shouting. “Oh my god, this is meant to be.” His cheeks flush, adorably. “I mean –”

  I laugh. He’s fidgeting and averting his eyes. He’s too sweet. I’m talking next level adorable right now and – he has a boyfriend. He has a boyfriend. Enough. I need to stop looking into everything. Nothing could ever possibly happen between us. It’s not just the boyfriend thing. Yeah, this won’t end well.

  “Landslide” finishes and “Dreams” by the Cranberries starts playing.

  “Nice,” I say as I go to pull up some grass and feel Rye do the same. Our hands brush each other and linger for longer than half a second. The tips of his fingers are semi-holding my knuckles and we both kind of freeze. It happens in the space of a few seconds but feels like an eternity of a million emotions as I look up at him and he looks back. I feel lightheaded and full of energy as we both half-smile before awkwardly moving our hands apart. What I wouldn’t give for another few seconds of lightly touching his hands.

  The cicadas all go silent in harmony and the only sounds now are Rye’s music and the water lapping up along the pebbles.

  I notice the sound of his breath. The few hairs sprouting up around his defined chest. He smells like herbal deodorant and lavender and his jaw looks clenched, like he is trying to avoid saying something.

  “Have you –” he says when his phone lights up and the song cuts off, interrupted by two loud beeps. I can’t help but read the message that appears on the screen.

  Eric: Wanna chat?

  Whatever Rye was about to say evaporates into the reeds as he unlocks his phone and begins typing. I don’t look, not because I think it inappropriate, but because I really don’t want to know what he’s saying to his boyfriend.

  “I um . . . I should go . . .” Rye says, looking down at his shoes.

  “Yeah . . . Of course. Sounds good.”

  Sounds good? What did I say that for?

  Rye stands and offers me his hand. I take it and he pulls me up. We brush the bark and sand from our clothes and when we turn back, we are both standing extremely close to each other. Rye is taller than me but not by a whole lot. We’re basically touching chests.

  “Thanks,” I say, feeling my breath catch.

  We stand for a moment longer and then make our way out towards the water’s edge.

  “I’ll see you at school?” Rye says.

  I nod, forcing myself to smile.

  Then, trying not to let what feels horribly like jealousy creep into my voice: “Have fun . . .”

  . . . chatting to Eric.

  20

  Rye

  The next evening, as I head over to Eric’s, I’m still thinking about what happened between Fin and me at Kettle Lake. I feel weird. Not entirely in a bad way either. Weird like when you eat a bag of pop rocks and even though they are so amazingly good, you also know you probably shouldn’t have eaten all of them, ya know?

  As I left, I turned back to see Fin looking over at me. Clearly I am as uncool as I thought I was because he smiled and I smiled and then I immediately felt my cheeks burn.

  Ugh, what is going on?

  I check my phone and see a text from Eric. Two emojis: the eggplant and the purple devil one. I roll my eyes. Eric is the kind of guy who expects you to be sexually ready whenever he feels like it, yet when he doesn’t feel like hanging out, he’ll avoid you like the plague – which currently feels like 99.9% of the time. Great stuff.

  I arrive onto Bayview Road and start walking towards his place. I don’t think it’s probably the best thing that I’m not exactly looking forward to seeing my boyfriend, but then again, he’s my first “proper” boyfriend. Who the hell knows what any of this is supposed to feel like?

  The sky is alight with a million stars and I take a second to stare up at them. I inhale and let the mist from the ocean bring me back to the now. I can feel my insides trembling and I know I’m anxious. My head is swimming and my shoulders are tight and even though nothing is happening that I should be profoundly anxious about, I can’t help it. My body seems to seek it out.

  I turn a corner and am not far from Eric’s when my phone buzzes and another text appears on the screen.

  Poppy: I’m done with June.

  Not again. I really don’t have time for this right now, but it kind of helps me feel less guilty about not being overly excited to see Eric and so I turn and head across the road.

  I take a seat on the grass against a whitewashed picket fence. Eric’s told me that the mansion behind me belongs to a Mr Knight, who owns half of Lochport. I hope the sight of me bothers him, the miserable old bastard.

  I unlock my phone and another message comes through like a dodgeball.

  Poppy: She’s impossible and I’m done.

  I attempt to write a text but instead just dial her number and call. I don’t have the finger strength to keep up with her when she’s erratic like this.

  “Ugh,” she says when she answers.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Far from it. So far from it.”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, just June being June.”

  “Use your words, Pops.”

  “Don’t patronise me. It
started because I told her I couldn’t make the QSA meeting next week and she got pissed because apparently I ‘don’t put in enough effort’ with the alliance.”

  I inhale slowly, waiting for her to go on.

  “I mean, what? Because I have other things to do besides go to a meeting and talk about fixing a world that will always be broken?”

  “Woah, Poppy. Let’s just . . . Can we take a breath for a second? This is way too deep for a fight over a QSA meeting.”

  I can hear her sniff and I wonder if she’s been crying.

  “It’s more than that though. She’s always going on about how privileged I am and how my being a pan white girl while she’s a trans person of colour is something that makes us so different. Apparently, I will never know what it’s like and that’s why we always break up and –”

  “But, I mean . . .” I say, tentatively. “She kind of has got a point there.”

  “What?” Poppy says, a hint of ice in her voice.

  “Well, I mean, she’s right. You don’t know what it’s like being trans and a person of colour. I’m not saying you don’t have your own struggles and stuff, not by any stretch of the ima–”

  “So, what are you saying then?” Poppy barges in, bluntly.

  I do not need this right now. “Poppy. I love you. Please, don’t go there with this. I am trying to see things from both sides here.”

  “And I love you for that, Rye. I really do. But sometimes I would love it if you were on my side. You know, just wholly on my side for a change.”

  I shake my head. “Did you ask her to get back together again?”

  Poppy is quiet for a while and I realise this is what started the argument to begin with. Poppy is always the first to break things off with June but also the first to run back and beg to start over.

  “Maybe you should stay being single for a while, Pops?” I say, trying to send good vibes down the phone.

  “Maybe,” she says, and I think I’ve won her back over. Thank fuck.

  “What are you up to?” she asks.

  “About to go to Eric’s.”

  “Speaking of fun relationships,” she says with a hint of aggression.