Chapter Sixteen

Finn

Now

Since when had he become a fucking Chatty Cathy? Finn couldn’t recall the last time he’d spoken this many words in a mere week, but there was just something about Hank Dietrich that turned him into a curious, easily excitable three-year-old. Perhaps it was his patient demeanor or the ever-present sadness lingering in his hazel eyes. Perhaps it was his kindness. Or maybe he was just being polite, and, in a few days, he would have had enough and kick Finn to the curb. In any case, he hardly recognized himself when he was around the other guy. Well, that wasn’t exactly true, was it? He didn’t recognize the Finn of the last eight years. He was more like his old self. Before the accident and everything had turned to shit, his life as he knew it, gone in a split second. Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, the disaster he’d been expecting ever since he was a small child had finally struck. Some days, in the aftermath of the accident, he’d wondered if his worst fear had, in the end, conjured the catastrophe. One stupid mistake and everything had slipped through his fingers like a handful of dust.

Or perhaps he was just kidding himself because, looking back, he could only ever recall being completely carefree when he was with Cara. Everything else ceased to exist when it was just the two of them—and yesterday, in the woods, and the previous days with Hank, he’d caught small glimpses of that feeling. That feeling of just being able to be, the guilt even dissipating at times.

“I gotta go in again today,” Hank blew at his coffee, his gaze serious. “To the shop.”

“Oh. Okay. Of course.” A couple of days ago, Hank had started going back to work, apparently deeming it safe to leave Finn alone for a few hours.

“Colton’s been holding down the fort since early this mornin’. There’s been an accident. A couple of trucks skid off the road on the 20 due to last night’s heavy snowfall. Surprised the heck outta the mornin’ traffic, that’s for sure.” Taking another sip of his coffee, Hank seemed to contemplate something, and then he continued. “If you’re up for it, you can come?” He threw in the question casually, like he hadn’t just made Finn’s day. He was eager to see the shop. Even though planes were, of course, his favorite, he was interested in all types of machines and engines. It fascinated him how they worked and as soon as Hank had mentioned the shop, he’d been wanting to go there. See where Hank had spent the better part of his life.

“Yeah?” Shit, he sounded needy, didn’t he? “You sure?”

“Yeah, just as long as you don’t get in the way.” Hank winked, brushing a hand through his beard. “Young Henry has a way of gettin’ in the way when he stops by. Well, not so much in my way…“ he trailed off.

“I won’t get in your way, Hank,” Finn quickly replied, warmth spreading through his chest. It was strange how Hank kept referring to Henry as young or calling him kid. He wondered how old Hank really was. Finn suspected Hank looked older than he actually was, that permanent worried frown slicing through the gap between his brows, the weather-beaten face, and the gray beard. It was clear life had left its marks on the older guy, that ever-present air of loneliness surrounding him. Yes, Finn recognized loneliness. What it looked like. How it felt. Some days, it was all-consuming, others, just a ghost lingering in the background, following you around like a bad smell or a stray dog.

“That’s settled then.” Hank rapped his knuckles against the wooden surface of the table before getting up from his seat. “Make sure to dress warm. The shop’s heated, but there’s more snow on the way.” As he rose from the table, his solid frame towered over Finn, his broad shoulders barely contained by the red and green checkered shirt. With two buttons open at the neck, Finn’s gaze was drawn to the thick scattering of hair peeking from behind the white T-shirt underneath. Dark brown with a generous dusting of gray thrown in.

Sexy. Finn couldn’t recall the last time he’d thought of another person as sexy, anything carnal and sexual so far removed from his thoughts during these past years, daily survival and forgetting at the forefront of his mind. But the more time he spent around Hank, the more attractive he became, his presence stirring desires inside Finn that had lain dormant for years. Eight years of celibacy, to be exact. Anyone who’d known Finn before the accident would have a hard time believing that the ‘ my-middle-name-is-casual-hookup ’ ER nurse with the ever-present flirtatious smile would choose to spend a near decade in celibacy.

