Page 28 of Business or Pleasure

chapter

eight

PORTLAND, OR

The Nocturnals changed my life. You changed my life. I’ve seen the whole show nine times, and I have all the original DVDs. And I actually majored in biology because of you.” The girl’s shirt says I’d Much Rather Be Unusual, which, from what I can understand, became something of a catchphrase for the show. Hux said it for the first time in season one, and then later repeated it to Meg when she insisted he find someone else so he could have a chance at a normal relationship.

Finn smiles, swooping his signature over the photo while a staff member collects the girl’s $125. “I’m honored,” he says earnestly. “Thank you so much. Do you have a favorite season?”

“Three, definitely,” she says. “When you and Meg were trapped in that snowstorm, and she had to protect you from that rival wolf pack... I rewatch that scene at least once a month.”

“That might have been the coldest I’ve been in my entire life.” He passes back the autograph, then gets up for the photo. “One hundred percent worth it, though.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she says, squealing as he poses next to her in front of the Rose City Comic Con backdrop.

I’m sitting behind Finn’s table, notebook perched in my lap. Everything I’ve written so far is woefully banal. Loves talking to fans. Smiles at everyone. Liked filming season 3. Someone’s going to show up to take away my journalism degree any moment.

Finn’s level of fame clearly isn’t the getting-constantly-recognized-on-the-street kind—that didn’t happen to us in Seattle. I was surprised he chose somewhere so public for dinner last night, but aside from the girls who stopped by our table, no one seemed to bat an eye at him. And yet here, he’s a god. The costumes, the shirts with quotes from the show and his ship name, the fans who burst into tears or suddenly turn shy upon meeting him—I’ve never seen anything like it.

I’m still a little starstruck by the whole thing, and I have to wonder if that’ll ever wear off. How long it took Finn to get used to it, or if it’s always seemed normal to him.

To my complete shock, he hasn’t fired me yet. But there’s something off about him today, or as off as I can tell from having known the guy for a week. Last night’s conversation kept me awake, along with the too-loud humming of the HVAC in my room. At first, I was worried about feeling lonely in the hotel by myself, but my anxiety hasn’t left much room for anything else.

How was your first day?! Noemie texted, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her it might be my last day, too. Nothing from Wyatt, as committed as he is to our friendship. An email from my agent, a couple messages from my parents. Is Finn just as nice as he is on television? , my dad wants to know. r you eating enough? my mom asks. dont forgt elote chips

I don’t want to disappoint any of them.

At one point, when I return from the bathroom while the signing wraps up, my jean jacket is draped over my chair. The one I left in Finn’s hotel room in Seattle.

I throw him a questioning look.

“Chandler,” he says, placing a hand on the back of my chair. It’s the first time he’s made eye contact with me all day. “Do you want to take a walk?”

We end up at the Portland waterfront, a tree-lined strip of sidewalk that hugs the Willamette River. It’s early evening, the sun hanging low in the sky and autumn leaves crisscrossed overhead. In a month, all of them will be on the ground.

“I love the Northwest,” he says. “There’s a rivalry there, right? Between Portland and Seattle?”

“I guess so?” The question catches me off guard. I tug my newly reclaimed denim jacket tighter across my chest. “With some of their sports teams, and maybe some people have a bit of a superiority complex about the city they live in. But they both have great food, nature, music scenes...”

“You’re into Northwest music.” It’s a statement, not a question. “You were wearing that Sleater-Kinney T-shirt when we met.”

“You’re a fan?”

He shrugs. Today he’s in a blue plaid flannel and nondescript gray sneakers, the kind that look like they were designed by an algorithm. “One of those heard of them but haven’t heard them situations.”

“You’ve got to listen to All Hands on the Bad One. Probably my favorite album of all time. I found it in a bargain bin in Olympia, and maybe I’m biased because it was the first album of theirs I ever heard, but it just felt so special.” Then I pause. This is not the time, but I can’t not wax poetic when Sleater-Kinney is involved.

“I do love how particular people are about their music up here.”

“It’s the perfect place to be a music snob.” If he’s going to drag this out, make me suffer, I’d rather he rip off the Band-Aid. This small talk feels excruciating when I know what’s on the other side of it.

My room upstairs in my cousin’s house. A depressing bank account. A future with a giant question mark.

A woman walks by pushing a stroller, a young Portland mom with an undercut and two sleeves of tattoos. Her gaze lingers on Finn before she abruptly looks away, either embarrassed to be caught staring or convincing herself that he’s not who she thinks he is. Maybe she’ll google him later, wonder if she really did spot him.

“It’s not that I don’t love discussing the merits of various Northwest cities,” I say. “But if you’re going to fire me, could you just get it over with?”

Finn stops walking. “Fire you? Why would I do that?” He glances around us, making sure we’re alone, and I wonder if this is something he’s gotten used to doing over the years. If he’s simply accustomed to not having privacy, even with his relative low level of fame. Back when the show was on, though, it must have been relentless.

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