Fin & Rye & Fireflies

by Harry Cook

  “Okay, I’m gonna go,” I say, throwing back her sassiness with an extra dollop of it for good measure.

  When I knock on Eric’s front door, I hear him slowly make his way to answer it.

  “Babe,” he says, his eyes glossy like marbles.

  “Hi,” I say, doing everything I can not to turn around and leave. I can tell immediately that he’s high and I feel my blood boil. The bonus so far is that he isn’t completely off his tree. He’s just mellow and acting all mushy. To be honest, it’s kind of a nice change from the usual shrug-off I get whenever I see him.

  “You’re so cute,” he says, tapping my nose with a “bop” and taking my hand.

  I follow him into the house. His parents clearly aren’t home because there are pizza boxes scattered around and three crushed beer cans dumped in the fruit bowl. It looks like the sort of bizarre contemporary sculpture that some highbrow art critic would like.

  “Big night?” I ask, taking my shoes off and wandering over to the couch.

  “Not really. Just watched some Netflix, ate some pizza, thought about my boyfriend.” He looks over at me with this puppy dog face and I can’t help but smile. Sometimes, he’s kind of adorable.

  “And the weed?” I ask, holding my anger at bay but still trying to show him that I’m unimpressed.

  He rolls his eyes. “Babe, c’mon. I had one teeny-tiny joint with the guys after the gym and then ate some Pringles. I’m not injecting heroin into my eyeballs.”

  I shake my head but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  I run my hands through my hair as Eric yawns and stretches. I can see the V of his abs where his shirt rides up, a trail of fine blond hair leading below his underwear. I feel tingly all of a sudden when he looks over at me and smiles.

  “Did I ever tell you that you have the most amazing eyes?” he says, slowly making his way over to me.

  I’m trying to make a point of being mad at him, but my horny hormones are telling me different. Plus, his tight sweatpants show off his sculpted legs and the singlet he’s wearing does wonders for his chest and arms.

  “No, you don’t usually say much like that,” I say, my voice surprisingly soft.

  Before I know what’s happening, he’s kissing me and I’m kissing him back, hard. His sleepy eyes have come alive and his body presses up against mine with a strength that almost makes me gasp.

  His hands lower towards my jeans, but I shift to the side as we keep kissing. I don’t know why but I don’t want to go further than this. This feels so good and I’m loving the way his body feels against mine, but as his hips press into mine I’m suddenly aware of how intense he’s being.

  It’s kind of frightening.

  “Hey,” I say, soothingly, trying to talk to him and at the same time take a breath to stop him from eating my face. “Let’s just chill for a bit.”

  We’re lying on the couch now and he takes my legs, wrapping them around his waist as I force a fake laugh.

  “C’mon. Let’s just watch some TV and –”

  “I’ve had enough of TV,” he says, reaching for my pants again. “I want you.”

  “It’s . . . can you – Eric. Stop,” I say, but he isn’t stopping. He’s got this fierce, blank look in his eyes and his hands are too strong for me. I can feel my heart beating quicker and panic settling in like a strong current.

  “C’mon, Rye. Just go with it. I’ve been patient. Let’s just –”

  I deliberately slow my breathing as he becomes more insistent, more aggressive.

  “No, stop,” I say more loudly, but Eric in no way eases off. “Eric, really, no –” His weight is on me and I’m full of stress and fear, my whole body’s jittery with it. Anxiety is turning my mind dark and my heart feels like it’s about to burst through my ribcage.

  Eric is pulling his sweatpants down. “Rye, come on –”

  It’s like he hasn’t heard a word I’ve said.

  Enough is enough. I need to do something.

  “GET OFF!” I shout so loud I feel my chest vibrate.

  I brace myself, then push him hard off of me and stand, my breathing fast and haphazard as I try to figure out what the hell to do next.

  “Rye, just – c’mon, don’t be like this.”

  “What the hell is the matter with you?” I shout. I feel nothing but contempt at the sight of him, but my voice is strong and without a hint of the vulnerability I’m actually feeling.

