“Okay,” I say.
He pulls the truck against the curb and leans over again, turning the ignition off. The truck shudders to a stop like it’s exhausted too.
“I wanted to . . . you know . . .” He shrugs, like I should know what he means.
“I don’t know.”
“To say I’m sorry.”
“For stalking me on my walk home like a creeper?”
The corner of his mouth curls. “No.” But then he takes in a deep breath, his face getting more serious. “I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions that night at the Float. Ruby told me why you wanted to get out of there. I’m sorry for Johnny, too.”
I shake my head. “That’s not your fault.”
“He won’t bother you anymore, okay? And I wanted to thank you for the gift card. I put it to good use.”
“It wasn’t charity,” I say. “You saved me, Finn. Twice. Once from a skunk, once from a hospital parking lot. I’m really grateful for that,” I say, having a hard time looking at him as I say it.
We’re both quiet for a second, until he clears his throat. “You want to see something cool?”
I look up. Maybe it’s the meltiness of the heat, but it’s like I’m looking at six-year-old Finn that first day on the playground again, his gray eyes serious, asking if I wanted to hear something cool.
I nod.
In response, he leans over and pushes open the passenger door, and I climb in.
? ? ?
In the heat, even with the windows down all the way, the inside of Finn’s truck smells earthy, a mix of sweat and paint and guy. There’s a pile of newspapers between us, and the one on top has individual words and entire phrases circled in black ballpoint pen.
Finn’s tapping a thumb nervously against the steering wheel, but when he catches me studying him, he stops.
“So, pretty hot today, yeah?” he asks.
“No way,” I scoff.
“What?”
“Finn Casper’s making small talk? It’s a miracle.”
His face goes red. “I deserve that.”
I shift my gaze to the floor—an old spray paint can rolls around by my feet—and then to the cup holder near the gearshift. It’s filled with pennies and a small, dirt-covered pink plastic ballerina—the kind you get on cupcakes from grocery stores. I pick up the ballerina and start scraping dirt off her tutu.
“Do you like working at the pottery studio?”
“That’s better,” I say, and he rolls his eyes with a grin. “I do like working there. Carla’s really great.”
“Yeah, she’s not so bad,” he says.
“Some of the customers are a handful, but it keeps everything interesting. And there’s this one older lady, Alice, who has Alzheimer’s, and some days, even though she doesn’t talk, she really gets into the painting. Alice is most responsive when I play certain types of music, so I’ve been experimenting. She really likes Billie Holiday and Vivaldi. Soft rock, not so much.”
“I don’t blame her. Have you told your parents about it yet?”
I shake my head, trying to ignore how my heart is speeding up, and fiddle with the ballerina. She’s just about free of dirt, but I keep working my fingernail in the groove of her tutu, digging in hard, taking a break only to point left toward my street. “My mom would worry so much if she knew I quit the internship. And my dad? No.”
“Parker, the internship wasn’t making you happy.”
“But—” I start, my eyelid twitching.
“I know. ‘It’s not that easy,’?” he says, echoing my earlier words. “But I bet it sucks, not telling them. It seems really hard and lonely to hold on to all of that by yourself.”
I don’t respond, keeping the eye that’s twitching angled away from Finn. I try not to think too much of how similar his words are to Em’s and Ruby’s.
I close my hand hard around the ballerina, feeling her tutu impress into my hand, not letting her go.
Thirty-Five
WE’VE BEEN DRIVING ON quiet roads, passing through shady patches of woods and by sleepy-looking farms for at least twenty minutes. Finally, Finn pulls the truck over to the side of the road.
“Here? I really hope you’re not taking me to some survivalist cult compound,” I say, only half joking, as I get out.
“Trust me,” he says, grabbing an old canvas rucksack from the back of the truck. I can hear the clatter of spray paint cans as he motions me to follow him.
We start making our way through a tangle of ragweed and Queen Anne’s lace, which eventually eases into woods. Maybe it’s the shade from the enormous trees tunneling over us—the only sunlight coming through in small dappled spots—but it immediately feels cooler.
I stop at the top of a terrifyingly steep hill as Finn starts to make his way down, using trees for balance. He turns around to check on me.
“I don’t know if I’m up for this,” I call out. “I don’t want to break my leg. I read some terrible story last year about a guy who fell down a hill—”
Without saying another word, Finn scrambles back up and holds out a hand.
I suck in my breath, but then I take it. He wraps his fingers around mine as we start down the hill. Finn leads, offering me his arm for support as I take small angled steps behind him.
When we get to the bottom, I see rusty train tracks leading into a tunnel, forest growth sprouting up between all the rails. Finn lets go, walking ahead only to stop at the mouth of the tunnel, pulling a flashlight out of his bag.
“Come on.”
I follow him in, then stop, speechless, as I take in the tunnel walls.
What’s around me is worth risking the scariest cult compound in the world, worth suffering a hundred broken bones.
Between the beam of Finn’s light and the drowsy sunlight coming in from the other end of the tunnel, every inch of the tunnel is exploding with bursts of color, fireworks in apple reds and sky blues, bright oranges and deep violets, neon yellows and piercing pinks. It’s luminous and alive, life where you’d least expect it.
“Finn,” I breathe, unable to say more.
It’s a secret cathedral, the moment of the big bang, the electric of dreams.
I venture in farther, tracing my fingers along the cool stone wall. Amid the dim, I see color around me, above me. The deeper I go, the more it all comes to life, swirling and blooming, blue vines creeping up the walls, small bursts of silver stars on the ceiling, moons shattering into pieces, white clouds morphing into storm clouds.
Woven between it all, messages from Finn:
FLOATING FALLING.
CAN YOU HEAR ME?
YOUR WIFE LOVES YOU SO VERY MUCH.
THEY’RE THE SAME STARS.
“Oh my God, your messages. They’re all about Major Tom, aren’t they?” I ask, looking back at him.
“Just in case he’s listening,” Finn says.
I do a double take. “You know that’s not real.”
“Yeah, I know it’s not real.” He laughs.
The art stops two thirds of the way through, after turquoise and emerald waves, purple bubbles rising from them, octopus tentacles creeping around the edges.
“I’m not done yet,” Finn says from behind me.
I turn back to him, shaking my head in disbelief. “Finn, I don’t. I can’t.” I stop. “I don’t have the right words. It’s phenomenal, Finn.”
He smiles, and I can tell he’s more than a little bit embarrassed, but there’s pride there too. He opens his bag and grabs a can. “Want to try?”
“I couldn’t.”
He tosses the can toward me, and I barely catch it in time.
“Come on.” He motions toward an empty patch.
“I don’t want to mess up what you did.”
“You won’t mess it up. Plus, that’s the good thing about walls. I can just paint over what you did if I hate it.”
“Hey!”
“Kidding. Here, let me show you.” He hands me a surgical face mask from his bag, pulls one over his mouth too, then shakes the can for a good long while.
And then, holding it out six inches from the wall, he starts creating streaks of sea green, shaking the can in between every few strokes, building up layers of stripes, like a mint bumblebee. He points at my can.