Page 15 of Evermore

Turbulent Currents

River

R iver stood in Finn's kitchen at six AM, holding a mug of coffee he'd made with automatic familiarity, and tried to convince himself that what had happened last night fell within the realm of normal human experience.

The morning light streaming through the windows made everything look deceptively ordinary—dish towels draped over the sink, books scattered across the counter, the lingering scent of last night's risotto still hanging in the air.

But nothing about this situation was ordinary, starting with the fact that he'd known exactly where Finn kept his coffee filters despite never having seen him make coffee before.

From the bedroom came the soft sounds of Finn sleeping peacefully, which was more than River had managed on the couch.

Every time he'd started to drift off, his mind replayed the moment when Finn's eyes had gone unfocused and distant, when he'd started talking about water temperatures and diving protocols with knowledge he shouldn't possess.

River took another sip of coffee and admitted to himself that he was scared shitless.

Not just about Finn's condition, but about his own reactions to it.

The protective instincts that had kicked in last night felt way too intense for someone he'd known less than a week.

The way he'd immediately started planning medical consultations and research strategies felt like behavior reserved for family members or long-term partners, not for someone who was essentially still a stranger.

But Finn didn't feel like a stranger. That was the problem.

“River?” Finn's voice came from the bedroom, thick with sleep and confusion. “Are you still here?”

“Kitchen,” River called back, setting down his mug and moving toward the bedroom door. “How are you feeling?”

Finn appeared in the doorway wearing rumpled clothes from last night, his auburn hair sticking up in directions that should have looked ridiculous but instead made River want to smooth it down with gentle fingers.

His brown eyes held the cloudy confusion of someone trying to piece together memories that didn't quite fit.

“Like I got hit by a truck,” Finn said, rubbing his forehead with a grimace. “And like I'm missing pieces of last night. I remember dinner and...” His cheeks flushed slightly. “I remember kissing you. But after that, everything gets fuzzy.”

River felt his chest tighten with sympathy and growing concern. “You had an episode. Similar to what you've been experiencing. You were disoriented for about ten minutes, talking about things that didn't make sense in context.”

“What kind of things?”

“Marine biology. Diving procedures. Technical stuff about underwater research that you shouldn't know.” River watched Finn's face carefully, noting how the color drained from his cheeks. “You also had a nosebleed.”

Finn's hand went automatically to his nose, though the bleeding had stopped hours ago. “I don't remember any of that.”

“That's what's worrying me.” River moved closer, his protective instincts overriding any concerns about overstepping boundaries. “We need to get you to a doctor. A real doctor, not someone who's going to dismiss this as stress.”

“River, I've been to doctors. They all say the same thing—grief reaction, anxiety, maybe depression. Nobody takes the memory gaps seriously.”

“Then we find doctors who will take it seriously.” River's voice came out more forceful than he'd intended, but the idea of Finn facing this alone made something fierce and desperate rise in his chest. “This isn't normal stress response, Finn. This is neurological, and it needs proper evaluation.”

Finn studied his face with an expression that was part gratitude, part confusion. “Why do you care so much? I mean, I'm grateful that you do, but this is heavy shit to take on for someone you just met.”

The question hit River like a punch to the gut, because he didn't have a rational answer. By any reasonable standard, he should be backing away from this situation, not diving deeper into it. But the thought of abandoning Finn when he was clearly struggling felt physically impossible.

“Because when I look at you, I don't see someone I just met,” River said, the honesty surprising him. “I see someone I've been looking for without knowing I was looking. And I'm not walking away from that just because things are getting complicated.”

Finn's eyes filled with something that looked like relief mixed with disbelief. “Even if I'm losing my mind?”

“Especially if you're losing your mind. That's when you need people most.” River reached out to touch Finn's face, noting the way he leaned into the contact like he was starving for gentle touch. “Get dressed. We're going to the clinic, and I'm not taking no for an answer.”

The Beacon Point Medical Center smelled like disinfectant and the particular despair of people waiting for answers they probably didn't want to hear.

