Page 26

Their topic switches smoothly to surfing as they devour their third donut each.

I had no idea Eugene even liked the sport.

He’s never mentioned it to me before. But I like how easily he’s gotten Finn to talk.

Almost as though he knew the exact questions to ask and the exact amount of silence to leave afterward.

Finn tells him about a cracked rib he once had when he was younger and couldn’t surf for the whole summer. “I’d sit on the porch every morning, like some washed-up retiree, even though I was only fifteen,” he says, tone light but not joking. “Tried to keep busy, but nothing hit the same.”

Eugene nods, arms crossed, his expression pensive. “Hard to be close to something you love and not touch it.”

Finn hums. “Yeah. That was the first time I realized how much I needed it. Not just liked it. Needed it.”

“Sounds like you still need it,” Eugene says.

“I do,” Finn says quietly, and with practiced confidence and genuine interest that prickles my awareness, Eugene doesn’t look away. He holds open that silence so easily without making it awkward; it makes me want to learn how.

“So what happened, kid? Why not chase that dream again?” He asks the question I’ve wanted to, but didn’t want to pry.

As I sit next to them, I suddenly feel like I’m intruding.

Maybe I should direct my attention elsewhere.

But then I see Finn shift his weight, his thumb pressing against the edge of the donut like he’s forgotten he’s holding it, and I realize he’s anxious.

There’s a twitch in my own hand that wants to reach out and soothe whatever has him feeling that way, but I manage to stop myself.

“Got caught in the kind of grief that sticks to you.”

Then his eyes flick to mine, and the blue there looks as deep as the ocean. I can tell without him asking that he wants me to hear this; he wants to be seen and heard right now, and I bend to his silent will.

“There was this guy. Jared,” Finn says. “My best friend. We met on the comp circuit when we were barely teenagers. Grew up chasing waves and sponsorships together. He was the one person who got it. The pressure, the highs, the burnout. All of it.”

I can already feel the weight of something coming. The shift in Finn’s voice, the tightness of his jaw.

“We were both in Australia for a series.” He continues. “Same heat, and it was the second to last day. Water was rough, but nothing we hadn’t handled before. In fact, we’d handled worse.”

Eugene’s eyebrows lift slightly, but he stays as quiet as I am.

“We were paddling out and a freak set rolled through. It was massive and totally caught everyone off-guard. Jared went for it. I didn’t. I—I watched him drop in, and…and then he disappeared.” His voice falters, but he doesn’t stop.

“After he didn’t pop up fast enough, I dove under, tried to find him. I stayed in that water longer than I should’ve, longer than I was supposed to. I kept thinking I’d find him, or at least see his board, but it was just…” He swallows. “Just water. Just silence.”

Eugene rests a hand on Finn’s knee, and Finn goes quiet, his posture barely shifting, but it’s enough.

Enough to see that the bravado, the charm, the lightness—it’s all scaffolding around something fractured.

The grief sits deeper than that, just behind his eyes.

I feel it like a sudden drop in my chest. It hits me harder than it should, because I know what it looks like when someone’s holding it together with both hands and still losing pieces.

His fingers flex once more around the donut before setting it down, uneaten.

“They found him,” Finn says. “But it was too late.”

He looks down at the wave tattoo curling along his forearm. His shoulders slope forward like something’s pulling him down from the inside.

“I haven’t surfed since,” he admits. “I couldn’t face the water again. I tried, but I didn’t, I couldn’t... None of it made sense anymore. So, I quit. I didn’t even pack up my board—I left it on the beach.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t know what I could say that wouldn’t make it feel smaller somehow.

Now he’s laid it down, right here between me and Eugene, I get the impression not many people gain his trust easily.

The bustle of the market around us has long since faded in the distance, and all I can hear is my heart breaking for him.

“I miss it like hell,” he whispers.

“I know grief, kid. It hurts and it’s real, but it shouldn’t stop you from doing something you love,” Eugene says, eyes steady on Finn.

“The pain doesn’t mean you have to give up the good.

Doesn’t mean you owe your joy to the loss.

You can carry both. You have to sometimes. That’s how you make space for healing.”

Finn doesn’t respond right away, but I see the way his fingers curl tighter into his palms, the deep breath he inhales steadily. He’s listening.

Eugene leans back with a quiet sigh. “You think I stopped gardening after my wife died? Hell no. She loved that garden. And every year, I dig my hands into the soil, and I remember that love doesn’t go anywhere, it just grows different.”

He glances between us, then back to Finn. “You don’t have to surf to escape it. You surf because it’s part of you. And maybe, someday, that ocean can hold the good memories again. The ones that don’t drown you.”

I sit there with my breath stuck in my throat.

Maybe there isn’t anything more to say. I understand what it’s like to have someone one day and not the next.

To feel the slow unraveling of something that used to feel like it would hold forever.

Granted, my husband didn’t pass away, but the absence of what we had was there haunting me for months.

I know what it’s like to pack up a life in boxes you can’t bring yourself to open again.

To walk past the places you once built a future in and feel like a ghost in your own story.

Love doesn’t go anywhere. It just grows different. Eugene’s words echo in my mind. God, that prods something in me I didn’t realize was still bruised.

Bruised, but healing.

Then Eugene turns to me with that pointed look only he can deliver. “You’d take him on a road trip to the coast, right?”

Finn’s head lifts, and those curious blues almost swallow me whole. There’s something fragile tucked in between the hope in his eyes, that stops my breath for a second. Almost as if he’s balancing on the edge of believing I’d do it, but already bracing for the fall.

“You don’t have to,” he says, guarded but a little surprised. I get the impression he’s not used to people offering to help.

Truth is, I’d do anything if it gave him back even a sliver of peace. If it made the water feel like home again instead of a wound.

“I think we could arrange that,” I say, my eyes not leaving Finn’s.

Something eases in him. The lines around his mouth soften. His eyes brighten. The corner of his mouth lifts just slightly.

And in that moment, I know I’m falling for someone who’s still learning how to stand again.