Page 6

Finn

I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep or how I even got to bed in the first place.

The last thing I remember is having dinner with Wyatt.

We’re talking about his new haircut and…

nothing. I can’t remember a damn thing after that.

The bed is mine; I can tell by the way it feels, but I haven’t opened my eyes yet.

Worried the light will pierce straight through to my brain and set off a migraine for the rest of the day, I simply raise my hands over my head and stretch—yawning as I do.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

The unexpected declaration startles me into opening my eyes. Big mistake. The pain is instantaneous, like a hot poker to my brain. I wince and clamp my eyelids closed, using my forearm to further block the unwanted light.

“I’m sorry,” Wyatt says. “Did I startle you?”

Nodding, I say, “Yeah, a little.”

“Glad you’re doing okay,” he says. “The way the alcohol hit you last night, I felt the need to sit with you to make sure you didn’t choke or something.”

“Choke?”

“You know, in case you threw up and choked on it.”

I smile through the pain in my head as it slowly subsides. “I can’t remember a damn thing. What happened last night? I don’t even remember getting into bed.”

“Not surprised. You were pretty far gone. I walked you back to your room, helped get you out of your clothes, and covered you up for the night.”

Pulling the covers over my head, I look down and am relieved to see I’m still wearing my underwear. “Thank you for helping me out.”

“What are friends for?”

I let his words sink in for a few minutes.

When did we become friends? Friendly, sure.

But friends? Unsure if it’s still the residual alcohol flowing through my veins, I suddenly feel emotional about his statement.

A lump forms in my throat at the idea of having a friend here in Alaska, so far from everyone and everything I know back home.

Uncovering my face, my headache has finally subsided enough to let me attempt the day. I open my eyes slowly at first to test my luck. Sure enough, the ambient light in the room no longer assaults my senses, and I turn over to face my new friend.

Wyatt sits in the recliner next to the bed, still partially reclined and covered in a blanket.

He looks like a fantasy to me. There’s something about him that triggers my desire for a relationship, but I also know it’s almost always a fatal error to date someone you work with.

My thoughts quickly drift to what he might look like under his clothes.

Is he hairy? Is he a grower or a shower?

I think back to the incident under the bridge, and my morning wood pulses.

“What are you thinking about?” Wyatt asks with a smile on his face. “You look so lost in thought.”

I swallow hard and adjust my cock under the blanket to make sure he can’t see how turned on I am right now. “Nothing, really. Just trying to remember last night.”

“Nothing to worry about,” he says. “You were safe with me.”

His words are really comforting, surprisingly so. I smile and turn back the other way, pushing my legs off the side of the bed so I can sit up. Careful to keep myself covered, I turn back and say, “What do you have planned for the day?”

I hear the foot of the recliner close. Wyatt gets up and walks around to the side of the bed where I sit.

He’s wearing only a white t-shirt and boxers.

I force myself to look away when I catch a glimpse of what’s hiding inside, just beyond the fly opening.

Wyatt grabs the jeans from the end table near the bedroom door and begins getting dressed.

Once he has his pants on, he says, “I think I might be taking the couple on a fishing excursion down at the creek. The husband wanted to learn some fly fishing while she wanted to explore.”

“That’s a good idea. From what I understand, the weather isn’t going to hold out much longer to enjoy fishing.”

“At least not fly fishing. In a month from now, the lake should be frozen over enough to do some ice fishing, though, if we have any guests during that time.”

I have some concerns about the lack of business during this time of year.

I’ve been told that it usually slows way down, but how was my father able to make the mortgage payments on the property without any real income?

Arriving shortly after my father’s death, I got a look at the financials from last year.

The numbers weren’t adding up to me, and it’s one of the things I told myself I would take care of during the offseason.

Looks like that season is upon us now.

Feeling the weight of Wyatt’s stare, I look up into his eyes. He’s studying me. Can he see the concern I feel inside, etched across my face?

“Penny for your thoughts, Wyatt?”

I catch him off guard, and he looks embarrassed to have been caught staring at me. He reaches for his plaid flannel, slides it over his shoulders, and begins buttoning it up. Shaking his head, he says, “There’s something about you, Finn. I can’t put my finger on it.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “What do you mean?”

He turns to face me and smiles. “I don’t know… there’s just something about you. Something I hadn’t expected when I heard you were moving up here.”

“Is that a good thing?” Honestly, I don’t know how to take his comment. Should I be offended? Flattered?

He waves off my question and reaches for the door.

“Wait,” I say.

Wyatt stops in the doorway and looks back.

“Thank you again for helping me out last night.”

He nods. “Sure thing.” Wyatt closes the door behind him as he leaves my room.

