Page 73 of Filtration Play
All they could do was wait right now, but he wouldn’t abandon them.
They needed to know they weren’t alone.
And he was going to hold the line and hope they came home.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Fin stood in front of the wild crash of the Pacific.
They’d sped along the highway all the way to Big Sur, the rush allowing their mind to melt away. Their phone was off, the notifications, the hateful words, the crashing down of their existence temporarily out of sight, even if reality kept sending warning flares.
They’d pulled off at Garrapata State Park, a gorgeous beach where the sun cascaded down in spades. If only any of that light would seep past their skin.
The ocean roared in front of them, heart-achingly blue and violent in a waythat fit right now.
Part of them wanted to walk into the sea and never return. No one would miss them anyway—not after this mess.
Exhaustion slammed in harder than the sucker punch from their father yesterday. This wasn’t the tiredness of a night of lost sleep. No, this was a lifetime of disappointment and heartache. This was from having to fight relentlessly, to survive the family they’d grown up in, to weather a country that’d rather they didn’t exist, to never quite knowing when the rug would get pulled out from under them. They leaned against one of the rocky outcroppings that decorated this shoreline, the solidness keeping them upright.
Fin was a fighter. If they hadn’t been, they might not have lasted until adulthood. They sure as fuck knew how to get out.
What they didn’t know was how to stay.
When the fire grew too hot, they relied on instinct. And their instinct was honed to run.
Fin scrubbed at their face, wishing it stormed today instead of this damn sunshine. The waves crashed loud, and they stared out into all that mesmerizing blue. They’d just gotten on their Ducati and had driven away.
Even though Ollie was resting in their apartment, he guaranteed would wake up to confusion. Even though Meg had one hell of a mess to clean up with the way Hera had dragged Whipped’s name through the mud. Even though they were supposed to open the coffee shop today, and they hadn’t even let anyone know they weren’t showing up.
They’d never pulled a no-show before, not in the seven years they’d worked there.
However, they’d also never gone through this many hits—some literal—in a twenty-four-hour span.
The winds whipped around them, errant grains of sand stinging their arms. Their stomach rumbled. Staring at the sea was all well and good, but they needed to at least get coffee in their system.
Fin balled their hands into fists as they faced the ocean one last time. The beach was empty, so they’d take advantage of it.
They howled.
Not a wavering sort of sound. No, this was the sort of howl that grew from deep in the gut expanding out, past the waves, up to the sky, where the clouds danced and the blue horizon beckoned.
This was a howl to spite the world that had wanted them buried from birth.
The sound reverberated through the air, carried by the wind until it dispersed out in the immense blue.
Fin’s throat felt raw, and their shoulders heaved, but damn. Something deep within them dislodged at last. As if they’d cast all they’d carried out into the universe.
They ran their fingers through their hair. Time to get back to their bike.
The trek was fast, and the drive to the nearest pit stop with coffee even faster, which happened to be a gas station. They filled up their tank and then entered the small convenience store. The place was the size of a shoebox with the sort of shit coffee that would taste like roasted piss water. However, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and they were hours out from San Francisco, where they might stand a chance at an actual good espresso. Fin turned their phone on at last, bracing themself for the barrage of notifications and texts sure to follow.
They were at a crossroads. Either they could keep driving farther out, or they could turn around and head back to the destruction they’d left behind. They stood by the questionably smudged counter with the burnt coffee for self-serve and stared at their phone.
Texts, voice mails, messages, and far too many notifications. The entire crew of Whipped had reached out, but their focus remained on a single text.
Ollie.
A tremble rushed through them. Did they dare open up the message? It could very well be a “fuck you.” A never fucking return. And they’d fucking deserve it too. Fin’s finger hovered over the screen of their phone, those nerves threatening to make them upchuck again. Not like there was anything left in their stomach to heave.
