Page 152 of Unmanageable

I think I’m going to die.

Why are my hands shaking so bad?

I’ve spent the last four months tracking down a very specific piece of junk.

It took two private investigators, a sketchy mechanic in eastern Ohio who didn’t ask why I needed a forty-year-old van delivered in the middle of the night, and a stack of cash that probably should have gone toward my actual pension fund.

But three days ago, a flatbed trailer dropped it off, and I haven’t slept since.

The Goalie-Mobile is back.

It still has the faded primer on the driver’s side door. It still has that iconic, ugly dent on the rear bumper from where I backed into a concrete dumpster in Memphis.

The only difference is the engine actually turns over without sounding like a lawnmower full of rocks, thanks to Nico spending three weekends grease-deep in the engine bay while calling me a romantic idiot every ten minutes.

I parked it down by the old, weathered dock this afternoon while Scottie was inside the White Mountains cabin taking a work call.

The White Mountains cabin has become a tradition after that first disastrous weekend—same dock, same lake, same collection of idiots, just one year older.

I planned this meticulously.

I practiced my speech in the shower, in the SUV, and once while brushing my teeth like a total lunatic.

Every time I rehearsed it, I had the distinct sense I was tempting fate, because Scottie has a literal sixth sense for emotional significance and will absolutely derail any moment that feels too scripted or too much like a movie.

She’s sitting at the edge of the dock now, her legs tucked under her, wearing one of my old Reign hoodies that she’s officially claimed as her own through a series of adverse possession legal maneuvers.

She looks peaceful in a way that still, after all this time, knocks the oxygen right out of my lungs.

I sit down beside her, our shoulders brushing. The wood of the dock is cool, but the proximity of her radiates heat.

“You’re quiet, O’Connell,” she says, glancing at me sideways. “Did you break something in the cabin? Is there a leak in the roof? Did Brick set the hammock on fire again while I was inside getting the wine?”

I smile, because she knows the contours of my soul better than I do. “Just enjoying the view, Scottie-girl. For once, I don’t have a witty comeback.”

She snorts, leaning her head on my shoulder. “Liar. You’ve been shaking for twenty minutes. I can feel the dock vibrating. What’s the matter?”

Fair. She caught me. She always catches me.

I take a breath.

Then another.

My heart is pounding so loud and so hard against my ribs that I’m genuinely convinced the fish in the lake can hear it through the water.

“Come with me,” I say, standing up and offering her my hand.

“Where? Finn, it’s freezing out here.”

“Just shut up and trust the goalie for five minutes, Scottie.”

I lead her down the dirt path, past the high weeds near the tree line, until the silhouette of the orange van comes into view under the moonlight.

Scottie stops dead in her tracks. Her hand goes slack in mine. She stares at the boxy, rounded shape of the Goalie-Mobile like she’s looking at a ghost.

“No,” she whispers. “You didn’t.”

I pull the sliding side door open with a metallic rattle. Inside, the floor is clean, the small, fold-down bench seat covered in a brand-new wool blanket, and the little dashboard clock we bought in Nashville is sitting right where it belongs.