River sat beside Finn in the waiting room, noting how Finn's hands shook slightly as he filled out intake forms that asked about family medical history and current symptoms.

“Previous episodes of confusion or disorientation,” Finn read aloud, his voice carefully neutral. “Well, that's cheerful.”

“Just be honest,” River said, though privately he was already preparing for the likelihood that they'd encounter the same dismissive attitude Finn had experienced before. “The more accurate information they have, the better they can help.”

Dr. Martinez turned out to be a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and the patient demeanor of someone who'd spent years dealing with worried families.

She listened to Finn's description of his symptoms with attention that seemed genuine rather than perfunctory, taking notes and asking follow-up questions that suggested she was taking his concerns seriously.

“Memory gaps and episodes of disorientation can have many causes,” she said after completing her examination.

“Stress, sleep deprivation, grief reactions, even nutritional deficiencies.

Given what you've told me about your mother's death and the recent changes in your life, I think we're looking at stress-related symptoms.”

River felt his jaw clench with frustration. “What about the nosebleeds? The fact that he's demonstrating knowledge during episodes that he doesn't possess when fully conscious?”

Dr. Martinez turned to him with polite attention. “And you are?”

“River Hayes. I'm a marine biologist, and I've witnessed these episodes firsthand. This isn't simple stress response—there are neurological components that need investigation.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Dr. Martinez said, her tone diplomatically neutral, “but stress-related dissociation can present in many forms. The important thing is that Finn is receiving appropriate support and managing his anxiety levels.”

“So you're not going to order any tests?” River pressed, his scientific training rebelling against the lack of thorough investigation. “No neurological screening, no brain imaging, nothing to rule out organic causes?”

“I'll order basic blood work to rule out obvious metabolic issues,” Dr. Martinez conceded. “But based on Finn's age and the temporal relationship between these symptoms and his recent loss, I believe we're dealing with psychological rather than neurological factors.”

River wanted to argue further, but Finn's hand on his arm stopped him. “It's okay,” Finn said quietly. “This is what I expected.”

But it wasn't okay. River could see the disappointment and fear in Finn's expression, the way he was already preparing to accept that his concerns would be dismissed again.

The protective fury that rose in River's chest felt disproportionate to their relationship timeline, but he didn't care about proportionality anymore.

“We'll get a second opinion,” River said as they left the examination room. “Someone who specializes in neurological issues, someone who won't just assume everything is stress-related.”

“River, you don't have to?—”

“Yes, I do,” River interrupted. “I absolutely do have to.”

They were heading toward the exit when a familiar voice called Finn's name from behind them. River turned to see a young woman approaching with the determined stride of someone on a mission, her dark hair and brown eyes marking her as obviously related to Finn.

“Maya,” Finn said, his voice holding a mixture of relief and resignation. “I didn't expect you to come.”

“You called and said you were at the medical center with someone I'd never heard of,” Maya replied, her gaze shifting to River with undisguised suspicion. “Of course I came.”

River found himself under intense scrutiny. Maya was smaller than Finn but carried herself with authority that suggested she was accustomed to taking charge in family crises.

“You must be River,” Maya said, her tone carefully neutral. “I'm Maya, Finn's sister.”

“Nice to meet you,” River replied, though Maya's expression suggested the feeling wasn't mutual. “Finn's told me a lot about you.”

“Funny, he hasn't told me anything about you until this morning.” Maya's attention shifted back to Finn. “What happened? Your call was pretty vague about why you needed medical attention.”

Finn glanced at River uncertainly, clearly struggling with how much to reveal. “I had an episode last night. More severe than usual. River thought I should get checked out.”

“Episode of what?” Maya's voice sharpened with concern. “Finn, you said you were feeling better lately.”

“I was. I am. It's just...” Finn trailed off, looking overwhelmed by the prospect of explaining his condition to his sister while standing in a hospital corridor.

“Can we take this somewhere more private?” River suggested, noting how other people in the waiting area were starting to pay attention to their conversation.

Maya studied him for a moment, then nodded. “My car's outside. We can talk there.”