Page 25 of Evermore
The gentle concern in her voice made Finn's throat tight with emotion he couldn't afford to show.
Mrs. Pemberton had been coming to his shop for years, had trusted him with family documents and personal treasures, had developed the kind of relationship that made his work feel meaningful rather than merely commercial.
Now he was failing her in ways that went beyond simple business incompetence. He was betraying the trust of someone who'd counted on his expertise and reliability, all because his brain was systematically erasing interactions and commitments that mattered.
“I'm fine, just a bit scattered lately with some health issues,” Finn said, the partial truth tasting bitter. “I'll locate your husband's journal and call you with a proper update by tomorrow.”
After Mrs. Pemberton left with obvious disappointment and growing worry, Finn sat in his empty workshop and faced the reality that his condition was destroying not just his professional life but his sense of himself as someone reliable and trustworthy.
He couldn't restore books he couldn't remember receiving.
He couldn't maintain relationships built on expertise and care when he forgot conversations and promises made during episodes.
His phone rang with River's name on the display, and Finn answered with relief at hearing a familiar voice that still felt safe and grounding.
“How are you feeling today?” River asked, his concern evident even through the phone connection.
“Like I'm watching my life fall apart in real time,” Finn said honestly. “I just had a customer ask about work I apparently agreed to do but have no memory of accepting. She trusted me with her late husband's journal, and I can't even remember her bringing it to me.”
“That's rough. But Finn, maybe it's time to consider temporarily closing the shop. Just until we can get your condition under better control.”
The suggestion felt like admitting defeat, but continuing to operate while having episodes that affected his professional competence wasn't fair to customers or sustainable for his reputation.
The bookshop was his identity, his livelihood, his connection to meaningful work, but he couldn't risk further damage to relationships with people who trusted him with irreplaceable materials.
“You're right,” Finn said quietly. “I need to close, at least temporarily. Which means I need to figure out how to survive financially while pursuing treatment that might not even work.”
“You don't have to figure out the financial implications alone,” River said gently. “I can help cover essential expenses while you focus on getting better.”
The offer should have been comforting, but instead it highlighted how much Finn had come to depend on River for everything from emotional stability to practical problem-solving.
Maya's accusations about unsustainable relationship dynamics echoed in his mind, mixing guilt with gratitude in ways that made his chest tight with complicated emotions.
“I can't ask you to support me. We've barely been together any time at all, River. That's not something you take on for someone you've known two weeks.”
“It's not about timelines or obligations,” River said firmly. “It's about caring what happens to you and wanting to help however I can.”
“But what if Maya's right? What if I'm asking too much of you? What if my condition gets worse and you realize you signed up for more than you can handle?”
River was quiet for a moment, and Finn could almost hear him thinking through the implications of the question. “Do you want to slow things down? Do you want to try to establish more normal boundaries?”
The idea of creating distance from the person who made him feel safe and grounded felt impossible, but maybe that was exactly the problem. Maybe his inability to imagine functioning without River's support was evidence that Maya's concerns were valid.
“I don't know what I want,” Finn admitted. “I just know that I'm scared of losing you, and I'm scared of destroying what we have by needing too much too soon.”
“Then let's figure out how to make this work sustainably,” River said. “Not by creating artificial distance or pretending we don't care about each other, but by building something that can weather whatever comes next.”
Two days later, Finn found himself packing a bag for an extended stay at River's cottage, trying to convince himself that this was a practical solution rather than evidence of complete dependence on someone he'd known for such a short time.
The lighthouse cottage welcomed him with familiar warmth—ocean views and comfortable furniture and the steady rhythm of the beacon that had begun to feel like home in ways that should have taken months to develop.
But along with the comfort came growing awareness of how much his life had reorganized itself around River's stability and support.
“This feels like giving up my independence,” Finn said, settling his belongings in River's bedroom while trying not to notice how natural it felt to see his clothes hanging beside River's in the closet.
“This feels like accepting help when you need it,” River corrected, though his voice carried understanding of Finn's complicated feelings about the arrangement.
They established routines designed to help Finn stay grounded—regular meal times, constant communication about his mental state, activities that might reduce the emotional stress that seemed to trigger episodes.
River approached Finn's care with methodical attention, documenting patterns and adjusting strategies based on what seemed most effective.
“This is nice,” Finn said that evening as they prepared dinner together, noting how naturally they moved around each other in the kitchen, how easily their conversation flowed between serious topics and gentle humor.
“It is nice,” River agreed. “But Maya wasn't completely wrong about the timing being unusual. Most people don't move in together while managing medical crises after knowing each other for two weeks.”
“Are you having second thoughts?”
“I'm having thoughts about whether we're building something sustainable or just responding to crisis.” River paused in chopping vegetables, his expression thoughtful. “But no, I'm not having second thoughts about wanting to be with you or help you through this.”
“Even though my brain is systematically betraying both of us?”
“Especially because your brain is systematically betraying both of us.” River's smile was soft with affection and determination. “This is when you find out what love actually means, when things get difficult and complicated and scary.”
That night, lying in River's bed with the lighthouse beam sweeping through the windows and River's breathing steady beside him, Finn realized they'd crossed some invisible line between dating and partnership, between casual affection and committed love.
The circumstances weren't conventional, but what they'd built felt real and strong and worth protecting.
Even if it was happening faster than normal. Even if it was built on crisis and need rather than typical relationship development. Even if Maya was right about the risks of depending so completely on someone he'd known for such a short time.
Because sometimes love didn't follow reasonable patterns or conventional timelines.
Sometimes it arrived in the middle of impossible circumstances and demanded that you choose between safety and connection, between protecting yourself and opening your heart to someone whose presence made everything else bearable.
Finn had made his choice. Now he just had to trust that River had made the same one, and that their love was strong enough to weather whatever came next.