“And this girlfriend of yours—Alex? She’s helping with that?”
There it was. The real reason she’d stopped.
“Alex is...” I paused, considering how much truth to share. “She’s been great. Keeps me grounded.”
“I’m glad.” Lou’s voice held genuine warmth, though regret flickered across her expression. “You deserve someone who seeshow amazing you are.”
I knew Lou meant it kindly, but it cast a large inescapable spotlight on exactly what I’d been trying not to think about. Alex had seen the painstakingly managed version of me—competent, mostly functional, able to handle a few hours of chaos or a migraine episode. She hadn’t seen the physical scars, the biological failures, the growing list of things I couldn’t reliably do anymore.
“Lou...” I started, then stopped. What was I supposed to say? That the extraordinary woman she was talking about might not be interested in the long-term reality of damaged goods? I certainly couldn’t tell her it was all an act—that I was quite possibly falling in love with someone who didn’t feel the same way. Who wouldn’t feel the same way if she knew everything.
“It’s okay,” she said quietly, reading something in my expression. “I get it. Things change. People change.” She glanced toward the lodge, then back at me. “I should get to work. We’ve got a wedding party checking in this afternoon.”
“Right. Yeah, I should get back to this too,” I gestured toward the fence, grateful for the excuse to end the conversation.
“Finn?” Lou paused next to the driver’s door. “For what it’s worth, she’s lucky to have you.”
I watched her drive away toward the lodge—her words a heavy weight in my chest. Lucky to have me. If only she knew exactly how much luck had been involved—and how quickly it seemed to be running out.
I turned back to the fence, letting the rhythm of physical work push away the voice in my head that whispered she’d be less lucky if she knew the whole truth.
Just after nine-thirty, I’d finished the section I’d planned for the morning. Three posts replaced, fifty yards of wire restrung, everything level and secure. Honest work that left my hands dirty and my body pleasantly tired.
More importantly, I had about twenty minutes before my therapy appointment.
I loaded the tools back into the truck and drove toward the airstrip, gravel crunching under the tires as I approached the hangar. The building sat at the edge of the property, large enough to house the Piper Cub and a few pieces of maintenance equipment, but private enough that no one would wander by accidentally.
The large doors were already open—one of the ranch hands must have aired it out after the rain. Inside, the yellow J-3 sat like an old, patient friend, her fabric skin gleaming in the morning light filtering through the open doors.
I’d learned to fly in this plane. Fourteen years old, legs barely long enough to reach the rudder pedals properly, following my grandfather through pre-flight checks and basic maneuvers until flying felt as natural as breathing. Back when the sky was the only place that made sense, when I could look down at the ranch and the mountains and feel like I understood my place in the world.
Now the cockpit looked impossibly small—not physically, but practically. Space designed for someone who could trust his depth perception, his reaction time, his body to perform when needed.
I pulled out my phone and opened the video call app, settling onto an old wooden crate in the shadow where I could see the screen clearly. Ten-hundred hours on the dot. O-nine-hundred in Pacific Time. Dr. Martinez was always punctual.
“Good morning, Finn,” her voice came through clearly as her image filled the screen. Dr. Elena Martinez—former Air Force with security clearance higher than mine, mid-fifties, short gray hair, and a direct but compassionate approach that had made our sessions productive since my return. “How are you settling in at the ranch?”
“Good. Better than expected,” I glanced around the hangar, taking in the comforting smells of aviation fuel and old wood. “It’s quiet here. Peaceful.”
“That’s important for you—having peaceful spaces,” she consulted something on her screen, probably notes from my last message to her and our last appointment. “How are you feeling physically? Any changes in headache frequency or sleep patterns?”
“Sleep’s been better. Headaches are manageable since starting the new meds.” All true, though I wasn’t mentioning the medical report burning a hole in my mental landscape. “Being away from LA noise helps.”
“And how’s your support system? Family, friends, relationships?”
There it was. The opening I’d been both dreading and needing.
“Family’s good. They’re... careful with me, but good. Supportive without being suffocating.” I shifted on the crate, buying time. “Relationships are more complicated.”
“Tell me about that.”
Elena had a way of asking questions that felt like invitations rather than interrogations. It’s what made her effective—and what made it harder to avoid the topics I didn’t want to discuss.
“I’ve been seeing someone. Alex. She’s Enzo’s sister. Lives in Salt Lake. It started as...” I paused, unsure how much of the fake dating origin story would be useful therapeutically other than to make me sound even more insane. “It’s complicated. We’ve been spending time together—texting and calling when we’re away—and it’s been good. She’s incredible. But I’m not sure she understands what she’s getting into.”
“What do you mean by that?”
The Piper Cub sat silent in front of me, a reminder of everything I used to be capable of. Simple, direct, reliable. Not like the person I was becoming—someone who needed careful management and constant medical monitoring.
