So George had bought that one too. Its renovation had focused on shoring up the structure as opposed to the cosmetics, just sufficient to bring things up to code. As for the curb appeal, it really was wondrous what a fresh coat of paint and some flowers could do. He’d planned to sell it once the current tenants’ leases were up. The only ones left were up on the third floor—a couple of shaggy-haired younger guys who began and ended conversations with “Peace, brother” and weren’t home much. But then Finn’s own home—his own world—had fallen down around him. George and Caitlin had called through the darkness and offered him a place to stay. Rent free, until he could find a job, get back on his feet. It was an offer he literally couldn’t afford to refuse.
He would have preferred to leave entirely—leave the state, the country, even. He fantasized about the anonymity of getting lost in a faraway urban hub like London, or on one of those remote Greek islands where time seemed to have stopped decades before he’d ever laid eyes on Maribel. But he didn’t have the money. He and Maribel had put down nonrefundable deposits on the historic church she’d had her heart set on for their ceremony, on the opulent ballroom overlooking Fountain Square they’d sentimentally snatched up for their reception, on the brass band she’d known right away they had to have. They’d made the most important—and most expensive—arrangements quickly, knowing that the logistics of wedding planning would be more difficult after they moved away. Her parents had offered to pay for it all, but Maribel had wanted the day to be wholly hers and Finn’s, free of squabbling with her mother over the centerpieces or the menu. Finn hadn’t even batted an eye as their bank accounts dipped dangerously low—they had all the time in the world to earn it back. Together. Asheville would be full of riches for them. From their happiness, the rest would come.
Finn had already downsized his possessions to the bare minimum. What Maribel didn’t bring to Asheville, they planned to buy together—or make, with their own four artistically gifted hands, in their new studio.
Instead, the meager belongings he had left he’d piled into the back of a U-Haul and unloaded here, all the while waiting to be awakened from his bad dream. He hadn’t hung anything on the walls. There wasn’t a photo to be found. Looking around, anyone at all could have been living here. He could almost pretend it wasn’t him. If only.
The knobs of the sink squeaked as Finn drained the whisker-filled water and rinsed the basin. He wasn’t bothered by the fixtures that barely worked, or the radiators that hissed, or the tile grout that was beyond the point of ever looking clean. He could understand now why people became so obsessed with the notion of other eras, even the idea of time travel. It was the stuff of silly science fiction and fantasy only until you had one day, one moment, you desperately wanted to go back to and stop yourself from doing the horrible thing that would ruin everything—and that you would never, ever forgive yourself for.
If one of Finn’s creaky walk-in pantries or child-size built-in cupboards or understair crawl spaces would turn into a portal to another day, another time, he would jump through and emerge on the night of their engagement party. First he would relive it—Maribel in his arms, dancing after all their guests had left, drunk on champagne and love and plans for the life in front of them. Then he would erase the ill-fated, mistakenly romantic notion to drive, sleep-deprived and hungover, to the coast the next day.
He’d make sure he never dozed at the wheel. Never allowed the car to drift across that center line. Never caused the head-on collision that ended Maribel’s life on the side of a lonely highway. Or if he couldn’t stop it entirely, he would reach into the car with his retrospective hands and turn the wheel a few degrees to the right, just enough so that the life claimed would be his, not Maribel’s. The driver, not the passenger. That was justice. That was the way it should have happened, if it had to happen at all.
Instead, Finn had walked away. Literally, figuratively. He’d been mercifully knocked unconscious, then came to in the hospital with nary a scratch. Evidently, he hadn’t yet gotten around to changing his emergency contact to Maribel. Caitlin had been phoned. And Caitlin had been swift.
He supposed he was lucky that she’d never formed a tighter bond with Maribel, that rather than being sidelined by grief, her first thoughts were of him. With event planning came a certain amount of crisis management, which she now counted among her specialties. “This could follow you forever,” she’d told him stoically. “We can’t let it.” He’d stared at her, dazed. But she’d already pled her case to George, who’d phoned his father, who’d made some calls of his own. Buried by shock and horror at what he’d done, Finn vacillated between periods of utter numbness and inconsolable hysteria. He didn’t have the presence of mind to ask how his name had been kept out of the papers. Or why, upon being advised by an impeccably dressed lawyer not to admit, on police record, to having dozed at the wheel, he’d never been pressed on the matter, never seen the inside of a courtroom. Never mind that he’d already told Maribel’s family the truth. They hadn’t wanted him charged anyway. He didn’t know for certain whether their appeal would have been enough, or whether he owed an uncomfortably large debt to George’s father.
As for the other driver—whose truck, rather than its passenger, had borne the brunt of the collision—he was just happy his insurance claims were settled so easily. Yet somehow none of it had cost Finn a dime.
“She told me this would kill you, after losing your parents,” George told him weeks later, when it belatedly occurred to Finn to protest. “And my wife loves you like a brother. She’s beside herself. I told her you’re built of stronger stuff than that, but … Just let us help stop another tragedy from following this one, okay?”
The Bransons had been so gracious—too gracious. It might have been easier if they’d screamed at him the way he was berating himself. “It was an accident, Finn,” her mother had said. “Maribel loved you with all her heart. You were about to become a part of our family, and we don’t want to walk away from that—you’re all we have left.” They even offered to ease the burden of the money he’d lost on the wedding, to help pay for it with Maribel’s small life insurance policy from her employer. “She wouldn’t want to see you buried by this,” her father told him, his hand firmly on Finn’s shoulder. They were all of them so, so sad. But they weren’t angry. The only angry one was Finn.