“It’s all right,” I say.
“No, it isn’t! He never listens to me. It’s like that time I told him that he had the flu and he kept insisting it was just allergies, and then he barfed all over the kitchen at the Float.”
Charlie smiles at her. “You’re so cute when you’re feeling self-righteous.”
“?‘Cute’? ‘Self-righteous’?” She bristles. “How about ‘I admire how badass you are when you’re clearly right’?”
Charlie drops his head to his hands, and I high-five Ruby.
“Have I ever told you how amazing you are?” Charlie says, looking back up at her with a big smile.
Ruby rolls her eyes at him before turning back to me. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay with him leaving.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “This is good for Finn. He needs a fresh start. It’s the best thing for him. I’m fine,” I repeat, more firmly this time.
Ruby looks doubtful.
Charlie takes a deep breath. “It can still be the best thing for him and not fine for you, Parker. You don’t have to be okay right now.”
I turn away, looking out the window.
Mustard is leaping around in the backyard, intent on killing some small animal. He pounces, then proudly lifts his head, a small, dead brown something clenched in his teeth.
I yelp in dismay, making Charlie and Ruby both start.
I point outside. “It’s Mustard,” I mumble. “He just killed something. It’s really sad. . . .” I trail off because Charlie and Ruby are both staring at me with these terrible looks of pity and understanding.
And then the tears come.
Not in a big heaving release or sputtering sobbing.
Instead they’re quiet tears: the simple devastation of not being okay.
Ruby rubs my back.
Charlie starts drumming his fingers on the table.
“What are you thinking?” Ruby asks.
“What time does Finn’s bus leave?”
“Eight,” she replies, understanding dawning on her face. “We can do it, I think.”
Charlie nods immediately. “I’ll get the keys.”
I look at them, confused. Ruby stands, like she’s waiting for me to do something, then leans down, pinching me lightly on the arm, her bracelets jangling.
“Ow,” I say.
“His bus doesn’t leave until eight,” she repeats.
Finn. She’s talking about Finn.
Charlie holds up the extra set of keys Mom leaves in the odds-and-ends drawer. “Come on, little sister. You’re saying good-bye to Finn.”
And then I look at Charlie, the way he’s bouncing on his heels, impatient to leave, how he’s trying to save me.
“Get that chicken ass of yours moving,” Ruby cries impatiently. Charlie snorts, and I realize yet again how lucky the McCullough twins are to know her.
I try not to smile. “Chicken ass?”
“Not my best effort, I know,” she says, giving me a gentle push on the back toward Charlie, toward the car, toward Finn.
Fifty-Seven
CHARLIE PULLS IN FRONT of the entrance of the Cincinnati Greyhound Station and jerks to a stop. My stomach drops, and I wipe my palms across my forehead, queasy.
Ruby groans. “Can Parker drive on the way back?”
“I was trying to get us here in time,” Charlie says.
“I would have stayed under the speed limit,” I say, unclicking my seat belt.
“Yeah, and you would have missed the bus. Thanks to me, though, you have seven minutes,” Charlie retorts.
I lean between the two front seats. “Do you guys want to come in too?” I ask, suddenly anxious about seeing Finn by myself.
“I said good-bye already,” Ruby says.
“What about you?” I ask Charlie.
“Parker, get off your ass and get in there,” he says. “Now.”
“Okay. Okay.” I scramble out of the backseat, then lean down to Ruby’s open window.
“Thanks, you guys.”
Ruby smiles while Charlie waves his hand. “Six minutes now. Go!”
I jog into the bus terminal.
It’s a grim place—the industrial lighting a sickly yellow-green color, bright-blue plastic benches inhabited by a ragged assortment of tired-looking people, the air-conditioning on so high I get instant goose bumps. I look for Finn, my eyes darting to the announcement board, trying to find the bus to New York City. No luck.
But then I see the line of people in the far corner. They’re moving forward slowly, bags slung over shoulders, pillows stuffed under arms, as a woman in a navy-blue shirt takes their tickets.
At the end, I see a guy with a red hooded sweatshirt, hood up, those beat-up cargo shorts, paint-spattered old shoes, a heavy backpack at his feet. A woman with brown hair has her arm wrapped gently around his shoulder.
“Carla!” I call out, my yell sharp against the murmur of white noise in the station. “Finn!”
I move toward them, around a small child holding a ragged Elmo doll, a woman with numerous bags of newspapers, a guy in a trucker hat scowling.
“Finn!” He turns around then, sliding his hood down, and finds me in the crowd. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t send radiant beams of forgiveness across the room.
I slow down, scared to reach him.
But I don’t stop.
Carla pulls me into a hug when I get to them, whispering, “Be patient with him.” She steps back. “I’ll give you guys a few minutes. But, Finnegan, promise me you won’t get on that bus without saying good-bye.”
“I promise,” he mutters.
I watch Carla leave before turning to Finn. He’s watching me with his storm-wary eyes. His face is mostly healed, just a few lingering yellow spots, but his nose is newly crooked at the bridge.
“Hey,” I say, shifting nervously in place. “I’m glad I caught you. Charlie was driving like he was possessed so we could get here in time. Ruby’s out there too. And since you didn’t return any of my messages, I really wanted to see you before you leave.”
I stop, waiting for Finn to say something, for his face to soften, for his shoulders to ease.
But his mouth is clenched shut, jaw jutted out. Even though he’s standing right in front of me, he’s so far away, he could be lost in space.
“So, New York, huh?” I ask.
Nothing.
I remind myself of hidden street-art cathedrals, of fields of sleeping sunflowers, of what it’s like to let your heart live on the outside.
I look at the boy who pushed me away in first grade, the boy who’s pushing me away now.
I swallow hard.
No more small talk.
“So, I came here thinking I’d tell you I was sorry for telling Carla. I was practicing my apology the whole way down I-71. But, Finn, I’m not sorry.”
He sucks in his breath—sharp and surprised. Angry.
I see lightning in his eyes.
“You promised me,” he says, his voice low.
I nod slowly. “I did. But, Finn . . .” I struggle to find the right words. “It’s like you’re Major Tom. I know I can’t save you. But I still had to try. ’Cause how else would you know I love you?”
I hold my breath.
Finn shakes his head and rubs his hand over the back of his neck, tries to hold it back, to keep it in, but I see it: the second when the storm breaks and all the hardness falls away, the boy underneath beginning to cry.
I step forward, put my arms gently around him, not wanting to hurt any of his broken parts.
“I have to leave,” he whispers against my hair, his voice broken.
“I know,” I say.
“You did the right thing. I don’t like it, but I love you for it. Thank you.”
My shoulders release as he kisses my forehead hard, and I wonder if I could just hold on forever. Maybe if I don’t let go, he won’t leave.
But Finn deserves better than the in-between. We both do.
He whispers against my skin, “I’m so sorry I’m leaving you, Bird. I’m sorry for everything.”
I pull back, turn his chin gently toward me so he can see my eyes, so I can see his. “I’m not sorry for anything. You know why?”
He shakes his head.
“Without you I never would have quit the internship. I never would have found Carla’s. Without you, I never would have learned to fly.” I take in his crooked nose, the ragged and worn edges of his sweatshirt sleeves, that small space between his two front teeth, the storm in his eyes, trying to memorize as much of it as I can. “I’m going to miss you.”