Page 17 of Evermore
Shifting Sands
Finn
T he next morning, Finn stared at the maritime journal spread across his workbench and tried to remember when the hell he'd become capable of miracles.
The leather binding gleamed with fresh treatment, every page carefully cleaned and stabilized, the faded ink revitalized to near-original clarity.
It was museum-quality restoration work that should have taken him three weeks minimum, but according to his project log, he'd completed it yesterday while River was at the research station.
“What the actual fuck,” he muttered, flipping through pages that showed evidence of techniques he'd never learned and skills he definitely didn't possess twenty-four hours ago.
The work was flawless, demonstrating knowledge of advanced preservation methods that came from years of specialized training he'd never received.
His hands shook slightly as he examined the restoration notes written in his own handwriting, detailed observations about paper composition and ink chemistry that read like they'd been written by someone with a PhD in conservation science.
The person who'd completed this work knew things about maritime preservation that Finn had never studied, used techniques he'd only read about in academic journals.
But more disturbing than the mysterious expertise were the marginal notes that had nothing to do with book restoration.
Comments about diving safety protocols, observations about marine ecosystem recovery, detailed knowledge about underwater research that connected to River's work in ways that made Finn's chest tight with panic.
Water temperature optimal for kelp restoration at 58-62°F. Observed significant recovery in research grids C-7 through C-12. Important to monitor pH levels during spawning season to ensure reproductive success of recovering populations.
Finn read the note three times, his rational mind rejecting what his eyes were telling him.
He'd never been diving. He'd never studied marine biology beyond casual conversations with River.
He had no idea what research grids C-7 through C-12 even were, let alone how to monitor their recovery progress.
But there it was, written in his unmistakable fountain pen script, demonstrating knowledge that could only have come from direct observation and professional training he'd never received.
The workshop suddenly felt claustrophobic, filled with evidence of a version of himself he couldn't access or understand.
Finn pushed back from his workbench and walked to the window overlooking the harbor, needing to see something stable and familiar while his world felt like it was built on quicksand.
The lighthouse beam caught the afternoon sun, steady and reliable in ways that made Finn's throat tight with longing.
He thought about River at the research station, probably analyzing yesterday's data or preparing for tomorrow's dive, completely unaware that the man he was falling for was losing bigger chunks of his identity with each passing day.
River
How are you feeling today? Want company for lunch?
Finn stared at the message, torn between desperate need for River's presence and growing shame about the evidence of his deteriorating condition.
How could he explain that he'd apparently spent yesterday afternoon completing expert-level restoration work he had no memory of doing?
How could he admit that his workshop was filled with notes demonstrating knowledge he'd never acquired?
Finn
Need to work through some things. Rain check?
He typed back, hating himself for the deflection but unable to face River's concerned questions about his latest episode.
River
Of course. Call if you need anything. I love you.
The casual way River had written those three words made Finn's chest ache with longing and terror in equal measure. How could someone love him when he was losing pieces of himself daily? How could he build a future with someone when he couldn't trust his own mind?
The bell downstairs chimed around three in the afternoon, indicating someone had entered the bookshop despite the fact that Finn hadn't officially opened for the day.
He listened to footsteps on the stairs with growing apprehension, not ready to deal with customers or small talk or pretending everything was normal when his reality was disintegrating around him.
“Finn?” Maya's voice carried up from the second floor, warm with concern and the particular tone she used when she was trying not to freak out about something. “You up there?”
“Workshop,” Finn called back, grateful for her presence despite knowing this conversation would probably be difficult. Maya had always been able to read him too easily, and today he felt like an open book written in a language he didn't understand.
Maya appeared in the workshop doorway wearing her “concerned sister” expression, the one that had become depressingly familiar during their mother's illness.
She moved through his space with the careful attention of someone looking for signs of crisis, her dark eyes cataloging details that might indicate how worried she should be.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, settling into the chair beside his workstation. “You seemed pretty shaken up after the medical appointment yesterday.”
“I'm fine,” Finn said automatically, then immediately realized how unconvincing that sounded given the evidence of confusion and fear probably written all over his face.
Maya raised an eyebrow in the skeptical expression that had been perfected during years of dealing with Finn's tendency to downplay problems. “Try again. And maybe with more honesty this time.”
Finn gestured toward the maritime journal and the restoration notes that documented knowledge he shouldn't possess.
“I'm finding more evidence of work I don't remember doing.
Detailed, professional-level work that demonstrates skills I've never learned.
Plus notes about marine biology that suggest I've been conducting underwater research in my spare time.”
Maya examined the journal and notes with the careful attention she brought to her psychology case studies, her expression growing more troubled with each page.
“This level of technical knowledge is concerning, Finn. Combined with the episodes River described yesterday, it suggests something more complex than stress-related amnesia.”
“You think?” Finn's voice came out sharper than he'd intended, frustration and fear bleeding through his attempt at casual dismissal. “Because I'm pretty sure normal people don't develop expertise in fields they've never studied during periods they can't remember.”
“Have you talked to River about this? He might be able to provide context for some of the marine biology observations.”
Finn felt heat rise in his cheeks, embarrassment mixing with defensive anger. “Right, because involving my boyfriend of one week in my ongoing mental breakdown is exactly what our relationship needs right now.”
Maya's expression shifted, becoming more pointed. “Speaking of which, don't you think you're moving pretty fast with him? I mean, he accompanied you to a medical appointment yesterday and took charge of your healthcare advocacy. That's serious relationship territory, not casual dating behavior.”
“He didn't take charge of my healthcare,” Finn protested. “He supported me when the doctor dismissed my concerns. There's a difference.”
“Is there? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're depending on someone you barely know to navigate a serious medical crisis.” Maya leaned forward with the intensity that meant she was about to say something he probably didn't want to hear.
“What happens if his feelings change? What happens if dealing with someone with mysterious neurological symptoms gets old?”
Finn felt something cold and sharp settle in his stomach. “River's not like that.”
“How do you know? You've known him a week, Finn. A week. That's not enough time to understand someone's character or commitment level, especially when dealing with something this serious.”
“It's enough time to know that he makes me feel safer than I have since Mom died,” Finn said, his voice rising with emotions he couldn't contain.
“It's enough time to know that he listens to my fears without dismissing them, that he takes my symptoms seriously when everyone else thinks I'm just stressed, that he looks at me like I'm worth caring about even when my brain is falling apart.”
Maya's expression softened slightly, but her concern remained evident.
“I understand that he makes you feel good, and I'm glad you've found someone who cares about you.
But depending on him this much, this quickly, isn't healthy.
What if you're just transferring the caretaking dynamic you had with Mom onto this relationship?”
He had spent years taking care of their mother, learning to anticipate her needs and manage her confusion. Maybe he was gravitating toward River's protective instincts because they felt familiar, because being taken care of was easier than figuring out how to take care of himself.
“That's not what this is,” Finn said, but his voice lacked conviction.
“Isn't it? You've been independent for two years, Finn.
You've built a successful business, maintained your own apartment, handled your finances and social life without help.
But suddenly you meet someone who offers to take care of you, and you're ready to hand over responsibility for your medical care and decision-making.”
“He's not taking responsibility for my medical care. He's supporting me through a scary situation.”
“By researching your symptoms, advocating with doctors, planning your treatment strategy.” Maya's voice was gentle but implacable. “Those are caretaking behaviors, Finn. And while they come from a good place, they're not a sustainable foundation for a romantic relationship.”