As I pulledmy shirt back on over my freshly showered hair, I notice Finn by the cloth laying on the floor. I start to laugh amusedly at Finn.
Studying it.
Observing it.
I walk over to him and wrap my arms around his waist as he drops of quick kiss onto my forehead. His six-foot-four frame towering over me. I look down at the cloth in front of us as smears of neon rainbows are replaced with white and black abstracted art.
“Never been an art collector. Think I may have to start,” he chuckles.
“I don’t think all art is quite made like this.”
“It should be.”
“Well, it is a new version of a happy tree,” I say.
“You are a feisty minx,” he says, pulling my arms away from him to look him directly in the eyes.
“You know it,” I whisper.
“Can I keep it?” he asks.
I nod slowly as my teeth graze my lips, suddenly nervous in his arms.
“Using our bodies as a paint brush and we created art. My goddess immortalized in art.”
“Something to remember me by,” I whisper.
Finn nods numbly and drops his arms around me. I watch him bend down and fold the cloth into a square without another word or look in my direction.
This goodbye will be tough.
* * *
We drovein silence towards the airport. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. The uncomfortable and awkward silence ensued to its highest peak as he stopped the car next to the departure drop-off lane. He shut off the engine and got out of the car, walking immediately to my side. I take my seatbelt off, and I pull my purse closer towards me. As the car door opens, he takes my hand. He helps me out of the car and leads me to the sidewalk next to the car. He pulls his hand closer to his face, gently kissing my thumb. His fingers graze over the Claddagh on my finger.
“Finn,” I start, before being stopped by his finger to my lips.
“Amelia,” he warns.
“What?”
“I have just one question. You are doing all this travelling to discover who you are, but not giving yourself any answers to the questions you desperately want to know. You are Irish, but you are Italian. Who you are is right there in front of you,” he says.
“I promised my grandparents I would never go,” I say softly.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it because of the secret name you were telling me about?” he asks.
“Petruchio is a made-up name I came up with when we fled Italy from a Marcelli curse. I have no idea what that means or what it’s about,” I ramble.
“There are too many unanswered whys for you,” Finn says blankly.
A plane flies overhead and all I can concentrate on is the roar of the engines over top of me.
“I have family in London. Maybe when you are done visiting the world, I can take ‘ye there,” he says.
I look down at my hands in his. His thumb never leaving the ring around my finger. A small, dimpled smirk graces his lips which makes me smile slowly back to him.
“I would love that,” I whisper.
Without warning, his lips meet mine in an impassioned plea to be near to each other. His fingers entangle in the curl of my hair that fell out of my ponytail. Our passionate kiss quickly turned fierce. A breathless sigh escaped his lips as he pulled away from me.
“Christ, you have me under some kind of spell, goddess,” he says, his voice hitched between breaths.
“Finn,” I plead.
“You are worth every second I have to wait for you to return. Go find yourself and I will be right here waiting for you, love.”
I take a deep and struggled breath and look up at him through tear-welled eyes.
“I don’t know if I can leave,” I whisper.
“Love,” he pleads.