Chapter 21
Finn
ENDS OF THE EARTH BY TY MYERS
The house smells like varnish, sawdust, and paint, and not in a good way. It doesn't smell or feel like a home. It feels like a pile of unfinished dreams that I can't wait to be done.
I’m standing in what’s supposed to be the living room, only right now it’s more of a construction site than home.
Half the floor’s refinished, edges taped off for the walls.
The plastic tarp covers the built-ins I made last spring.
The windows are new and still waiting for the trim.
There’s a stack of reclaimed wood leaning against the wall for the mantle, so much left to do in this place.
It’s rough, unfinished, stubbornly hanging on, same as me.
Everything’s halfway done and driving me nuts.
Which is exactly why I’m pacing the room like a caged animal, running numbers in my head. I want this place to be finished. Not for me. For her.
I can see it if I close my eyes. Rowan barefoot in my kitchen on a Sunday morning, wearing one of my shirts and drinking coffee with that look that makes me forget every struggle it's been to finish this house. Her plants are in the windows, and her books are lined up on the built-ins. Her laughter fills these walls and we're together and doing everyday life finally with her, here, like she’s always belonged. That’s the plan. Step one: finish the damn house.
Step two: Get her to see the same vision that I see and be my forever here with me. I don’t just want to tell her I’m serious, I want to show her.
So, when the mayor calls me this morning and says something like, “I’ve got a contract for you if you’re needing work,” I don’t immediately tell him to go to hell. That’s probably mistake number one.
Sammy Briggs has never done anything in his life that wasn’t mainly for Sammy, and every person in town knows it.
Guy’s got ambition like a rash. Always smiling, shaking hands, talking about “revitalizing” and “what’s best for Wisteria Cove,” which everyone knows really means tearing out anything old and putting in something that’ll take a brochure picture or somehow line his pockets.
I don’t trust him. And I want to know what he’s got up his sleeve and if he’s stupid enough to tell me, I can protect our town.
But, the number he threw out at me? That caught my attention.
That number could finish out this house and would eliminate ninety percent of my stress right now.
It's a three-month project that could cover the rest of the renovations if I took it on. That’s the part that keeps making me consider this.
My house could be done by Christmas. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I accept the meeting.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket. My brother, Remy. Always on time when I start to spiral. It’s like he has a sixth sense about when I need him.
I answer. “Yeah?”
“You home?” he asks.
“I'm not sure we can quite call this a home yet, but sure.” I say as I run a hand through my hair and look around at the chaos.
“I’m coming by.”
“Why?”
“So I can look you in the eye when I tell you not to do whatever dumbass thing you’re currently thinking about doing.”
I laugh despite myself. “Get over here, then.”
He hangs up. I stare down at my phone for a second, then shove it back in my pocket and look around again.
I briefly mentioned to Remy that there was a job I probably shouldn’t take but was thinking about it.
Remy used to be a criminal defense attorney and he has a sound head on his shoulders, so he’s usually the one who is logical on most things.
Finishing takes cash. And right now this job is what’s keeping me from getting there. So in order to get that cash is to make a deal with the devil aka Sammy Briggs, the corrupt Mayor of Wisteria Cove.
I mutter to the empty house, “Just let me get this right. I swear to God, I’m trying.”
I sweep up construction dust and glance in the fridge and notice it’s bare and in need of groceries.
The door swings open without a knock, because apparently boundaries aren’t a thing between Remy and me. Remy steps inside, glances around, and grunts. “Still smells like paint and stain in here.”
“It’ll air out.”
“Mm.” He eyes me. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Don’t ‘Mom’ me. Talk.”
“Sammy offered me a contract. It's good money.”
Remy laughs, then stops when he realizes I’m serious. His smile dies mid-chuckle. “Oh, hell no. Absolutely not. You can't be seriously considering anything when it comes to Sammy.”
“I didn’t say yes yet,” I mutter. “I told him I’d think about it and those thoughts aren’t serious. But he doesn’t need to know that.”
“Good call. But remember, if you lie down with dogs, you’ll get fleas. That guy can't be trusted.” Remy gives me a look that’s half warning. “Hope you know what you’re doing.”
I chuckle. “Noted. I’ll keep my flea collar on.”
