Of course. I thought I was safe with him, but maybe that was a dangerous assumption. Maybe Finn’s finally beginning to see the truth. My journals aren’t sexy or provocative. They’re just weird. I’m weird. “Why don’t you just come out and say what you really mean?” I ask. “You think I’m a freak.”
He looks taken aback. “I didn’t say that. This behavior does alarm me a little, but—”
I move back, stunned when my dad’s face flashes through my mind as he tells me the exact same thing when I was fifteen. And then all the ways I’ve failed to cope. Now it’s Finn telling me I can’t make decisions about my own body, that I can’t earn money how I want. “Excuse me for wanting something for myself.”
I can’t do this. I can’t be with someone who thinks I’m strange, especially Finn, because Finn has seen the deepest, darkest corners of my mind. And if he thinks that about me, then it must be true. I turn and head for—I don’t know where. Not here. The opposite direction of his place.
“Halston.” Finn chases me down and grabs my arm. “Wait. That came out wrong.”
I whirl around. This is why I hide. I’d rather have people judge my façade than my true self. In this moment, I can’t remember why I thought it was a good idea to stop my treatment. At least then, I could blame anything on the pills, even on my mom’s death. But without that crutch, I’m just me. “You’re the one who pushed me to put myself out there. You said I was good enough.”
His mouth falls open. “I never pushed you, and you are—”
“Don’t.” He made me feel safe, confident. “Don’t touch me. Don’t follow me.” I grit my teeth against a wave of tears. I walk off so fast, I’m nearly trotting. When I’m a few blocks away, and I’m certain he isn’t behind me, I lean my shoulder against a brick wall and catch my breath. I’m not going anywhere. I have nobody to run to. Finn is that someone. He’s the first someone to care about the real me. The first to see me.
I fell in love with him for that.
I should’ve stopped to think how much it would hurt if he didn’t like what he saw.
24
The sun is setting.
I’m likely to crack the kitchen table if I keep slamming my phone down. I wish Halston would answer my texts. She can be mad as long as I know where she is. I almost followed her, but that’s what her dad or Rich might’ve done, and I think I may have treated her that way outside the museum, causing her to take off.
I’m not entirely sure.
I have to be more careful with my words. Her sensitivity spoke to me in those journals, and it’s one of the things I love about her. It also means if I hurt her, intentionally or not, the pain starts and ends in her heart.
Although she left in the first place and hasn’t returned, I know she’ll come back. This isn’t over. With Sadie, I often worried our affair could end any moment, as if I were always waiting to have the rug ripped out from under me. Halston, though, feels permanent. I’m a different man than I was when I met her only a couple months ago. I still believe fate brought us together, but I no longer want to leave my relationship in its hands. I want to put in the work, the time, the effort to keep it healthy. And, I want to be a better photographer. Not just in terms of composition. I have to prove to Hals that I can do this, earn money at it, and support us. No more leaving it up to destiny.
So, I’d better wrap my head around the fucking lingerie. If I’d known when we started this I’d have to share my sweet, sensitive girl with so many people, I might not’ve suggested it. But here we are. She’s happy—truly happy. Her work has been validated by thousands of people. Even if she lets the negative reactions bother her, ninety-nine percent of the response is praise. How can they be wrong?
I’m in charge of the camera. I can make this lingerie thing work, and I will, with her.
I posted an image, a call for her to come home, a signal that Butter Boudoir isn’t off the table. I’d planned on keeping the photo for myself. The outer curve of her bare breast is visible and even that feels intimate. But I want her to know I’m willing to try. She was right to remind me this is a partnership. I can’t control her, and if I try, I’ll be no better than Rich or her dad.
The passage I chose is one of her longest—and it’s inspiring more comments than usual, people tagging lost loves or commiserating friends. People lonely on a wintry Sunday afternoon.
You said
When you leave, turn out the lights
Lock the door behind you
Close the gate
How can you not see
When you’re gone, there are no lights
The door won’t shut
The gate is a cage.
I miss you.
That was three hours ago. I’ve watched my account like it’s a ticking time bomb, deleting any comment or message she might take the wrong way. The last thing I want is for her to see something that might wiggle its way into her head and convince her she’s not good enough. If she feels she has nowhere to turn without me, she might fall into a black hole.
A knock on the front door makes me sit up. I gave Halston a key, so my mind jumps to the worst case scenarios: she sent someone for her things; she called Rich to confront me; she’s hurt, and the police are here. Holding my breath, I cross the apartment quickly and look through the peephole. Halston sags on the doorstep, weighed down by a backpack I don’t recognize.
I yank open the door. She falls into my arms. “Oh, Hals,” I murmur, gathering her close. Her nose and cheek ice right through my shirt. “You’re freezing, babe. You should’ve come home. You could’ve been mad here where it’s warm.”
She looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes. “Home?”
“You know you belong here with me. Don’t you?” For a moment, I’m afraid she doesn’t know that, even after I’ve done my best to make her feel safe here. It’s the same feeling I had when my mom would go to her cabinet in the afternoons.
