Chapter 15 Finn #2
I wrote this song the night that Jack died and I was feeling all those things.
I still feel them most days—or, rather, most nights.
I lie awake thinking back on what he did and what I didn’t do.
How I couldn’t be what my best friend needed, and the reason why I wouldn’t change anything even if I had the chance.
Jack asked me for help, and I gave it. I took the job he asked me to take, and I left him behind.
It’s why Rosie is here in my bed now and not the victim of a psychotic fan, injured or disfigured—or worse. But maybe it’s also why Jack’s gone.
I didn’t know he was suffering as much as he was. He never told me, and I didn’t see it. Would he still be here if I’d been a better friend? Paid closer attention? Recognized the signs? I don’t know, and I never will.
The song echoes what happened when my parents died and I couldn’t be here when they passed.
It’s seasoned with the guilt I carry that Charles and Dylan had to run Silver Leaf Ranch on their own for years and it nearly broke our family and ruined the business.
The feelings are so big and so powerful, and they’re the reason I don’t feel comfortable in gray spaces.
I need clear lines and consequences so I can do what needs to be done.
I can’t live with another person I care about getting lost in the in-betweens.
The final notes of my song float from the strings and drift into stillness.
Rosie slips a cool hand over my shoulder, then around the back of my neck, and her thumb brushes my hairline in soft, soothing strokes.
The room is quiet, and it’s only when she tries to hide a sniffle that I realize she’s trying not to cry.
I set my guitar beside me and wrap an arm around her to pull her against my side.
When that doesn’t feel close enough, I lift her onto my lap.
“Hey.” I press my lips against the top of her head. Her hair smells like she sleeps in rose petals. “That’s two songs and two times I’ve made you sad. Keep this up and I won’t play for you anymore.”
“That was so layered.” Rosie nuzzles the curve of my neck. “The melody, the tone, the lyrics.” She pauses, for the second time today thinking before she asks a question, and it’s that kind of consideration that makes it easier to open up.
“You can ask,” I tell her. “Though I think I know what you’re going to say.”
“Is that song written from experience?” she asks. “Maybe… about your mom and dad?”
“No, not my parents, or not only them.” I tighten my arms around her frame and rest my cheek on her hair. “Jack. The friend I served with in the military.”
Rosie lifts her head with sharp understanding. “The same one who owned the security firm that hired you for me?”
“That’s right,” I confirm, and the story falls into the space between us like it’s been waiting for its moment to be free.
“He was discharged from service years before I was, but we stayed in touch. He never tried to hide the fact he got out for mental health reasons. Jack was good like that, or so I thought. Always upfront about what it took to stay grounded and balanced. Purpose, he’d say.
A reason to exist. I thought things were getting better for him in civilian life.
He moved to the East Coast to be closer to his parents.
He built a successful business from nothing.
When he needed more, he found Dakota at a local rescue shelter.
He never told me that it wasn’t enough.”
“Oh, Finn.” Rosie snuggles closer, and her warm lips pressed against my collarbone help me stay in the light when my thoughts try to pull me into the darkness. “I’m so sorry.”
“He died not long after New Orleans,” I murmur. Regret surges alongside the memories before receding to its baseline again. “I was on my way back to see him after I left you, but it was too late.”
Rosie slides her arms around my body and hugs me tightly. It helps.
“So, I came home,” I finish.
“With Dakota,” Rosie adds, not quite a question.
“Yep,” I agree. “And that Baby Taylor you’re so fond of.”
Rosie raises her chin, eyes wide with understanding. “Jack gave you that guitar? He knew about your music?”
“Yeah. We talked about it sometimes when we wondered what our lives were going to look like outside the SEALs. What would we do? How would we fill our time? What would our reason for living be if we weren’t serving anymore?”
“And Jack thought your purpose was music?”
I drop my voice. “I don’t know.”
“You’re such a riddle,” she muses. “So strong and tough on the outside. You’ve been to war and seen awful things.”
“Done awful things,” I add at a volume barely above a whisper.
Rosie brushes the hair from my forehead with a tender touch. “You’re a good man, Finn, and an artist. Inside, where it matters, you’re softness and beauty and light.”
I snort at how unlikely it is that I was ever put on this earth to make art.
My contribution to that world, if you could even call it that, is too small.
A single grain of sand on an endless beach, and for the kind of purpose I need to feel good about myself, I’ll have to leave more in the world than a speck of sand.
“What?” Rosie pulls back, and I can tell she’s a little hurt. “You think music isn’t meaningful?”
“No! God, no. I think music is magic, but I’m not magic, Songbird.” I gesture at the guitar. “This music is just for me. It’s not a legacy. It’s not going to save anybody.”
Her brow creases and I can tell she wants to argue, so I cover her mouth with a kiss to stop it before it starts.
I don’t want to waste time wondering if it’s possible to have what she has—something in my life to be passionate about and throw myself into with everything I have.
Something that will make a difference and give me what I need most. Something to live for.