  He does this sulky shrug and eye-roll thing that sets all my anger on fire. I can’t believe just a few minutes ago I found him actually adorable or hot, even. That feeling of contempt is strong. And – yes – there’s more than a bit of fear, too.

  “You think that was okay?” I demand. “You think when I’m telling you no, it’s okay to ignore me?”

  He interlaces his hands behind his head and barely looks up.

  “Fuck you, Eric,” I say, turning to leave.

  As I get to the door, I hear his pathetic reply: “Yeah, if only.”

  I slam the front door behind me and head into the night.

  *

  I walk through the streets, turning corner after corner, and don’t even realise I’m crying until I taste the salt on my lips. I feel sick at how awful that was. How scary it felt to say no and have him disregard me. What is wrong with me? Why do I keep putting up with him? Does he actually think that, just because he’s fit, he’s got a licence to treat me like this?

  I arrive at Kettle Lake and crawl into my hideout. As my heart rate slows, I feel an overwhelming desperation to sob and sob and sob. I just don’t get it. I don’t get why it’s so bad to want something more than making out and all the other stuff. Why is it weird to want someone to sweep me off my feet as I sweep them off theirs and tell me I mean something to them? To have that happy-ever-after that everyone else seems to enjoy? Or even just a normal hang-out without any of this awful, toxic pressure.

  I lie back and let the leaves crunch around me.

  My phone vibrates and I know it’s not Eric. He’s way too stubborn to bother chasing after me.

  Poppy: I managed to have another fight with June . . .

  I shake my head. That’s twice in one day. Poppy and June really are hopeless.

  Me: That makes two of us.

  Poppy: You’re fighting with June too?

  Me: No, Eric.

  Poppy: Go figure.

  Then again, maybe Eric and I are hopeless too.

  Me: You wanna do something?

  Poppy: You at your spot?

  I send a thumbs-up emoji.

  Soon enough Poppy is sitting with me while I ugly cry into the crook of my arm. Not even the presence of the fireflies makes me feel any better. The worst part is that I know that I can only give him so many chances. Maybe it’s not working out with Eric for a reason. And I’m starting to realise that that reason has nothing to do with me.

  “What you thinking about?” Poppy asks, looking over at me and giving me a nudge.

  “Life,” I say, rubbing my eyes and sniffing up some phlegm from the back of my throat.

  “So deep, Rye. And gross. Do you want a tissue or . . .?” She hands me a Kleenex from the inside pocket of her denim jacket. “Rye, I think this needs to stop.”

  I let the words fall around me. She’s right. I can’t argue with her anymore. So I just sit.

  “What’s the go with you and June?” I say after a while.

  “That’s something else that needs to stop,” Poppy says. She seems to say it to herself more than me.

  “Poppy, June really loves you,” I say.

  “Rye, just . . .” She trails off and stares across the lake, where the reflection of the fireflies on the water makes them seem to double in number.

  “You know what I think?” Poppy asks, clearly onto a rapid change of subject.

  “What?” I ask.

  “It’s only eight o’clock. I think we need to scoop Fin up and then go stuff our faces with pancakes.”

  I can’t help but smi
le. Regardless of the situation, Poppy’s answer to everything is pancakes. It could be the apocalypse and her first course of action would be to stop at the Parlour and smash a twelve-stack. I love her for it.

  We head to her car and start driving towards Fin’s place.

  “It’s on Angeleno Avenue. The one with the big red – there it is!” Poppy says as we pull over to the kerb and take in the Gone With the Wind-style house that stands before us.

  “This is definitely a murder house or something,” she says, staring up at the giant columns that surround the entryway.

  “For sure,” I say as we exit the car and head towards the red front door. “There is no way anyone going to Lochport High could afford to live someplace like this unless someone was killed in the basement.”

  Poppy knocks three times and then hits the doorbell which seems to echo all the way to the back yard, which I’m guessing is enormous too.

  “I’ll get it,” we hear Fin say from inside.

  When he opens the door, he stares at us like we’ve just thrown a brick through the window. A brick with a love note attached, but a brick, nonetheless. It’s a look of happiness mixed with intense panic.

  “R-Rye. Hey . . . Poppy – It’s . . .”