To my relief, she nods. “I forgot my keys.”
I bring her inside and sit her at the kitchen table where I just agonized for hours. “What do you want? Coffee, tea, hot chocolate?”
“I want you. I don’t care about anything else, not even what we’ve built.” Her eyes water. “You were right. Our relationship is more important.”
She looks defeated. That isn’t what I want. She shouldn’t have to give in just to keep me. That’s probably what Rich expected from her. I lean back against the counter. “I’ve given it some more thought.”
“Wait. Before you continue.” She puts the backpack on the table and unzips the top. “These are for you.”
She pulls out three thick journals in varying shades of brown leather.
“Halston.” My chest tightens with anticipation. “Are those . . . full?”
“I didn’t bring them all. I started when I was fifteen, in counseling.” She picks one up. “This was the first one. It’s flowery and juvenile. Hormone central. So, it sucks.”
“Can I read it?”
She swaps it for a bigger one. “This one’s emotional. Angry, not sexy. It’s from when I moved out of the denial stage. Each book has a personality.”
“What’s that one?” I ask of the third journal.
She looks at me from under her lashes. “It’s . . . darker. When the guilt over my mom gets too much, I write in here. It’s more explicit than what you’ve read so far. There isn’t much in here, because it’s not a place I go very often.”
Like a conditioned response, I salivate. My greedy hands tingle. I’ve devoured what I have, and getting more feels like a gift. “Did you bring them for me to read or just to torture me?”
She takes a breath as if steeling herself. “You can read them. I want you to. This is what I hide from others, but I don’t want to hide from you. If it’s too weird for you—”
“It won’t be.”
“You don’t know that. If the dark corners of my mind freak you out, I have to know now.”
“I mean, what are we talking he
re? Sex with animals? Incest?”
Her mouth falls open. “Finn. God.”
I can’t help laughing at her reaction. “Well, you’re making it sound dire.”
She stacks the books on top of each other. “They’re just words. Fantasies. It doesn’t mean I want all of this, but sometimes it just bubbles up.”
“Just because I take photos of a park bench doesn’t mean I want to fuck it.”
She blushes, looking down. “Before I met you, I would’ve burned these before I let anyone see them.”
“Why, Halston? Don’t you understand everyone has fantasies? Everyone has at least one dirty, dark thing they want that they won’t even admit to themselves?”
“Yes,” she says. “Why do I have to be one of those who admits it, though? And then shares it? Broadcasting it is like stripping in public and asking people to evaluate me.”
I did the right thing deleting those comments. I decide here and now to do it with every post so she never questions herself like this again. She’s come so far since we met. “I know opening up isn’t easy, but you might find it to be a good thing.”
She picks up the “flowery” journal. “When I was younger, I got so excited about stuff. I wanted everyone to experience my favorite books, movies, plays the way I did. People made fun of me.”
I rub my jaw. This isn’t something I can relate to as a man, except that I have a daughter turning nine. Already, I’ve noticed her feigning disinterest in “uncool” hobbies, like the sticker collection we’ve been working on since she was four. It reminds me of the eight-year age gap between Halston and me. “Then you should be even more proud of yourself.”
“Sometimes I just wonder if being myself is worth the price tag.”
Her honesty is brave. I wish she could see that. It’s taken a toll on her—the things she said earlier, the way she ran off instead of talking to me, this deep-rooted fear of being abnormal that’s stuck with her so long. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t concern me, especially with how quickly she weaned herself off her meds. I’ve bitten my tongue about it, opting instead to monitor her behavior for warning signs that she’s not handling it well. Nothing up until today has really worried me. But are there things going on in her head that even I don’t see?
I clear my throat. “Have you thought about talking to someone about that stuff from your past?”
“I spent ten years talking to someone about it.”
“Not your mom. The other stuff.”
“We talked about all of it.” She frowns. “Why? You think I need to go back into therapy?”
“No,” I say quickly. She’s already wary of people telling her what to do after enduring a decade of it with Rich and her dad; it’s why I haven’t brought this up before. “I just meant you can always talk to me about any of that if you want. No judgment.”
She nods distantly and after a few seconds, says, “Maybe I do need to go back. I’m sorry about earlier. I think . . . this isn’t easy for me to say, but my moods are a little more extreme now. I don’t know if it’s still withdrawals or just . . . who I am.”
“Withdrawals?” I ask. “You haven’t mentioned any before.”
She lifts a shoulder. “I’ve had a few headaches. Nausea.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s nothing major compared to some of the horror stories I’ve heard.”
I want to take her in my arms again, soothe it all away. It doesn’t feel like the right moment for touching, though, not while she’s working through her feelings. “I still want to know,” I say. “Will you tell me when it happens?”
She nods. “This afternoon, I overreacted.”
“So did I. I just wish you hadn’t run off like that.”
“I understand. I’m going to leave these with you.” She shows me the journal. “We can talk tomorrow, or whenever you get to them—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I push off the counter. “Nah-uh. You’re not going anywhere.”
