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November 9th, 1973
Gene was sitting at the bar sipping on his Rum and Coke when out of the corner of his eye he saw Finny walk in. Which couldn’t have been true, since Finny has been in the ground for thirty years now. Almost thirty one. But Gene was certain that the man who just walked in was him. He turned around to catch a look at the man again - for he was a man, not a boy - but the man had seated himself in a booth that had his back facing Gene. All he could see was the brown hair that almost looked black in the harsh lighting, and the firm shoulders of someone who looked like an athlete.
For a moment Gene humored himself with the thought of Finny faking his death and running off to live his fullest life possible. An image of Finny dressed up and joining the hippies of the sixties popped into Gene’s mind and he couldn’t help the giggle that escaped his mouth, apologizing to the older gentleman sitting next to him who gave him an odd look.
It wasn’t like Gene to imagine or hallucinate, but he found himself watching the back of the man intently, waiting to see when exactly he’d disappear in midair. Because he was certain that would happen. There wasn’t any possible way that Finny, the Finny he knew, would have grown up into a man and walked into the same bar that Gene regularly attended.
Gene’s grieving process for Finny felt like it was going backwards, becoming more and more painful with time. In most cases, the hardest times when losing someone is the first few months. In Gene’s case, he found it to be the opposite. It wasn’t like he wasn’t bothered at all when Finny died, but he had never had trouble getting out of bed like he had some days recently. In his darkest, grieving days Gene couldn’t find it in himself to even open his own eyes. When Finny died, Gene couldn’t find it in himself to cry. Believing that he, along with Finny, died in that infirmary that day. But two years ago, right as his divorce was finalized, while nursing a bottle of vodka in a tacky hotel room the first and only tear for Finny fell. As it made its way along the curve of Gene’s cheek, eventually reaching the end and falling into his lap, it felt as if lava had fallen from his eye. The burn was pleasant, and a good, yet brutal, reminder to Gene that he was the one who actually survived Devon. He was still alive.
But now, sitting at this bar staring at the back of some stranger's head, Gene felt the same numbness he had felt for several years fall over him again. It couldn’t be him. It simply couldn’t.
He felt like he owed it to himself and, if it truly was Finny, to his old friend to bite the bullet. If Finny was truly here, a part of Gene liked to believe he would have wanted Gene to reach out. Gathering all the courage that the alcohol gave him, Gene reached out to tap the man on the shoulder. It was only a light tap but the man turned around swiftly, and at the sight of his perplexed face Gene let out a short breath of air.
“I’m sorry, you just look like someone I used to know.”
The man no longer looked puzzled but his head stayed tilted to the side, a spark of curiosity and interest now present on his face. “No worries. An old friend, I suppose?”
Now that Gene was actually looking at the man’s face he could see how clearly he didn’t resemble Finny at all. The man’s eyes were a shade of blue so light they might as well have been transparent, and his hair resembled copper more than brown. The only similarity he shared with Finny in the physical sense was his heart shaped face and the light freckles that scattered the bridge of his nose. It was asinine that Gene even for a moment imagined this man was Finny’s reincarnation or spirit risen from the grave. But he was so certain when he saw him walk in that he was finally face to face with his old friend again. It was, as if for a split moment, Finny’s essence took over this stranger’s body. All his life since Finny’s passing Gene had been looking for any sign his old friend may have been trying to send him from the great beyond. He had gone years with nothing. Somehow - maybe as a way to desperately latch onto anything - this felt like a sign. A small one, but a sign nonetheless.
“You could say that.” Gene answered, voice gone tight. It wasn’t until his vision had gone blurry that he realized how affected he was by the disappointment of the man not being Finny. He didn’t want to appear rude before the man and attempted to shut out as many emotions as he could. After all, it wasn't his fault.
“How about I buy you a drink and we talk about it?” The man offered. “My name’s Paul. What’s yours?” The man, Paul, held his hand out for Gene to take. Gene took it.
“I’m Gene.”
“Short for Eugene? I only ask because I have an uncle named Eugene but he goes by Gene. My aunt calls him Genie. I could never bring myself to do that.” He definitely was chatty like Finny, which was something Gene has always appreciated in a person. When he was younger conversations flowed easier for him, but with age he’s grown to fall deeper and deeper into silence.
“It is.” Gene answered him, but his new partner seemed already too occupied with calling down the bartender to be able to listen. The obscene way he was hollering down the bar sent a blush to Gene’s cheeks and he looked away for a moment, not able to meet anyone’s eye. When the bartender was making his way over Paul asked what Gene would like to drink.
“Just water, I don’t drink too much.” Gene replied politely.
“Cheap date.” Paul joked with a wink. Gene only smiled to acknowledge that he heard him. When the two drinks - one being some fruity concoction and the other being tap water - Paul started in on Gene. “So I look like your friend?”
“Not really. Just for a moment you did. When you walked in.”
