I nibble on my inner cheek and fiddle with the book in my hand. “What does that mean, progressed?”
She holds a hand to her own heart, as if it may burst from her chest. “It means that Finn needs a new heart.”
10
“You’re here already.” Finn pauses at the bottom of the stairs. “What are you doing?”
“Leave her alone,” Danny says from the balcony. His head peeks over the edge down at us. “Your mother gave her permission to do whatever her creative heart desires.”
I haven’t had too many conversations with Danny, but he’s kind of the male version of Marley. I place another hardback on top of my circular, staggered book formation—the trunk of my book tree.
“I didn’t say anything,” he says to Danny.
Before Finn can open his mouth again, Danny trots down the stairs. “I’m off. See you, Essie. Be good, kiddo.” He pats Finn on the back and heads out the door.
Finn holds out his arm toward the exit. “Like I’m six years old.”
I smirk and stack a few more books. “Where does your dad work, anyway?”
“The mine,” he says with a shake of his head, still clearly annoyed by Danny’s goodbye.
“The mine with the explosion?”
“Yeah.”
“Was anyone—”
“No fatalities.”
So people were hurt, but at least no one died. At least Danny is okay. “Wow, that’s a little too close to home.”
Finn’s frown turns to smirk. “You’re telling me.”
“Right,” I flutter my lashes. Duh—his literal home shook. If anyone shouldn’t forget that, it’s me.
“So, what are you doing? And despite what my dad says, that isn’t an accusation, just a question.”
My eyes flit down to his chest, where his broken heart takes up space, but I quickly turn back to my project. I motion with my hands, creating the form of the great tree I plan to take up the entire window. “It’s going to be a tree. The books will be the trunk and branches.” I hop down from my kneeling position on the bench. “Then, look at this. This is the best part.” I pull up the two novels that are falling to pieces. “Marley gave me these. I’m going to cut leaves from the loose pages and adhere them to the window to make the foliage.” I step back, studying the window and seeing the finished display in my head. It’s going to be magnificent. I haven’t had anything creative to work on in a long time. I’ve let my drawings sit untouched in my sketch book and I haven’t picked up a paint brush—not since Lisa died.
“Huh,” he says, sounding unimpressed. “Guess that means you don’t want to play?” He holds up a small cartridge, but I recognize the symbol on the front, Assassin’s Alliance.
I’m tugged towards his friendliness in a way that I can’t explain. I don’t want to reject him. “After dinner break?”
“You’ll be done by then?”
“Not even close.”
He laughs. “Okay. I’ll help you.”
“You don’t have to,” I say, knowing we have stacks to move and rows of books to adjust. Marley has used books shipped in almost daily. “I can come in tomorrow to finish.”
“Tomorrow is your day off, Essie,” he says my name like a sardonic question. “When did my dad start calling you that?”
I shrug. Danny’s always called me that. I never told him he could or couldn’t. “It’s just a nickname.” I adjust the two books I just added to my trunk. “And I don’t mind coming in. You guys don’t need to pay me for tomorrow.”
“Geez, does your home life suck that much?”
I feel defensive of Rodrick and his family—though I am doing my best to avoid them. “No,” is all I say. I wouldn’t be lying if I told him it feels good to be creating something. I haven’t been this happy since before Lisa died.
The base of the trunk is finished. I’ve even got books splayed out so that they look like roots grounding across the wide bench. We’ve started building up. I should have been counting how many books we’ve used—at this rate every book in the hundreds of stacks in the store will be used to make my tree trunk.
“So, what if a customer comes in and wants this one?” He points to a book I’ve never heard of in the middle of what we’ve built.
I press my lips into a flat line. “They’ll have to come back at the end of summer.” We’ve had two customers since I started my little project, both knew exactly what they wanted, and Finn knew where to find it. I’m not worried.
His lips part into a grin and he laughs, making his blue eyes sparkle—that’s the picture I’d like to send to Cytha. But it’s the photo of Finn with his head back and oxygen cannula attached that is still tattooed in my brain, as well as my photos app.
“Lunch?” he says—though its five in the evening. He seems less cynical today—like me knowing his secret has changed him or changed something. Or maybe he had a bad week—I don’t know.
I have three dollars in my pocket and a debit card in my denim purse. “Is there someplace close? Where I could grab something?”
“No pink lunch box today?” He smirks, but flips over the closed sign on the store. “Do you like Asian food?”
“Sure.” I step away from my trunk, admiring the work we’ve done. My back aches a little from my bending and stacking motion. I’m anxious to get back to work, but a break sounds good too. I grab my purse from beneath the register and slide it over my shoulder.
Finn locks up and we walk down the street to a run-down place that looks as if it’s out of business. It’s only a few blocks away, but I can hear that Finn is winded when we finally reach the restaurant. He ignores it, though—so I do too. I’m starting to like Finn—sort of. We may even be friends by the time this summer is over. I’m hoping I don’t have to wreck that by bugging him about his oxygen levels. Something tells me he wouldn’t appreciate it.
We order our food and it comes quick, in little paper bowls with plastic forks—street food. It would be easy to walk it back to the shop—easy for me. The fact is I am worried about the huff I hear in Finn’s breathing and voice. “Can we stay here?”
“You think the store’s going to run itself?”
“I—”
“I’m kidding.” He grins again and waves off his joke. “Sure. I’m guessing we won’t miss much business.”
“Yeah,” I squint and purse my lips, “what’s up with that?” I take a bite of my teriyaki shrimp, my hand hovering in front of my half full mouth. “I mean, the store is awesome, but it can’t be very profitable.”
“You haven’t realized it yet?” He quirks one dark eyebrow. “The store is my parent’s hobby, Esther. And,” his eyes flutter upward, “something to keep their son busy while they’re working.”
I point my fork at him, circling it. “They don’t want their teenage son home playing video games all day?” I titter—knowing we’re going back to play AA rather than work on my tree.