He’d spent the last five minutes or so sprawled on his back, his stomach filled to the brim with pot roast and cinnamon apple piewith whipped cream. He smiled drowsily at the expectant look on Fenn’s face as he’d purposefully taken a long time tasting the pie, without giving too much away, carefully smacking his lips only to conclude that it was the best pie he’d ever had.
‘Reeeally, Uncle Finn?’ Fenn had looked at him, huge blue eyes swimming with innocent expectation, his piercingly needy voice tugging at Finn’s heartstrings.Uncle Finn.Uncle. How easily the child had bestowed that title upon a near stranger, irrevocably adding Finn as a permanent fixture to his small world.
He trailed his fingers along the cool sheets beneath him, the familiar scent of his mom’s preferred fabric softener enveloping him.Ocean Spray, or some shit like that. He’d tried to convince her several times over the years not to use it. That it wasn’t necessary and that it was bad for the environment and could cause allergies.
‘I don’t have any allergies,’ she’d countered.‘Your father doesn’t have any allergies, either. Do you have any?’she’d argued, wiping the kitchen counter furiously.
‘That’s beside the point, Mom,’ he’d sighed. ‘You shouldn’t use it. Period.’
‘Well, it’s none of your business,’she’d frowned at him. ‘Period.’ And then he’d laughed at the whole interaction because they were both just so goddamn stubborn that one would think they shared the same genes after all. And itdidsmell nice, he had to give her that. Since his sheets couldn’t smell of Hank right now,Ocean Spraywas a decent alternative. If his mom had used a pine scent, on the other hand, he would’ve been fucking sobbing into the pillow by now, his cock probably throwing accusations at him likedidn’t we agree to stay until spring with that motherfucking delicious rural Daddy mechanic?Pretty pathetic picture, right? His eyes and his cock competing in a bigcry off? So, thank God for small mercies like a mother with a preference forOcean Spray.
When he felt like he could move again without experiencing acute reflux, he rose from the bed and picked up his backpack that he’d put against the bedside table. The fabric was starting to tear in places, and he should probably splurge on a new one. He still had his savings tucked away in the Oregon Pacific Bank in Eugene—quite a bit, actually—that had gone untouched for the past eight years. Rummaging through the contents in search of his toothbrush, his fingertips connected with something small and hard. Metallic. Closing his hand around the small object, he withdrew it from the backpack, already recognizing the content of his hand before he opened it. Well, not the exact one, of course. He couldn’t know that.
Eyes stinging, he opened his hand, the red and white striped tail catching his gaze first, then the white star with the red center on the side of the gray paint. The wings had the same stars, of course. Trailing his fingers along the delicate details of the miniature fighter aircraft, Finn sucked in a breath that did nothing to settle his frantic heart.The Grumman Wildcat.Initially known as theMartletwhen it entered service in 1940 in both the US Navy and the British Royal Navy.
Wiping at his eyes behind his glasses, a few wayward tears managing to make their way down his cheeks, Finn squeezed his hand closed around the small plane and held his fist tightly against his chest. His heart ran rampant like a wild mustang trying to break free from a confining enclosure. Closing his eyes, he willed himself not to overthink the reason why Hank had gifted him the plane. Because it was a gift, wasn’t it? A parting gift. Without opening his eyes, his other hand dove back into the backpack, eager fingers reaching all the way down. He knew he was going to find the entire bottom stuffed with planes.
“Hank,” he breathed, feeling his closeness, Hank’s familiar face manifesting before him. “I wish…” he croaked. “I wish—”
“Knock knock,” his father’s voice accompanied the light taps on the white-painted door. Opening his eyes, Finn blinked a couple of times, taking his father in through a blur. “Can I come in?” his father hesitated in the door opening, one hand splayed against the doorjamb.
“Of course,” Finn nodded, his voice sounding raw. “Come on in,” he attempted a smile, pulling his empty hand from the backpack, his left still squeezed tightly around theWildcatcradled against his chest.
“You settling in okay, champ?” his father asked tentatively as he moved towards the bed, sitting down a little away from Finn.Champ. The nickname had stuck since Finn, at the age of twelve, had come in third in the 800m race in the county finals. The wariness that had lingered in his father’s blue eyes throughout dinner remained, putting up an invisible wall between them despite the offered endearment.
“Yeah. Thanks, Dad.” A broken sound spilled from his father’s lips, his blue gaze flickering across Finn’s face. “Dad?” Finn whispered.
“I never thought I’d hear you call me that again, son.” It was then, as a shadow swept across his father’s face, that Finn realized his father had aged quite a bit over the past near decade. He was still tall and broad like before, but there was a resigned slump in his posture, his black hair speckled with strands of silver, thinning around the temples. The fine crow’s feet surrounding his eyes had morphed into deep white lines against his tanned skin, a prominent frown cutting through the space between his dark brows like a vast canyon.
“Dad…” Finn whispered, his palm squeezing around the plane to the point of pain, but it was nothing compared to the utteranguish tearing at his insides. Truth was, he’d never expected to speak that word again, either.
“I’ve run it over and over in my head for the past eight years, driving myself to the point of insanity—driving yourmotherto the point of insanity,” he chuckled half-heartedly, “and no matter how hard I try, I always end up at the same place. Every damn time.” His father’s voice was tinged with bitterness and regret, but above all, he just sounded sad. Heartbroken.
“What, Dad?” Finn reached for his hand, wrapping his fingers around his father’s clenched fist. His father twitched at the touch, his other hand flying to his forehead, fingers rubbing at the deep furrows.
“You heard me that night. The things I said. What I told your mother. You heard me.” There was no question in his father’s voice, the words a cruel statement that brought back the irrevocability of his father’s words that night.
“I did,” Finn whispered.
“Christ,” his father gritted, brushing his hand across his face. “What kind of parent am I? What kind of man?”
“A good one,” Finn blurted without even questioning the truth of his reply to his father’s clearly rhetorical question.
“A good one?” his father laughed bitterly, removing his hand from his face. His lips curled with disdain, but Finn was fairly convinced that it was directed at himself and not at Finn. “A good one?!” His voice grew in volume, blue eyes coasting across Finn’s face, searchingly.
“Yes.” Finn nodded, no trace of ambiguity in his voice. His father shook his head exasperatedly, a lock of salt and pepper hair spilling onto his forehead.
“What I said that night…” he forced out. “Not picking up Cara like I’d promised ended up being the least of my trespasses in the end, didn’t it?” He looked helplessly at Finn, who was left busy trying to decipher what his father was talking about.
“What…? What do you mean, Dad?” His father pinched the top of his nose, then he seemed to collect himself somewhat.
“I wasn’t talking about you that night. To your mother,” his father’s voice came out strained. “Well, I was, but not in the way you thought I was.”
“Dad, I don’t think I under—”
“When I said that I couldn’t look at you…” Finn winced, the memory of that dreadful night—an entire succession of dreadful nights, actually—slamming into him full force like it was only just yesterday that he’d stood at the bottom of the stairs, his entire life caving in on him. “That I wouldn’t be able to forgive.” Finn nodded, jamming his front teeth into his bottom lip, the metallic taste filling his mouth. “I was talking about myself.Me. That every time I’d look at you from now on, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself.” As if to stress the enormity of his words, his father cast his gaze down, focusing on the floorboards beneath their feet.
“What? What do you mean?” Heat coursed through Finn, sweat gathering at the base of his neck, thatwhoosh, whoosh, whooshtaking over inside his head, his father’s words muffled, as if he were speaking through a layer of cotton.
