Chapter 3 #2
“I’ll think about it,” Finn promised, knowing it was the most he could honestly offer. “I should get going. Love you, Mom.”
“Love you too, Finn. Give Brooklyn a hug from her Gran. And tell that brother of yours it wouldn’t kill him to check in every once in a while.”
Finn didn’t point out that Brendan didn’t call or stop by more often because she always gave him the look. Brendan was a great guy, but he was far more impulsive than someone his age should be.
The drive home was quiet, just the low murmur of the radio keeping him company as he navigated the familiar streets of Maple Hill.
The town was settling into the evening, porch lights coming on, families gathering for dinner.
Finn tried not to notice how many windows showed multiple silhouettes moving about, the shapes of complete families going about their evenings together.
It’s been seven years. You’d think it wouldn’t still feel like a missing limb.
His house was dark when he pulled into the driveway, a reminder that Brooklyn wasn’t home yet. He unlocked the door and flipped on lights as he moved through the rooms, chasing away the shadows that seemed to gather in empty spaces.
In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator, assessing the options for dinner. There was leftover chicken, some vegetables that needed to be used before they went bad, and half a loaf of bread. He could make sandwiches or maybe a quick stir-fry.
The sound of the front door opening interrupted his meal planning. Brooklyn’s footsteps in the hallway were followed by the thud of her backpack hitting the floor—a habit he’d given up trying to break years ago.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he called, closing the refrigerator. “How was the science project?”
Brooklyn appeared in the kitchen doorway, her expression guarded in a way that immediately set off warning bells in Finn’s mind. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she wore the oversized hoodie that had become her armor of choice lately.
“Fine,” she said, the word clipped. “We’re almost done.”
Finn studied her face, noting the slight redness around her eyes that suggested she’d been crying. Her shoulders were hunched forward slightly, as if bracing against something. “You hungry? I was thinking of making stir-fry.”
She shrugged, a noncommittal gesture that could have meant anything. “Not really. I had a snack at Isabel’s.”
“Brooklyn,” Finn said gently. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” she said too quickly, avoiding his gaze. “It’s just school. You don’t have to—” She cut herself off, the words hanging incomplete between them.
Finn recognized the signs—something was wrong, but Brooklyn wasn’t ready to talk about it. Pushing would only make her retreat further. Instead, he nodded, respecting her space even as concern tightened his chest.
“You don’t have to talk,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “But I’m here if you want to. Always.”
Brooklyn’s shoulders relaxed slightly, the defensive posture softening. “I know, Dad.” She hesitated, then added, “I think I’m just going to go start on my homework.”
“Okay. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”
She nodded and disappeared upstairs, leaving Finn standing in the kitchen, worry gnawing at the edges of his composure.
Something had happened—something significant enough to leave traces of tears on his usually stoic daughter’s face.
But he couldn’t fix what she wouldn’t share, couldn’t protect her from hurts she kept hidden.
The helplessness of it sat heavy in his stomach as he began preparing dinner, the routine motions of chopping vegetables and heating oil in the pan providing little of their usual comfort.
Being Brooklyn’s father was the most important job he’d ever have, the one role he couldn’t afford to fail at.
And yet, there were moments like this when he felt completely inadequate, fumbling in the dark for the right words, the right actions.
How do you protect someone from something they won’t name?
He was halfway through cooking when his phone buzzed with an email notification.
It was a short reply from Ollie, letting him know he’d received the estimate and was passing it along to his parents.
Finn had been thorough, as always, but had also included a phased approach that would minimize disruption to the store’s operations.
It had taken extra time to work out, but Finn hoped it would ease some of Ollie’s obvious anxiety about keeping the business running during repairs.
The thought of Ollie’s face—the genuine worry beneath the jokes, the way his eyes had looked so tired behind those glasses—lingered as Finn finished cooking.
There had been something compelling about the bookstore owner’s resilience, the way he’d kept his sense of humor even while facing a disaster that threatened his livelihood.
Finn set two plates on the kitchen table. “Brooklyn! Dinner’s ready,” he called up the stairs.
He heard her bedroom door open, followed by the slow trudge of footsteps. Brooklyn appeared in the kitchen doorway, her expression carefully blank as she slid into her chair.
“Thanks,” she muttered, picking up her fork.
They ate in silence for several minutes, the scrape of utensils against plates uncomfortably loud in the quiet kitchen. Finn cleared his throat.
“How was that math test today?” he asked.
Brooklyn shrugged. “Fine.”
Not surprising, but Finn was grasping at something to talk about, which was a rarity with his daughter. “Do you think you did well?”
“Yeah.”
Finn took a bite, chewed slowly. “Coach Melissa sent an email about the softball fundraiser next weekend. Said they need parent volunteers.”
“Cool.” Brooklyn pushed a piece of pasta around her plate.
“I thought I might sign up to help with the concession stand.”
Brooklyn’s eyes flicked up briefly. “Whatever.”
His daughter’s gaze dropped back to her plate, that same shadow darkening her eyes. Finn’s fork paused halfway to his mouth, questions burning on his tongue.
What’s wrong?
How can I fix this?
But he swallowed them down with his next bite of food. The harder he pushed, the more closed off she’d become, if that was even possible at this point.
“Can I be excused?” Brooklyn asked, her plate still half full.
Finn nodded, watching as she carried her dish to the sink before retreating upstairs, the soft click of her bedroom door closing like a physical barrier between them.
With the kitchen spotless and Brooklyn sequestered in her room, Finn finally allowed himself to retreat to his own sanctuary.