“Ah.” Paul’s posture slumped slightly and Gene found it oddly endearing that he was disappointed the novelty of looking like someone else was gone. He perked up a moment later. “Do I sound like him?”
Gene paused, his fingers twitching against his glass. “I don’t remember his voice anymore, if I’m being honest with you.” It was a hard realization for Gene a couple of years ago when Finny’s anniversary rolled around. It came over him like a tsunami and affected him so much he had to call in sick for work. Finny’s body and soul was no longer in Gene’s life, and at some point neither was the memory of his voice. His laughter. A victim of time and poor memory. It struck Gene so much that he reached out to Finny’s parents, something he was too frightened to do before, and asked if they could be kind enough to send any photo of Finny to him that they’d be willing to part with. The only request he had was that it was a photo of Finny around the time he was attending Devon. The Finny that he would have recognized. They were more than willing to give him a photo. The photo was Finny’s mandatory school photo for Devon, and it was almost pathetic how Gene remembered the day just based on how Finny’s hair was styled. He wasted no time in framing it, and the photo has bounced around in different parts of his house since. At one point he had it displayed on the coffee table in his living room, and when one of his colleagues came over to visit they noticed the photo and asked Gene if the boy in it was his nephew or son.
“That’s a bummer.” Paul said without any genuine sadness or sincerity in his voice. Gene felt slightly irked at his tone considering he was the one who has continued to bring up Finny.
Gene’s new acquaintance was not one for social cues. “Were you best friends?”
“Something like that.” Gene wished the man would stop asking about the closeness of their friendship. The first and only person who deserved to hear it is Finny. It felt cruel to Gene for anyone else to hear it, it wasn’t for them to hear. Only Finny. And considering he wasn’t here anymore, will never be here again, then it was something that will stay within Gene’s chest until the day he dies.
“I had a best friend in high school. I think he’s married with two kids now. I’m not sure, we lost touch.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“About him having kids or being married?”
“I was referring to you losing touch.”
“Oh.” Paul shrugged. “It happens.” Gene stayed quiet as he called to the bartender and ordered another drink. He didn’t even offer if Gene wanted anything this time, and a part of Gene was wishing that meant he was close to leaving.
As soon as the new drink arrived Paul turned his attention back towards his solemn neighbor. “What was your friend’s name?”
“Hm?”
“Your friend. The one that’s dead.”
“His name is Finny. Well, technically it’s Phineas. But he goes… went by Finny.”
Paul’s face brightened immensely as if he had a sudden epiphany. “I once knew a Phineas. Maybe it was your friend!”
Gene offered a weak smile, “Maybe.”
“Well,” Paul said cheerfully, “Cheers to your friend. Cheers to Ginny!”
Clearly the drinks were starting to take their toll. It was ernest enough that Gene didn’t feel it in him to correct the man so he raised his half empty cup and nodded. To Ginny , he thought with humor. He liked to think that if Finny was sticking around he would have gotten a kick out of this whole interaction Gene’s been having. Maybe Finny sent this man Gene’s way. Either for humor purposes or for torture, he wasn’t quite sure.
It seemed as if Paul was over small talk about dead friends because he set down his empty glass on the wood counter and licked his lips clean. “So would you like to get out of here? We could go to my place? You’d have to leave early in the morning though. I have work and I don’t like having guests in my house when I’m not there.”
Gene smiled politely and raised his hand up. “No thank you.” Just like with alcohol, Gene rarely allowed himself to indulge in the comfort of other men. It was a realization about himself that he realized, in his opinion, way too late in life. As insightful as the night he realized was - getting tipsy at this same bar and finding himself on his knees in the far right stall in the restroom - he felt that it was not something he cared to seek out for himself. And apparently, it wasn’t something he cared to be sought out for either. There was another realization in all of this somewhere, but Gene was too scared to allow himself to find out. There wasn’t a need to anymore.
“Your loss.” Paul said with an exaggerated shrug as his farewell to Gene. ‘Missing out on sleeping with you is not my loss,’ Gene thought to himself. He watched as his new acquaintance stumbled out of his chair and made his way back to the booth he was originally sitting at, probably waiting for anyone else who was desperate enough to seek him out. Gene figured it was time for himself to head home anyway. After leaving a generous tip to the patient bartender he started to loop his scarf around his neck and froze for a moment, the edge of his mouth twitched briefly. The ground outside was beginning to freeze, and the wind felt as if it was invisible ice. It was winter time. With that realization in mind, when Gene stepped out of the bar he remembered Finny’s words. ‘Winter loves me,’ he had said that day. What he said after that stuck more.
‘What I mean is, I love winter, and when you really love something, then it loves you back, in whatever way it has to love,’ Gene had dismissed him that day, not really believing a word he was saying. Now he could blame that on his youth or my cynicism. Gene had loved Finny back then, and he loved him in the best way that he could have shown. It was a thought that Gene had afterwards with years in between. But it was beautiful to know that Finny had known even back then. Finny always knew.