What We Ask of Love

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“Give him room.”

Isla dropped beside her brother. Someone turned off the music. Finn moved the nearest table back while Bea called for medical help.

Owen's eyes found Isla's, then slid past her toward the dark water beyond the windows.

“I can't get it straight,” he said. “I can't turn it.”

“You're in the club,” Isla told him. “I'm here.”

He gripped her wrist so hard it hurt. She stayed.

Finn knelt on his other side, speaking quietly. Isla couldn't follow the words. She could only see the strange, broken trust between them. Owen had refused to look at Finn all evening. Now he wouldn't let go of his sleeve.

When the ambulance crew arrived, Isla stepped back and answered their questions. Her father pushed through the remaining guests, demanding explanations nobody had.

“Owen,” he said. “What's happened?”

Her brother squeezed his eyes shut.

“Please don't be angry.”

The room went very still.

Tom looked as though someone had slapped him.

“Angry? Son, I'm not angry.”

But Owen had not opened his eyes.

Later, after the assessment and the quiet conversations Isla wasn't invited to hear, Owen refused a lift from their father. He asked to stay upstairs at the club.

Tom stared at him.

“There's a bed at home.”

“I know.”

“Then why would you—”

“Because he asked,” Isla said.

Tom looked between his children. This time, he left without another warning.

Bea cleared the room with the efficient kindness of someone who understood that panic did not need an audience. Finn carried chairs away from the windows.

Isla took Owen upstairs, brought him water, and sat on the floor beside the spare bed. The sea outside was invisible now. Only its sound reached them.

“I'm sorry about the party,” Owen said.

“The party survived.”

“Everyone saw.”

“Everyone has something they hope nobody sees.”

He looked at her for a long moment.

“You always know what to say to frightened people.”

“It's half my job.”

“I'm not one of your students.”

“No. You're much more annoying.”

His mouth twitched, then fell still.

“I didn't know you could hear me. Downstairs.”

“I heard.”

“I thought I was on the boat.”

She waited. The old version of her would have hurried to comfort him, smoothing the story until neither of them had to touch its sharp edges.

“I'd been drinking that night,” he said.

Isla stared at him.

“What?”

“Before I took the boat.”

“You said you went out because you saw me in trouble.”

“I know what I said.”

She stood too quickly. The chair beside the bed scraped against her leg.

She remembered the collision. Owen's boat hitting the channel marker. Her own training swim cut short by the sound. Swimming toward him because he was her brother and he was shouting.

Afterward, she remembered so much else less clearly. Cold. Hospital lights. Her father's hand clamped around hers. Everyone telling her Owen had been trying to save her.

“I wasn't in trouble until you hit the marker.”

“I know.”

“Why would you let me believe that?”

He turned his face toward the wall.

“Because you weren't the only person afraid of Dad.”

Anger rose so quickly she had to set the water glass down before it slipped.

“That doesn't make it all right.”

“No.”

“And you could have told me any time.”

“Yes.”

The agreement left her nowhere easy to put the anger. She wanted him to argue so she could shout. Instead, he lay there looking ashamed and terribly tired.

“I can't do this tonight,” she said.

“I know.”

“I love you. But I can't make this easier for you.”

“Will you still come with me if I need another appointment?”

The question was so unlike his usual guarded confidence that she turned back.

“Yes. Or I'll help you find someone else if we both need space. Getting help isn't a reward for being good.”

Owen rubbed his face.

“I don't know how to talk about it.”

“Then start there. With someone who knows how to listen to things you can't explain yet.”

She would support his recovery. She would not let it swallow her own.

He nodded once.

Downstairs, Finn had finished stacking chairs. The room smelled of spilled wine and extinguished candles.

“Did you know he was drinking?” Isla asked.

Finn put down the cloth in his hand.

“Yes.”

She shut her eyes.

“Of course you did.”

“I tried to stop him taking the boat.”

“But afterward?”

Finn looked toward the stairs.

“Isla, I need to tell you everything. Not here, with him listening, and not when you've spent the evening holding everyone together.”

She almost laughed at the familiar shape of it. Men deciding when she was strong enough for the truth.

“Tomorrow morning,” she said. “No more choosing what I can bear.”

“Tomorrow morning. I promise.”

He gathered his tools.

“Can I finish the windows before I go?”

She wanted to say no. Instead, she nodded and helped him secure the loose catch Mags had always meant to replace.

For a minute they worked without speaking. Isla held the frame while he fitted the catch.

“You still do that,” she said.

“What?”

“Hum when you're trying not to swear.”

He stopped, surprised.

“I hadn't noticed.”

“I used to make you change the tune.”

“You said it sounded like a disappointed doorbell.”

“It did.”

He hummed the last few notes deliberately wrong. An unwilling laugh escaped her.

Then the silence came back, changed by the sound.

She could have let it carry them into something easy. Remembering was dangerous because there were so many lovely things to remember. That didn't make the rest disappear.

“You don't get tomorrow off because you made me laugh.”

“I know.”

“I mean it. I can't keep finding little pieces of the truth after I've already let you close.”

Finn put the screwdriver down and looked at her.

“Tomorrow morning,” he said. “Even if it means you won't want me in this room again.”

She wanted to believe him. Wanting was all she could honestly claim.

“Finish the window.”

He picked up the tool. She kept her palm against the frame, aware of the warmth of his arm without reaching for it. They could share a small task tonight. Anything larger would have to survive daylight.

His shoulder brushed hers. The contact was slight, but exhaustion had stripped away the defenses she normally used against him.

When the window finally shut, she began to shake.

Finn set down the screwdriver.

“Isla?”

“I spent nine years apologizing for what happened.”

“I know.”

“To Dad. To Owen. To people who never even asked me what I remembered.”

“I know.”

“Stop saying that.”

He went silent.

She pressed both palms over her eyes. The first sob surprised her. The second felt as if it had been waiting nine years for permission.

Finn did not pull her into his arms. He stood close enough to offer them.

“Can I hold you?”

She nodded.

For a while, she cried against his shirt, angry at herself for finding comfort there. He held her steadily, without telling her everything would be fine.

When she drew back, his collar was wet.

“That's a terrible shirt anyway,” she said.

“It was my best one.”

“Your standards remain low.”

He smiled sadly.

“Not all of them.”

She looked at him. Really looked. At the tiredness around his eyes, the mouth she'd spent years trying to forget, the boy still visible inside the man who had disappointed her.

“I hate that I still want to kiss you.”

Finn's breath changed.

“Then don't do it because tonight was awful.”

“I'm not.”

She touched his face first. His jaw tightened beneath her fingers.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I'm sure I want this kiss. That's all I can offer.”

“That's enough.”

She rose onto her toes.

The kiss was gentle for exactly one heartbeat. Then nine years of missing him rushed into the space between them. Her hand closed in his shirt. His arms drew her closer, then loosened when she shifted, giving her room to choose.

She chose to kiss him again.

When they stopped, her forehead rested against his. Neither spoke. Desire did not erase the unanswered questions. It made them more frightening.

“I should go,” he said.

“Yes.”

He kissed her hand once, and left.

Isla stood in the quiet room until a floorboard creaked overhead.

Owen waited at the bottom of the stairs, his face pale.

“Did he tell you what I asked him to do?”

She turned slowly.

“What did you ask him?”

Her brother looked toward the door Finn had just closed.

“To make them believe it was your fault.”