Finn
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I can hear my heart beating in my skull, the quick pulse muffling the sound of Lake Belmont gurgling around me. My hand brushes against the surface of the deck where we stood on that fateful day. My dad wasn’t lying when he said the boat was as good as new. It’s like nothing ever happened here. Like those drunk college kids never crashed into us.
Pretty damn ironic that I haven’t been here in a decade and the first time I visit Mom’s boat, I’m drunk, too.
“You okay, kid?” a croaky voice says.
I look up to see an old man with gray hair and horn-rimmed glasses standing on the dock of the marina, watching me. He must think I’m insane, lying on an anchored boat with a bottle of whiskey in my hand. He might be right.
“Fuck off.” I sit up, tipping the bottle back for a swig.
My rude response doesn’t faze him in the slightest. In fact, his only reaction is to smile.
“You remind me of my son,” he comments.
I should be creeped out, but I get the sense that he’s grieving. It’s almost as though I recognize my pain in his.
“Did he also tell you to fuck off?”
“All the time,” he says like it’s a good thing. “I miss him.”
I take it back. I’m totally creeped out.
I shrug. “Your son sounds like an asshole.”
“He was.” The old man laughs a wheezy laugh.
Was.
I was right.
He is grieving. I can’t help but wonder if that’s what my father would say about me if I died. He was an asshole, but I miss him.
“What do you miss about him?” I ask, even though I don’t really care. Sober me would have told him to find someone else to annoy a long time ago, but I could use the temporary distraction.
“Because he wasn’t pretending to be somebody else. He knew who he was, and he owned up to it. Just like you.”
“You don’t know me,” I spit defensively.
He holds his hands up. “You’re right, I don’t. But I know a lost soul when I see one.”
I’m too sober for this shit.
“Okay?” I drag a long sip of whiskey.
“Just a piece of advice. Don’t push people away. The journey means nothing if you don’t have anyone waiting at the finish line.”
Who the fuck is this weirdo, and why is he psychoanalyzing me?
I rise to my feet. “No offense, Grandpa, but you’re kind of ruining my buzz.”
The man heaves a hoarse chuckle but doesn’t take the hint.
Instead, he watches me stumble toward the boat’s cockpit and adds, “You’re not going out on the lake, are you? There’s a big storm rolling in.”
I hear the warning coming out of his mouth, but I don’t really listen to it, my mind replaying the words he said on a loop. Don’t push people away. The journey means nothing if you don’t have anyone waiting at the finish line.