  His eyes dart between us and the blood drains from his face. Maybe that murder story is true after all.

  “Hey,” I say, unsure what’s going on. “You okay?”

  At that moment a woman with a dark bob haircut – I’m assuming his mother – comes up behind him.

  There’s a second where Fin looks like he might collapse at our feet.

  “Hello, there,” the woman says brightly, yet at the same time regarding us both like we could potentially be handing out flyers for a satanic gathering.

  I say hello as I try to put on my best “meet the parents” face, but I still feel a bit ridiculous.

  “Hi, Mrs Whittle,” Poppy says, beaming her best over-the-top smile and leaning in to shake her hand. “I’m Poppy. This is my friend Rye.” She gestures to me like I’m the first prize at a raffle. “We were just nearby and thought we’d see if Fin would like to get pancakes with us.”

  The corner of Fin’s lip trembles upward into a half-smile and beads of sweat form across his forehead.

  “You’re Poppy?” she asks, intrigued, as she glances between Fin and Poppy and then looks, slightly puzzled, at me. It’s like I’m interrupting something. This whole thing feels off.

  “I am. I’m sure Fin has spoken non-stop about my charm and good looks,” she says with a grin.

  Mrs Whittle smiles a little awkwardly and turns to Fin. “Very charming,” she says, still confused as if she’s pondering something. “Would your . . . friends like to come in?”

  Fin looks completely panicked as her words sort of hang in the air.

  “I . . . Mum, it’s okay. I’m . . .” Fin’s face turns purple and he stares at us unblinkingly. “I’ll see you guys at school,” he says, then closes the door.

  Poppy and I stare each other for a solid thirty seconds and don’t say a word. The only thoughts in both of our minds is clear:

  What the hell was that about?

  21

  Fin

  I feel like my heart is going to punch a hole right through my ribcage like that scene in Alien. Why would they just show up at my front door? No warning. No message? Then it hits me: because they’re my friends. That’s what friends do. They know one another’s families. They know one another’s history and they are open and honest. I suddenly feel like a horrible person for dragging them into the clusterfuck that is my life right now. I also feel ridiculous for making such a big deal out of this. Mum didn’t even seem to notice that I’m obsessed with Rye, or that Poppy absolutely isn’t my girlfriend.

  I follow Mum back into the kitchen and she runs her hands through her hair, making sure her bob is a perfect helmet of respectability. She pats her clothes and then with a quick shake of the head she is back at the chopping board dicing onions like nothing happened. Not that anything even did happen. My two friends from school turned up to see if I wanted pancakes – that’s it. My two friends, one of whom I’m painfully attracted to and the other one of whom I virtually told my parents is my girlfriend.

  What. A. Mess.

  But even so, I help cut up some vegetables and mix some gravy and within an hour Dad is home and we are around the dinner table. I’m barely halfway through my first bite of meatloaf when the front doorbell sounds again. I could very well go into cardiac arrest at any moment. My cheeks prickle and turn numb.

  We sit and stare at one another and eventually Dad gets up, striding over to the door with a look of mild concern etched across his face. I’m right on his heels, thinking on my feet about what I’m going to say for round two of “Meet the Parents” when the door opens and a stranger is standing there on the step. His hair looks shaggy and unwashed and his face is stubbly like he hasn’t shaved properly in weeks. Funnily enough he has this fresh look about him, regardless of the congealed sweat and dirt that sticks to his forehead, he seems really alive.

  “Sally, I think you need to sign for this,” Dad shouts back into the dining room. He smiles and puts a finger to his lips so both of us keep quiet and go along with it. His sudden playfulness is disconcerting – I haven’t seen him joke around for what feels like ages.

  Behind us Mum is fussing around with chairs and cutlery and muttering to herself.

  “I mean, it’s nine o’clock in the evening, do they have no consideration for any – ELLIOT!”

  Mum grabs him and pulls him in for a bear hug. Dad and I jump in shortly after. I’m not sure how long exactly it’s been – I think half a year at least – since we last saw him and he’s still the same old Elliot yet something is different about him. He’s been hit by something strange (lightning isn’t out of the question from the state of his hair), something unusually life-affirming by the looks of it. He seems to have filled out, grown up, become an adult.

