Page 7

Chapter seven

Finn

“Finn,” Dr. Hale says gently, her voice calm through the phone speaker, “you keep describing the ocean like it’s a person.

Something that betrayed you. That kind of loss—when something you loved turns into a source of fear—can feel disorienting.

It makes sense you’re struggling to trust it again. Or yourself.”

I swallow, my throat tight. “It used to be the only place I felt like myself,” I say quietly, rubbing the back of my neck.

“When I was a kid, I’d paddle out, no matter the conditions.

Like I was invincible.” I pause, a sharp breath slicing through my chest. “And now I can’t even look at it without remembering the silence after Jared went under.

The stillness. Like the ocean didn’t care. ”

There’s a beat of silence as Dr. Hale takes her time to answer.

“You’re not wrong to grieve that,” she says honestly.

“Losing that sense of safety, especially when it’s tied to who you believed you were, is its own kind of trauma.

But the ocean didn’t abandon you, Finn. It changed.

And so did you. The question now isn’t how to go back.

It’s how to live with both the love and the fear. At the same time.”

I nod, even though she can’t see it. “Yeah,” I murmur. “I just don’t know how to let it be both.”

“Then don’t rush it,” she says, something clicking in the background.

“I want you to try something for me soon. You don’t need to surf.

You don’t even need to get in. Just go near the water at some point in the next month.

Bring your journal or a sketchpad, or even your phone, if that’s easier.

Let yourself be near the thing you lost, without asking it to give anything back yet.

Just…notice what it stirs. Not to fix it. Just to name it.”

I exhale slowly, letting that digest. The idea of going back to any kind of water scares me. But maybe that’s the first step. Let the ocean exist again, without demanding it feel safe. Without trying to make it something it used to be.

“Thanks, Dr. Hale.”

“And remember your coping techniques if it gets too much. Talk to you next week, Finn. Take care.”

The line disconnects, and I toss my phone onto my bed.

Therapy always leaves me feeling oddly raw, like I’ve peeled back layers I’d prefer to keep hidden.

But sometimes it also feels lighter, like I’ve released something heavy.

Today, it feels like the former, and I need a distraction to help my mind process everything.

I guess it’s a good thing it’s Friday and I’m seeing Foxx tonight.

Throwing open my closet, I stare at the contents. Well, the few items in there, anyway. Mostly, I wear the same things on rotation, but I think shorts and a ripped t-shirt might not win this guy over. Nothing looks right.

Which is ridiculous because this isn’t a date-date, it’s a hookup. We both know this. A drink, some flirting, some very obvious tension that’ll make me hard as stone—which is how I’ve been feeling pretty much since we started talking—and hopefully a night where neither of us gets much sleep.

I pull out a black t-shirt, tossing it onto the bed. Too casual? I grab a dark button-up, hesitate, then toss that next to it. Too much?

Groaning, I run a hand through my hair. Why the fuck am I overthinking this?

Normally, I’d just throw on whatever’s clean. Not that I don’t put a ton of effort into looking good, but I’ve never stood in front of my closet like some kind of dramatic teen girl in a rom-com. I don’t do this.

But then again, I haven’t done a lot lately, so is that what’s different? That’s what’s messing with me? Am I nervous?

This guy is funny, and I’ve been thinking about him all week. We’ve even messaged a bit before our date, and it’s safe to say, he won me over even more. Talking to him has been easy.

I grab my phone off the bed and flick through my messages.

Finn

What’s the right amount of effort for a bar? Casual-hot or effort-hot?

Daphne

Are you seriously texting me about your outfit?

Finn

I need options, Daphne.

Daphne

You own, like, five shirts. This isn’t life or death.

Finn

Would you rather me show up looking like I just rolled out of bed?

Daphne

Honestly? That’d probably work for you.

Finn

Helpful.

Daphne

Okay, fine. Wear something that makes you feel good. But not like...try-hard good. Hot, but not “I wore a blazer for this.”

Finn

That’s literally what I was trying to figure out.

Daphne

Well, now you have your answer.

With a snort, I toss my phone onto the bed. Okay. Just fucking get dressed. I grab the black t-shirt, along with black cargo jeans. It’s simple, fitted, clean, good enough.

Sliding it over my head, I glance at myself in the mirror. My hair is still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends. I smooth a hand through it, debating whether I should actually style it or just let it dry naturally.

From Foxx’s pictures, he’s way more put together than I am. His hair is neat, his beard is neat, but not, like, too neat. He’s effortless in a way that makes me want to put in effort, and I don’t know if I’ve ever really done that before.

I exhale, staring at myself, ruffling my hair a bit. No, it’s fine. I look good. Exactly like the kind of guy who walks into a bar, flirts with someone who pretends to be unimpressed, and then leaves with him later.

Rolling my shoulders, I try to shake off the weird weight pressing down on me.

I glance toward the clock on my nightstand. 7:29 p.m.

Still time, but not enough to sit around and think about it. This place is about an hour from my parents’.

The house is quiet as I step out of my room, my footsteps barely making a sound on the hardwood floors.

Too quiet. I’m used to it being loud. Daphne talking too fast on the phone with Liv her best friend, my dad watching whatever sports documentary he’s obsessed with that week, my mom humming in the kitchen.

But they’re not home tonight. Which should be a good thing. It is a good thing, given my mental capacity tonight.

Pulling out my phone, I flick through my notifications, needing a distraction as I move toward the front door. My keys are on the side table, right where I left them. I grab them, twisting the key ring between my fingers as I pull the door open.

The night air is cooler than I expected, crisp against my skin, but I barely notice it as I slide into my car.

I grip the steering wheel, breathing in deep as nerves make me wobble.

I shove it back, focus on the road ahead, and turn the key, letting the car rumble to life.

Tonight, I just want to feel like myself again.

I want to let it all go, because that’s what I need to do.

I need to forget about the bullshit and lose myself in a perfect stranger.

I send a silent prayer up to the hookup gods that he’s not a catfish.

Even though I’ve seen pictures, I’ve heard things can be really convincing these days.

My phone vibrates in the passenger seat.

Foxx

You on time?

I smirk, nerves morphing into excitement as I tap out a response before I drive.

Finn

Please. Like I’d make you wait.