Chapter 23 #2
What would she think of me taking the easy path? Of choosing comfort over challenge? Safety over the unknown?
What would I think of myself?
By evening, the paperwork was complete and filed away.
Claire disappeared with Sarah to sleep off their road trip, and the rest of the family scattered to various activities.
I found myself on the front porch again, watching the sun sink toward the mountains and trying not to check my phone for messages that weren’t coming.
Dom appeared beside me with a couple of beers and an expression that meant he’d been observing and thinking.
“You’ve been checking that thing all day,” he nodded toward my phone in my hand before settling into the rocking chair beside mine and offering me a bottle. “Want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?”
“Whatever’s eating at you. You’ve been distracted since you got here.”
I accepted the beer and took a long pull while I gathered my thoughts.
“Alex has been…” I paused, unsure how to explain. “Distant since I left. Short texts, no real conversation. Like she’s checked out or glad to be rid of me or something.”
“Maybe she’s just busy.”
“Maybe,” I took another sip of beer—the hoppy bitterness I’d not tasted in a long time familiar and grounding. “Or maybe she figured out this whole thing was a mistake.”
Dom was quiet for a moment, studying my profile in the fading light. “You know, for what it’s worth, I think she’s good for you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’ve been better since you started spending time with her. More like yourself, if that makes sense.”
It did make sense, which was part of the problem. Alex made me feel more like the man I’d been before my life blew up—competent, steady, worth something. But that was based on her not knowing about all the ways I was falling apart.
“Want to get out of here for a while?” Dom asked at length. “Go roast some marshmallows like old times?”
“You sure?”
“Dead sure. Give me ten minutes to grab stuff.”
He disappeared into the house, returning with a backpack, camp chairs, blankets, and a bottle of whiskey that looked older than both of us combined.
“Dad’s good stuff,” he shrugged, noticing my expression. “Figured tonight called for it.”
We loaded everything into the truck and drove the familiar path toward the edge of the property, where the pastures gave way to forest and the mountains rose in dark silhouettes against the star-filled sky.
The firepit sat in a small clearing we’d carved out as teenagers—a ring of stones, log seating, far enough from the main ranch that we could see the lodge lights twinkling in the distance without being part of the activity.
We had a fire going in minutes—flames crackling to life and casting dancing shadows across the clearing. I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, settled into one of the camp chairs, and accepted the mug of whiskey Dom poured.
“Remember when we used to come out here to plan our escape?” He relaxed into his own chair.
“You planned escape. I planned adventure.”
“Same thing, different timeline,” he raised his mug. “To adventures that don’t go according to plan.”
“To finding your way back home when they don’t.”
We drank in comfortable silence, the whiskey warming my belly and the fire providing hypnotic focus for thoughts I’d been avoiding all day.
“You ready to talk about it?” Dom’s voice was quiet in the darkness as he slowly roasted a couple of marshmallows.
“Talk about what?”
“Whatever’s bothering you. You’ve got that constipated look you get when you’re processing something heavy.”
“I don’t get that look.”
“You absolutely do.”
“Just thinkin’.”
“About Alex?”
About Alex. About medical cause and effect. About the way her last text felt like she was moving past something that had never been real in the first place.
I lifted a shoulder, “and then some.”
Dom was quiet for a moment, staring into the fire. He pulled the marshmallows out and held the stick toward me. I pulled one off—blowing on it before popping it in my mouth.
I swallowed and took a deep breath. “Dom?”
“Yeah?”
“If you found out you couldn’t—if there was something wrong with you that meant you couldn’t give Enzo the future he wanted, what would you do?”
The question hung in the air between us, heavy with implications I wasn’t willing to voice directly.
“Is this about the medical stuff you mentioned on the plane?”
I stared at the sky, weighing how much to reveal. “That’s a big part of it.”
“Finn,” Dom’s voice turned serious. “Whatever it is, you need to talk to someone about it. Me, your therapist, Alex—someone.”
“I can’t tell Alex.”
“Why not?”