  We head into the dining room and Mum rustles up Elliot a plate. Before long, life feels like it has morphed back to some sort of normality. We could as well be living in Pittford five years ago. It’s as if nothing has happened. There’s no speak of why we are here or what caused the major uproot. Or what has transformed my brother into an adult. Elliot just asks the basic questions: How’s work? How’s school? How’s the new town?

  It’s a little unnerving.

  It’s nearly ten o’clock by the time Elliot is on to his story about tarantulas the size of dinner plates and I realise I’m falling asleep with my eyes open.

  But I’m still listening as he tells us about the Borneo rainforest and how he volunteered at a sanctuary for orphaned orangutans and became friends with a particularly sweet one named Buttercup. His phone is passed around the table so we can admire the photos. Some of him with a wheelbarrow full of big-eyed fluffy orangutans; others of him dancing under cascading waterfalls. Some sipping tea in glass cups outside a little hut as the sun goes down. It’s pretty impressive, but I’m still struggling with the consciousness thing until I hear him change the subject.

  “How’s Lorna?” he asks Mum and I flinch at the thought of what’s coming.

  “Oh hun, you don’t want to know,” Mum says, knocking her food around her plate with her fork as if Lorna being an openly gay woman is one of the most embarrassing, unspeakable things that could ever happen.

  “Yeah I do,” Elliot says, eyes wide and unblinking in a way that is completely innocent and Elliot-like. He’s never been any good at reading the room.

  “Son, it’s . . .” Dad makes a pfft motion with his hand, as if sweeping the conversation out of the way. “So, how was Brazil?” he says, changing the subject.

  I put my head down as I feel my cheeks begin to burn. This is too mortifying.

  Elliot laughs. “You two are being so weird. How’s Lorna?” he asks, looking at me and frowning for half a second before beaming his silly smile to Mum and Dad.

  �
�She’s a lesbian,” I say. My voice comes out from somewhere quiet within me and I feel my throat catch those few words and want to swallow them back like a shot of vodka.

  Elliot pauses for a second and then looks up at us and smiles.

  “Oh, cool . . . Great,” he says, before taking a mouthful of broccoli. “See? That wasn’t hard, was it? Thank you, Fin.”

  Did he just call his ex-girlfriend being a lesbian “great”?

  I feel like I’m about to pass out. Elliot has never been like this before. He’s so . . . chilled with himself and at ease with this unusual-for-us conversation. I know he’s being genuine too, because there’s not a hint of sarcasm or malice in his voice.

  “And Brazil was rad,” he says to Dad, popping the intensely awkward bubble that has surrounded all of us.

  Mum and Dad shift in their seats. I feel like my mouthful of meatloaf is about to take a projectile course across the table.

  “I wouldn’t necessarily call it ‘great’, Elliot,” Dad says, as pompously as if the air sucked from the room has now puffed up his chest.

  Elliot smiles his innocent smile again, but I suddenly see through it. He’s challenging Dad and I don’t quite know why.

  “What would you call it then, Dad?” he asks, his face unfaltering.

  Mum charges through the awkwardness like a Marvel comic hero crashing through a building that’s on fire. “That’s enough for one night, I think.”

  Dad and Elliot stare at one another for a beat before Elliot stands and helps tidy away the dishes like the excellent son he is.

  An excellent brother, too? Maybe, just maybe, Elliot will be equally as chilled when he finds out exactly why we had to move to Lochport.

  Feeling dizzy, I give my brother a hug, tell him I’m glad he’s home, wish everyone goodnight and head to my room. Somehow, I don’t feel so alone.

  I sense myself drift off before my head even hits the pillow, glad that sleep has always been my escape when life gets hectic.

  *

  As I walk into school the following morning the sun beams down on the back of my neck. I keep my head down and my eyes on my Converse. I don’t really know if I want to see Poppy and Rye. I am praying to the universe to give me a day to just go to school, eat and come home. I cannot deal with this constant feeling of strangeness that weighs down so heavily on my chest.