As the days passed, Finn noticed more and more small details about his landlord that made him wake up painfully hard and sweaty in the morning. Hank’s bulging upper arms and thick thighs behind the worn denim of his pants. He was soft in places where Finn was lean, his stomach slightly rounded, stretching his shirt. Almost cushiony. Finn wondered what it would feel like to rest his head against Hank’s chest or bury it against his armpit. He bet it would be nice and hairy too, the smell of male sweat engulfing him, with coarse hair tickling his nostrils. His golden eyes and his full beard. It looked soft. Yeah, he was pretty sure it was fucking soft to the touch. His fingers tingled at the mere thought. And Hank’s scent. Woodsy with a hint of musk. Like he’d just walked in from the forest or built up a sweat from chopping wood. The way warmth coasted across his weathered face when he smiled, which had become a more frequent occurrence over the past few days. At least, Finn thought it had.

Throwing a final glance at Finn, Hank went to the sink and rinsed out his cup before continuing out into the mudroom. Finn rose and trailed behind him, grabbing his parka from the wooden hanger. He’d smiled the first time he’d noticed it; a small row of ducks carved out of dark wood, the hooks resembling small beaks.

“Who’s Cara, by the way?” Hank spoke over his shoulder. Finn froze at his sister’s name on Hank’s lips.

“What?” he murmured.

“Cara? You were calling out the name Cara in your sleep last night.” Hank bent to pull on his winter boots, groaning at the movement. For a second, it occurred to him to lie or pretend that he had no idea what Hank was talking about, but somehow it seemed wrong. To be anything but truthful to someone who’d treated him with nothing but genuine kindness. Who’d opened his home to him, asking for nothing in return, and nursed him through his infection, no questions asked.

“She’s my sister. Cara,” he spoke, adjusting his glasses. “My younger sister. I must’ve dreamed of her…” he trailed off, realizing it was the first time in eight years that he’d spoken her name, at least consciously. The name of the person he loved most in this world and who probably despised him now for what he’d done to her. The one thing that pained him more than anything and wished he could take back.

In the beginning, he’d dreamed of Cara all the time, her voice beckoning him from afar, pleading with him. Finn. Please, Finn, I can’t feel my legs. The echo of her desperate words followed him around like a reproachful shadow all day. With time, the dreams had become fewer, less insistent, until he no longer dreamed of anything.

“Cara,” Hank repeated, looking up after having finished tying his boots. “It’s a beautiful name. Different. Are you close?” It was normal, wasn’t it? When you interact with other people. It was how it went, wasn’t it? The polite interest, asking questions like that. Are you close?

“I don’t know,” he winced the moment the words slipped from his mouth. What a stupid reply. “I mean, I haven’t seen her in a while. We used to be, I guess.” Fuck. Hank was just trying to be kind. He didn’t want Finn to pour his heart out. The guy was a mechanic, not a fucking therapist. Still, Hank nodded, an expression in his eyes that spoke volumes. Grief. Hollowness. Regret. So much regret. Did he perhaps understand?

“Yeah, I had a brother like that once. Like two peas in a pod until we weren’t.” There was a bitter edge to Hank’s solemn voice. His shoulders slumped forward slightly as he pulled a red knitted scarf from one of the duck hangers. “Wear this today. You don’t wanna catch a cold.”

“Colton’s father?” Finn asked as he accepted the scarf. For just a moment, Hank held onto the other end of the scarf as they stood there in the cluttered, wet-smelling mudroom, their gazes connecting.

“Yeah. My older brother. Walter.” Releasing his end of the scarf, breaking their connection, Hank reached for the door handle and opened the back door. A chilling wind swept through the small room, a shiver running down Finn’s spine.

“What happened to him?” he asked, raising his voice to speak over the howling November wind, tying the scarf around his neck a couple of times. It smelled of Hank and he instinctively wanted to bury his face in the soft wool. Perhaps he could sleep with it tonight.

“We parted ways,” Hank replied, his voice steady. Neutral. “C’mon now. We’re letting out all the heat.” Then he turned around, flipping the collar of his lambskin coat around his neck, hunching over against the brutal wind as he ran across the yard towards the shop. We parted ways. Such an odd thing to say. Like that poem. Was it Frost? It was Frost, wasn’t it? He remembered it from school. The great American poet. How was it again? He’d always wondered what Frost had meant, the cryptic discrepancy of the words. Something about two roads diverging in the woods, right? Yeah, he remembered. ‘ I took the one less travelled by. ’ He couldn’t help but wonder which road Hank had traveled. And why it had meant that the two brothers needed to part ways. And if it really had made all the difference, like Frost promised. Or if it were just two roads, nothing more, nothing less, in the end leading to the same place.