Chapter 21 #3
“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 sees how 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.
“She knows about the TBI, the migraines, the general situation. But she doesn’t know about all the ways it affects my daily life. The irritability and pain, the processing delays, the...” I stopped, jaw clenching around words I hadn’t planned to say.
“The other complications?”
Elena knew about the endocrinology referral. I’d mentioned it during our last session—when it was just another appointment I’d scheduled rather than test results that changed everything.
“Got the lab results the other day,” I said finally. “Primary hypogonadism. Testosterone production is compromised—fertility implications are significant. Fifty-fifty chance that hormone replacement therapy makes any difference long-term.”
She was quiet for a moment, letting the information settle. “How are you processing that news?”
“Like another system failure. Another thing that doesn’t work the way it should,” my voice came out flatter than I’d intended. “Add it to the list.”
“You have an aerospace engineering degree from Annapolis, but you’re treating yourself like you’re only worth what your body can do.”
“My body’s the only thing that matters when it doesn’t work.”
“Finn,” her tone sharpened. “This isn’t just another line item on a military report. This affects fundamental aspects of how you see yourself, your relationships, your future. How are you really processing this?”
I paused. How was I processing it? By throwing myself into physical labor and avoiding texting the woman who had become my anchor. By sitting in a hangar with a plane I couldn’t fly anymore, pretending that compartmentalizing medical results was the same as handling them.
“I don’t know,” I admitted at length. “I keep thinking about Alex—about whether she’d still want this if she knew the everything. About whether I’m being fair to her by not telling her about all the ways I’m running out of backup plans and hope.”
“Do you think she would feel differently if she knew?”
“I think she’d be smart to feel differently,” the words tasted bitter.
“She’s forty-two, successful as hell, has her whole life figured out.
Why would she want to get involved with someone who might not be able to give her basic things like kids or—” I stopped, rubbing my temple where pressure was building.
“Finn, you’re making assumptions about what Alex wants and needs based on your own fears about your worth. Have you talked to her about any of this?”
“How do I start that conversation? ‘Hey, by the way, my brain injury affects more than just depth perception. Want to hear about all the other ways I might disappoint you?’”
“You could start by giving her credit for being able to make informed decisions about her own life.”
Through the wide doors, I could see the mountains rising against the clear sky. The same view I’d had from the Cub’s cockpit hundreds of times—back when I trusted myself to navigate by landmarks and instinct.
“What if she decides it’s too much?” The question came out quieter than I’d intended.
“Then you’ll know. But right now, you’re making that decision for her. And you’re carrying this alone when you don’t have to.”
Elena was right, and I hated that she was right. I’d been so focused on managing the next complication that I’d forgotten Alex might want to be part of figuring out solutions rather than being protected from problems.
“The ranch is a good place to think,” she continued. “But don’t let the physical distance become emotional distance from the people who care about you. When do you go back to Salt Lake?”
“Few more days. Maybe Saturday.”
“I want you to consider having a real conversation with Alex before then. Not about everything at once, but about the fact that you’re dealing with some new information and you’ve been worried about how to share that with her.”
I nodded, though the thought of that conversation made my chest tight. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good. And Finn? This hormone situation. It’s treatable. It might change some timelines or approaches, but it’s not a death sentence for your future. Don’t let it become one in your head.”
After we ended the call, I sat in the hangar for another ten minutes, watching dust motes drift in the morning sunlight. The Cub’s instruments gleamed from their recent cleaning, ready for flight if I ever got clearance again.
If I ever trusted myself enough to try.
My phone buzzed with a text—not Alex, but Enzo.
Enzo: How’s the family reunion going?? Dom says you’re being mysterious and brooding… very attractive look. Positive you’re straight?
I spoke back quickly: Tell Dom I’m processing. Like a normal person does
Enzo: Processing what?? The overwhelming joy of watching grass grow?? The THRILLING EXCITEMENT of cow maintenance!??
Despite everything, I found myself smiling. Enzo had a gift for cutting through my tendency to overthink with his perfectly-timed absurdity.
Me: Something like that. How’s Alex?
The response came immediately:
Enzo: Busy…. working too much. Missing her fake boyfriend tho she’d never admit it.
Missing me. The thought should have been comforting, but instead it made the weight in my chest heavier. She was missing someone who wasn’t being completely honest with her. Someone who was breaking down piece by piece while pretending to have his life together.
I pocketed the phone and walked toward the truck, leaving the hangar doors open behind me. The morning was getting warmer, and I had a few more hours of fence work planned before heading back to the house for lunch.
At least physical labor made sense. Posts and wire and systematic repairs—problems with clear solutions and measurable outcomes.
Unlike everything else in my life right now.