What a strange way to end our time together. It’s as if he’s been reading my mind about the financial concerns. Or does he find me weird? Maybe he can tell I’m gay? Not that I’m hiding anything, but we’ve never talked about it.

I need to get my ass in gear. The day has just begun, and if I’m not careful, I’ll lose any light we have outside before I even get started.

Going into the bathroom, I flip on the light and start up the shower.

The sound of the rushing water has always been a soothing one to me.

Ever since I was a kid, the idea of stepping into the path of the hot water, the scent of body-wash, and the overall clean feeling at the start or end of the day is awesome.

I strip naked and take a hard, long look in the mirror as I wait for the water to heat up.

I’ve lost a little bit of weight since being here.

Probably the physical work I’ve helped with around here and the fact that I never seem to have any downtime where I can enjoy a beer and pizza.

I run a finger over my abs, not that I’m complaining about having visible abs or anything, but if I lose much more, I’ll look like a wimp.

To reassure myself that I still have a manly body, I flex and pose in the mirror.

What reflects is quite nice, even my treasure trail of hair that starts at my belly button and ends in the ever-growing bush.

A good man-scape session is needed to get me into tip-top shape, but for what?

There isn’t anyone here at Wildwood who’s gay.

In fact, I’d hazard a bet that no one in town is openly gay either.

But for my own well-being, I’m going to trim up, start back on a daily exercise routine, and try to eat healthier—that is, if Doris will allow it.

I don’t have the heart yet to ask her for something special for my meals.

Everything she makes is so delicious, and she puts her heart and soul into everything.

Maybe one of these days I’ll ask. I turn and get into the steaming shower and sigh.

The water feels so good, washing away any of my insecurities I felt moments ago.

I wash up and then stand for a few more minutes just enjoying the hot water.

Once I get out, dry off, and put my clothes on for the day, I go over to the box of things my father left for me.

On top is the journal I started reading the other day.

The passage I read is nothing like I expected from him.

To hear my mom talk about the man, he was a cold, heartless jerk, but his words seem anything but that.

The way he speaks about my mom, it’s clear they were happy at one time in their lives together.

What happened between them? I quickly flip through the pages of handwritten entries and wonder if anything written in there will give me the answers I’m looking for.

Deciding right then and there to take it slow and really contemplate each passage I read, it makes sense to read no more than one entry a day.

Let my dad’s words sink in, tell his story.

Something about the way the first entry felt after I read it, tells me that I’ll enjoy getting to know him a little bit more each time I read his words.

I’m about to start in on the day’s reading when something catches my attention at the bottom of the box. It’s a folded piece of paper, yellowed around the edges. Pulling it out, I slowly unfold it and read what it says: Finnegan. I’m sorry .

My heart aches at the words. It’s the first time I’ve ever been apologized to for anything in my life by my father.

I know it’s his handwriting as it’s clearly written by the same hand who wrote the journal.

I begin folding the letter back up, thinking about all the reasons my father might have had to write such a thing.

Was it because he’d been a shitty father? A terrible husband to my mom?

I toss the note back into the box when I realize there’s something else written on the back.

I snatch it back and orient the paper so I can read it.

From what I can tell, it was done so after the page had already been folded.

The handwriting is the same as the apology, but it’s also a bit different—shaky.

Had this been something he jotted down after he got sick?

It reads: Under the bed. Second floorboard from the wall .

Rushing over to the bed, I get down on my hands and knees and locate the floorboard he referenced.

I knock on it, and it’s clear there’s a hollow space underneath.

I use my fingernail to dig around the bottom edge of the wood before prying it open.

Reaching my hand inside the space in the floor, I blindly feel around for something, anything that might have been hidden in there by my father.

What’s with the cat and mouse game? From what I know of my dad, he wasn’t much into anything fun or interesting.

My fingers touch something, and I slide a bit farther under the bed so I can get a better grip on whatever it is. I pull the object out and then shimmy out.

A bank ledger, titled: Wildwood Bed and Breakfast.

I open the front cover, and it becomes abundantly clear my father and the business were struggling with money.

It’s hard to read some of the numbers toward the end of the ledger.

Clearly, my father was in failing health when he wrote much of this, and his writing is indecipherable to me.

I’ll have to make a run into town when time permits and meet with the banker.

A pit in my stomach forms as I look at the lists of assets and liabilities.

I’ll need more context and information to put this all together, but my business degree brain tells me something is wrong.

Very wrong.

I put the ledger back into the box and grab the journal. I could use some good news, which I’m hoping will be in the next entry. I sit down on the recliner next to my bed and get comfortable. Maybe my dad’s words in the journal will make me feel better.