Page 7 of Forever Finn
“Neither did they.” Reed chuckles. “They woke up in a Vegas hotel suite married, but they’re happy. Jess has always been the one for Deacon. He just needed time to realise it.”
My heart jolts when I think of Deacon, or rather specifically his older brother Cody, who’d been the third in our little unholy trio of misfits. Cody, Reed, and I had been inseparable. That is, until that fateful night I never allow myself to think about.
The night he died.
Losing Cody had broken me in ways I didn’t think was possible, and after all these years, it was a wound that still hadn’t healed. I left the bay not long after the accident, and everyone assumed I’d left because of Cody and they were right, but it wasn’t his death that drove me away. It was something far more painful, a secret I’ve told no one. What happened between Cody and I the night he died was something I always thought I’d take to the grave with me, but the longer I carry it, the heavier the burden becomes and it’s suffocating me. I want to let it go. I want to be free, but I don’t know how.
“As soon as he was eighteen, Deak ran away from the bay.” Reed lifts his coffee to his lips and takes a slow, contemplative sip. “He ran away from his grief over losing Cody, but Jesse stayed. I know it hurt them both, but I think they needed that time apart to find their way back to each other.”
“You Ainsley’s have always been made of sterner stuff than the rest of us mere mortals,” I reply quietly.
“Mere mortals?” Reed raises a brow. “I don’t think you fit into that category, Mr Hollywood Hotshot.”
“Trust me,” I snort self-deprecatingly. “It’s a smoke screen.”
“Look, I don’t know what brought you back to the bay,” Reed tells me seriously. “But I’m glad you’re here. You can stay as long as you want, and when you’re ready to talk, I’m here to listen.”
Am I ready to talk? I’m not sure, but something drew me back here after all these years. Maybe I am finally ready. Only time will tell.
4
The next morning dawns wet and dreary, typical for April in the bay. I’m so used to the Californian sun I’d almost forgotten how temperamental the weather is in the bay.
Reed is nowhere to be seen, so I can only assume he’s at the hospital in Newquay, actually saving lives as opposed to pretending to save lives like I do for a living. I almost envy Reed the satisfaction of helping real people rather than pretending to save the world from an international terrorist conspiracy that would have resulted in the release of a bioweapon which would’ve killed half the world’s population, which rather specifically had been the plot of the last hack of a movie I’d vomited out.
Feeling restless, I pocket the spare keys Reed left me and leave the house with my trusty baseball cap and sunglasses, it’s not much of a disguise, but it’s better than nothing, along with my overgrown hair, scruffy beginnings of a beard and my borrowed clothes hopefully no one will recognise me.
I set out without a specific destination in mind, taking the cliff path that skirts high above the bluffs and along the dunes. The spectacular curve of the headland settles the tight knot in my stomach, and for the first time in I don’t know how long I feel like I can breathe.
Meandering down the path, I'm so lost in my thoughts, I almost don't see the small walled off cemetery as it comes into view. My heart thuds dully and I pause, staring at the small iron gate. The salty air tugs at my clothes and hair, buffeting my body in the wind, almost as if it's nudging me toward the graveyard.
Taking a deep breath, I grasp the damp metal and shove the gate open on protesting hinges. Although the condition of the gate is poor, the small wild garden is well kept, the neat lines of graves tenderly cared for despite the remote location. It’s been over fifteen years, and although more graves have been added since and the landscaping has changed somewhat, I still know exactly where I’m going.
There’s an old, twisted willow tree, which grew so close to the wall that it simply knocked the old stones loose and grew straight through them. An ancient-looking bench sits in front of it with a tarnished plaque mounted on the backrest. Ignoring the tree with its beautiful trailing limbs, my gaze locks on the gravestone directly beside it.
Cody James, beloved nephew, brother, and friend…
My feet are moving before I can consciously form a thought. My heart is pounding, and my palms are sweaty as I drop to my knees, feeling the dampness of the grassy earth seep through the denim. Reaching out with a shaky hand, I press my fingers to the cold black marble, tracing the golden letters.
Missed every day…
Slick raindrops slide lazily down the shiny headstone, which is devoid of moss. The overgrown plots either side are sad and neglected, but Cody’s grave is neatly tended, with not a weed in sight. There’s a brightly shining copper urn in front of the headstone and tucked inside is a freshly blooming spray of roses.
“Looks like someone has been taking care of you,” I mutter.
“Garrett stops by once a week,” a deep voice rumbles from behind me.
I twist my head and my heart almost stops. The man standing behind me has dark hair, curling slightly in the misty rain. He’s watching me with pale blue eyes, his hands tucked comfortably in his pockets. For a second my heart gives a painful lurch, and my eyes burn. He looks so much like Cody that I can almost convince myself it’s him standing there, but I know it’s not real. Cody’s bones are six feet beneath me, which means there’s only one person it could be.
“Deacon?” I whisper.
“Finn,” he replies conversationally, greeting me as if it’s been months rather than fifteen years since I last set foot in the bay. “It’s been a long time.”
“It has,” I reply, observing him.
He steps in closer and leans down, reaching out a hand toward me. I stare at him for a moment before grasping his hand as he helps me to my feet. I’m not sure what to say. What do you say to the brother of the man you got killed? Not that he knows that… not that anyone knows that. The wave of guilt and grief hits and almost drives me back to my knees, but I lock my spine tightly and force myself to hold his gaze.
“Deak.” My voice is little more than a croak, almost lost to the clatter of rain as it shifts suddenly from a fine misty spray to a torrential downpour.