Because she’d already made it clear our relationship wasn’t real. Because I was falling for her while falling apart and she was smart to protect herself from getting too involved with damaged goods.
But what was it Dr. Martinez had said? I was making decisions for Alex instead of letting her make informed choices about her own life.
I settled on, “it’s complicated.”
“Most important things are.” Dom leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “But Finn, whatever’s going on, whatever you’re worried about—Alex is the kind of person who’d want to know. Want to help figure out solutions instead of being shielded from problems.”
I took another sip of whiskey, feeling it burn away some of the hesitation. “What if she decides she doesn’t want in?”
“Then you’ll know where you stand,” he sat back again. “But keeping her in the dark isn’t protecting her—it’s protecting you from having to find out. And I never took you for a coward, Finn Walker.”
The fire crackled between us, sparks rising toward the stars. In the distance, I could see other campfires from lodge guests, tiny points of light that reminded me how many people came to the place I’d escaped from to escape their regular lives.
“The hormone levels being impacted from my brain injury,” I said finally. “They’re affecting fertility. Significantly.”
Dom went very still.
“Testosterone levels are well below normal. May not be treatable long-term—could go either way,” I swallowed, my throat tight. “So even if Alex wanted… even if she was interested in a real future, I might not be able to give her basic things she deserves… like kids.”
“Shit, Finn.”
“Yeah.”
“Have you talked to anyone about treatment options?”
“My endocrinologist wants to start hormone replacement therapy. See how my body responds over the next few months. But there’s no guarantee it’ll work, and even if it does, there could be other complications down the road.” I huffed, “and then—thirty-one with a Viagra prescription and a prayer.”
Dom was quiet for a long time, processing. “And you’re assuming Alex would see this as a dealbreaker.”
I shrugged noncommittedly.
“Bullshit answer, bro. Are you beyond repair, or are you simply dealing with something that requires new systems of management?”
The question caught me off guard. “What’s the difference?”
“Intent. Trajectory. Whether you’re giving up or adapting,” Dom refilled both our mugs. “Finn, that crash didn’t kill you, thank God, but your body is figuring out how to rebuild itself in the aftermath. That’s not the same as irreparable.”
I stared into the fire, thinking about fence posts and repairs. About problems with clear solutions and measurable outcomes.
“I talked to my therapist about it yesterday,” I admitted. “She thinks I should be honest with Alex. Stop making decisions for her.”
“Smart woman.”
“Scary woman. But yeah, smart.”
“So what’s stopping you?”
“Fear,” I shrugged. “Fear that Alex’ll realize our whole arrangement is becoming inconvenient. That it’s easier to throw it all away than deal with it.”
“Finn,” Dom’s voice was gentle, “I’ve known Alex for years. I’ve seen you two together. At the engagement party, in photos, the way you talk about her. The way she looks at you. That’s not convenience. That’s not fake.”
The whiskey was making me bolder, or maybe it was the darkness and the comfort of talking to my brother by firelight. “What if I tell her everything and she decides it’s too much? What if I lose her?”
“What if you don’t tell her and you lose her anyway because she thinks you don’t trust her enough to be honest? Or worse, that you’ve decided she’s too much and not worth it?”
His question cut straight to what I’d not let myself think about.
Alex was pulling away, becoming distant, giving me careful, measured responses where she used to send long strings of her stream of consciousness thoughts.
But maybe she wasn’t protecting herself from getting too involved—maybe she was protecting herself from someone who wasn’t being real with her.
“I should call her,” I swallowed.
“You should call her.”
“Not right now, though. I’m drunk and emotional and probably shouldn’t make important decisions while sitting by a campfire.”
Dom laughed. “Probably wise. But tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.” I raised my mug toward the fire, “to honest conversations and whatever comes after.”
“To trusting the people we care about to handle the truth.”
We clinked mugs under the Wyoming stars, the sound sharp in the mountain air. I felt like I might have a path forward that didn’t involve protecting Alex from reality. Even if that reality was more complicated than either of us had signed up for.