He settled at the desk, opening his laptop to the manuscript he needed to make some serious progress on tonight.
The cursor blinked accusingly at him from the middle of a scene he’d been struggling with—a moment of vulnerability between his two main characters, where Wyatt finally admitted his fears to Eli.
Finn stared at the screen, the words blurring slightly as fatigue settled into his bones.
The scene wasn’t working, and he knew why.
He couldn’t write about Wyatt’s vulnerability because he was avoiding his own.
How could he craft an authentic emotional moment when he spent so much energy keeping his own emotions carefully contained?
You’re a fraud, Wilder. How can you write about connection when you can barely manage it in your own life?
He rubbed his eyes, the pressure of the deadline weighing on him. Three weeks. Twenty-one days to finish a manuscript that was stalled because he couldn’t access the very feelings that made his books resonate with readers.
With a sigh, Finn pulled out his notebook, flipping to a fresh page. Sometimes, when the words wouldn’t come directly, he found it helped to write about the characters, to explore their thoughts and feelings separate from the narrative.
What is Wyatt afraid of? he wrote, then paused, the pen hovering over the page.
The answer came more easily than he expected: Being seen. Really seen. Not just the capable, confident man everyone relies on, but the mess underneath. The doubts. The loneliness. The fear that if people saw all of him, they’d realize he wasn’t enough.
Finn’s hand stilled, a chill running through him as he recognized his own fears reflected in the words. This was the problem with writing from the heart—sometimes the heart revealed truths you weren’t ready to face.
He closed the notebook, suddenly unable to continue. Instead, he opened his email again, scanning for any new messages. There, at the top of his inbox, was a longer response from Ollie, sent just minutes ago.
Finn,
Thank you for the detailed estimate and timeline. The phased approach is exactly what we need to keep the store operational. I appreciate the extra thought that went into this plan.
I’ve reviewed everything, and it all looks good to me. Green light for tomorrow morning. I’ll be there at 7:30 to help move books and shelving out of the way before your crew arrives.
Also, in case it wasn’t clear from my soggy appearance this morning, coffee is absolutely essential to my continued functioning. I’ll have a pot brewing when you arrive. Consider it hazard pay for dealing with a sleep-deprived bookstore owner.
Thanks again for the quick response to our mini-disaster.
Ollie
PS The fans are working. The mop and I have reached a mutual understanding. No rest for the weary, but I did manage a power nap on the break room couch, so your professional advice wasn’t entirely ignored.
Finn smiled at the message, particularly the postscript. There was something appealing about Ollie’s blend of determination and self-deprecating humor, the way he faced challenges head-on while still acknowledging his limitations.
He typed a quick response:
Ollie,
Glad to hear the plan works for you. We’ll be there at 8 a.m. sharp tomorrow.
No need to come in early on our account—we can handle moving things out of the way. As for the coffee, I never turn down hazard pay, especially when it comes in liquid form. I always take mine black.
See you tomorrow.
Finn
PS Glad to hear you and the mop have come to terms. Power naps count as rest, but only barely.
He hit send before he could overthink the casual tone, so different from his usual professional correspondence. There was something about Ollie that invited a more relaxed response, as if the bookstore owner’s openness created a space where Finn could let his guard down, just a little.
His phone buzzed with a text from Keaton just as he was about to return to his manuscript:
Schedule change for tomorrow. I was going to ask Luke to help you guys get started, but Eli is sick, and Noah can’t stay home. Can you manage with just Brendan and the new guys?
Finn felt a flicker of anxiety. They were already on a tight timeline, and losing Luke’s expertise would put them behind.
We’ll make it work. Tell them not to worry.
Keaton’s response was immediate.
Thanks, Finn. Knew I could count on you.
The words were meant as a compliment, but they settled like a weight on Finn’s shoulders. Everyone could count on him. Everyone counted on him. To solve problems, to pick up slack, to make things work no matter what.
What happens when you run out of solutions? When you can’t make it work?
He closed his laptop without returning to the manuscript. Tomorrow would be a long day, and he needed rest more than he needed to wrestle with Wyatt’s emotional journey—or his own. The writing would have to wait, just like it always did when real life demanded his attention.
As he got ready for bed, Finn heard faint music coming from Brooklyn’s room. Not her usual upbeat playlist, but something slower, sadder. He paused outside her door, hand raised to knock, then lowered it again. She’d talk when she was ready. Pushing would only make her retreat further.
Instead, he whispered, “Good night, sweetheart,” knowing she couldn’t hear him, but needing to say it anyway.
In his own room, Finn lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling as sleep eluded him. His mind cycled through tomorrow’s logistics, Brooklyn’s hidden troubles, the stalled manuscript, the countless responsibilities that seemed to multiply when he wasn’t looking.
His mother’s words echoed in his head: You can’t hold up every wall by yourself, love. Let someone steady your ladder now and then.
The problem was, Finn wasn’t sure he remembered how to ask for help, or even what help he needed. He’d been the steady one for so long—the reliable son, the dependable father, the efficient office manager—that he wasn’t sure who he’d be without those roles to define him.
As he finally drifted toward sleep, his thoughts returned unexpectedly to Ollie’s email, to the warmth and humor that had shone through despite the man’s obvious stress.
There had been something refreshing about that openness, that willingness to acknowledge vulnerability without being diminished by it.
Maybe, Finn thought as consciousness slipped away, that was what Wyatt needed to learn. What he needed to learn.
That strength wasn’t about never faltering, but about being honest when you did.