“What are your plans tonight?” he asks. “Want to come out to the farm?”
I shake my head. “Nah. I’m taking Rowan out on a proper date.”
“Good,” he says, waving a hand at me. “Now go shower. You smell like ass."
I arch a brow. “Rude.”
Remy laughs, shaking his head. “Go get pretty, lover boy. And think about this Sammy stuff. There's got to be another way.”
I wave as he leaves. He’s not wrong. My pulse is already racing just thinking about this deal and the choices I have to make soon.
The bathroom’s a wreck. The tile cracked near the baseboards, the sink chipped and badly stained, and the grout crumbled from too many “I’ll fix it later” plans.
Plans that aren't included in the current budget that I'm struggling with. The mirror’s spotted with paint and broken in one corner, and the bulb over the sink flickers like it’s giving up, too.
An accurate representation of my life at the moment.
Remy’s words still echo in my head. There has to be another way, Finn.
I pull my phone from my pocket when it buzzes and I see that it's Pete.
Pete: How are you doing, buddy?
Contemplating how to finish this house without crashing and burning.
Pete: You’ll figure it out. You always do. You’re a hard worker. I'm proud of you. I wish I could help you.
My eyes sting when I think of all the projects he has helped me with. His energy isn't there anymore and I hate that we're losing him.
It's okay. What are you doing today?
Pete: Watching the boats come in. Good day.
It's a good day for that.
Pete: I agree. I was hoping you could stop by and see me later and bring your new pretty girlfriend.
I stare at the message longer than I should, letting it sink in.
Pete doesn’t waste words, but when he says something, it sticks.
He knows his days are limited. It makes me remember that stuff like this house aren't really that important.
Pete is important. Family is important. This is just a house.
We will for sure stop by.
I set the phone on the counter, twist the shower knob, and wait for the water to heat. Steam curls around the mirror, hiding the mess for a second. I step in, tilt my head back, and let the hot water hit my shoulders until the ache starts to loosen.
I lean on the counter and stare at my reflection. Tired eyes, in need of a haircut, and calloused hands. A man who looks a whole lot older than he did a year ago.
Pete’s face flashes in my head, laughing at his own bad jokes, whistling while he works, always finding the good in whatever’s left.
He’s been saying he feels “fine,” but we all know better. The way he moves is slower now. The way Mom hovers, trying to be brave for him.
I don’t want to think about any of it. Instead, I throw myself at projects and things I can control when the rest of life’s spinning out of control.
I fix what’s broken. Sand what’s rough. Pretend if I keep my head down long enough, I won't have to remember that time is running out and punching me in the face with reality.
The shower hisses steadily now, steam wrapping around me. I step in, close my eyes, and let the water hit hard against my shoulders until it almost hurts.
I press my palms to the tile and breathe. Rowan's the good thing in all of this, and the reason I keep building, keep showing up. For her, Pete, and my family.
I stay under the water until it turns lukewarm, until my skin feels cold. Then I shut it off and stand there for a second, dripping, palms braced against the wall, trying to get my head right.
You can’t stop time, I remind myself. But maybe we can make what’s left count.
I grab a towel off the hook and wipe the fog off the mirror. My reflection stares back at me, still tired, but steadier now.
Pete wouldn’t want me moping around, waiting for the world to fall apart. He’d tell me to get moving, to keep building, to live the hell out of the time we’ve got. And Rowan would tell me to breathe, to stop trying to carry everything on my back, to just be.
So that’s what I’m gonna do tonight. Try to just live in the moment and not think about the stress that life keeps throwing at me.
I get dressed, pulling on clean jeans and the dark green t-shirt that Rowan once told me she liked. I run a hand through my damp hair, grab my keys, and head for the door.
The air outside smells like rain and salt.
The porch light flickers when I pass beneath it, and I make a mental note to look at it tomorrow.
Add it to the never-ending list. There’s work tomorrow.
There’s always work. But tonight, there’s her.
For now, though, I’ve got somewhere to be. And that’s enough to keep me going.
She texts me that she's waiting down the street at Salt & Root, and if I’ve learned anything lately, it’s that you don’t waste time on things that don’t matter.
I slide into the truck, the seat creaking under me, and start the engine. The radio crackles to life, an old country song bleeding through the static.