“I can’t deal with watching you read them. If you hate them, if you find the behavior ‘alarming’—”
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
Eyes down, she raises her palms. “It’s fine. I just need to know now, before I get any deeper with you.”
“I don’t think you understand just how deep this goes for me. I’m at the fucking bottom here. So don’t try and convince me of what I want.”
She looks at me finally, small and lonely in her chair, swallowed up by her puffy coat and scarf. She’s still wearing her mittens for God’s sake, like she’s about to make a quick exit.
I pull a chair in front of her and start removing her gloves. “I mean, incestuous fantasies would be an adjustment for me, but it’s not enough to scare me off.”
She smiles. Her fingertips are cold, so I bring them to my mouth, blowing hot air on them. “If you’ll agree to let me control the photo shoot, then my answer is yes.”
Her eyebrows meet in the middle of her forehead. She glances at the journals. “Don’t you want to read them first?”
“You don’t have to hide from me.” I don’t have to think too hard to figure out what’s in the journal. She mentioned her guilt. From the start, Halston has responded to dominance in the bedroom. I’m sure whatever she’s ashamed of involves some kind of punishment for her past. I’ve never been into BDSM, but I’m sure as hell not about to walk away from the possibility of exploring it with her. “I’ll never think you’re strange for what turns you on.” I squeeze her hands in mine. “It’s human nature.”
“Thank you,” she says softly. “I’m sorry we fought.”
“I wasn’t hearing you. When you brought up money, it got to me because you’re right.” It’s my turn to look away. It’s not about the money. I hate that it’s been a year, and I still haven’t booked any solid, non-commercial work or sold anything off my website. I meet her eyes again. “I want you to know, I’m still doing fine. But I can’t live like this forever. I need more money to come in.”
“It’s not my place to say,” she says. “I don’t know anything about money. My dad gives it to me when I need it. He pays my rent and most of my bills. I have a 401k and a brokerage account, but his people manage it.”
Having been one of the Wall Street guys her dad would hire, I don’t like the idea of that. It’s just another way to control her. “Get your bank information from your dad,” I tell her. “You shouldn’t put that in someone else’s hands.”
“I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“I’ll teach you everything you need to know about your finances. We’ll go through it together. And about Rich . . .” I inhale a breath. On this, I don’t want to budge. But when she was out there, being pissed, I promised myself I would try harder to be more understanding. “Tell your dad when you’re ready. As long as you and I and Rich know the arrangement, I can live with it a little longer.”
She smiles. “You’re so good at taking care of me.”
Fuck fuck fuck. My chest aches. Nobody ever said that to me, not my mom, definitely not Kendra. I’m not even sure Marissa will think of me as a good dad once Kendra’s through with her. Halston’s hands are nice and warm in mine now. I kiss the place where her palms meet. “We’ll do the photo shoot. I need to have final say, though.”
“You will.”
“There’s a right way to do this, I knew there was, I just didn’t even want to entertain the idea. I’ve tried so hard to separate money and art. I don’t like them to overlap, because it feels cheap. And the thought of putting you out there like that for other men to look at worries me, but that goes without saying.”
“I promise, Finn, nobody gets me but you. I’m yours to share with the world, not the other way around.”
“I’m not sharing you. You’re mine, and that won’t change.” I unwrap her scarf from her neck, and her hair frizzes with static. I smooth it down. “I would’ve gone to look for you, but I didn’t know where to start. I don’t even know exactl
y which block your apartment’s on.”
“I wasn’t there long. It doesn’t feel like home. I got the journals, then walked around until I ended up here.”
“You should give up that apartment.” As soon as I say it, I know it’s right. I want our lives merged for real. This will be the first step toward showing everyone—exes, parents, children—this is real. “If we fight, if we piss each other off, I want you to come back here. Always. No matter how bad it is. Even if it means I’m banned to the couch.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “My lease is up in March.”
“Do you think it’s too soon for us to move in together?”
She answers with a small, goading smile. “Totally.”
“March it is, then?”
She stands and floats onto my lap, into my arms, her laugh soft and angelic. “I got your message.”
“Which one? I sent like eight.”
She kisses my cheek. “You know which one.”
I whisper her own words into her ear. “When you’re gone, there is no light.”
25
I can admit when I’m wrong.
At my desk in the studio, I browse the twenty images I’ve just edited, chosen from more than a hundred taken yesterday. I may be biased, but my girlfriend wears lingerie like no fucking other.
In one of my favorites, Halston stretches in a doorway, her arms over her head, fingers resting on the doorframe. Her head is turned to the side. A curtain of white-blonde curls covers her face, stopping right above her breasts. The sheer, black leotard—or bodysuit, as I was told—has a faint lace design that conceals her nipples and a neckline that dips to her belly button.
I was nothing but professional. I spent the entire session with a hard-on and didn’t even touch her.
Halston comes into the studio in head-to-toe sweats, the same pink color of the Mont Blanc I bought her, spooning yogurt into her mouth. She sits on my knee. “They’re beautiful, Finn.”
I have no better word to describe her. “Yeah.”
Slip of the Tongue Series: The Complete Boxed Set Page 98