Finn’s computer lights up, but his school work isn’t on the screen. It’s a list of obituaries for Cheyenne, Wyoming. My brows furrow as I scroll through names and faces. Of course I don’t recognize anyone, but that doesn’t mean Finn doesn’t.
“Did someone die?” I ask when he comes back into the room.
He’s in his jacket, ready to go. He doesn’t answer me, but holds out his hand. I slip my fingers through his and we start down the stairs.
“Finn?” I press, when we step outside and the cool fall breeze hits my face.
We’ve taken ten more steps before he speaks. “Yeah, somebody died.” His free hand finds the top of the long rippled scar that stretches from his neck to his abdomen.
“You’re looking for your donor?” How did I not realize this?
“Don’t call me senseless. I hear enough of that from my parents.”
“No. Not senseless.” Though, I can’t imagine Marley or Danny using that word. “But Finn, you hardly know anything. He was a white, twenty-year-old guy.”
“Yep, I’ve been through Utah’s obituaries and I’m almost through Wyoming’s. I’ve got one option from Utah so far.”
My mind goes crazy with my own search. Anthony Bernard—twenty—motorcycle accident. I gulp down a cold gust of air that attempts to take over my breath. “Anthony,” I murmur so quietly that Finn can’t hear me over the wind. I haven’t forgotten him. I’ve learned a lot about his parents through articles on their humanitarian efforts. But I know little about him. “What are you going to do?”
He stares forward, not willing to look at me. “I’m going to find out for sure if it’s him.”
“And then?”
“I’ve written his family a letter.”
“Finn, they had the option of leaving their mailing address so you could do just that. They didn’t.”
“I know that.” He peers down at me, finally meeting my eyes. The blue around his pupil glistens. “But I have to.”
“It’s Anthony.” I stare at Cytha’s uncomprehending face. “Finn’s donor, it’s Anthony Bernard.”
Her jaw drops, and for once in her life, Cytha has nothing to say. She swallows and blinks. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” All of my mysterious puzzle pieces have suddenly created a picture.
“What are you going to do?” she ask.
“I’m not sure.”
We stare at each other another minute before saying our goodbyes. Neither of us knowing what to say or do with this information.
I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling, waiting for Harmony to come wish me goodnight. The swirls on the ceiling make faces and I try to turn them into the smiling face of Anthony Bernard. But they won’t twist and turn the way I want them to. I hold my hands to my chest, feeling my heart beat through my skin. My heart hurts for the Bernards, who I feel almost as if I know at this point. But I’d choose Finn every time. And thinking those words in my head makes me feel so selfish—it makes me understand a tiny portion of Finn’s guilt and pain over the heart in his chest. Only Finn would have chosen Anthony.
Harmony bounces into the room, twirling in her new princess nightgown.
“Hi, Harmony,” I say from my bed. I can’t help but smile at my little cousin. She is the cutest.
She puts her nose right onto my cheek. “’Night, sister,” she says through her heavy breathing. Then she giggles and kisses my cheek.
I pull her onto the bed next to me and give her, what Harmony calls, a bear hug. “Goodnight.” I sigh. “Harmony, how do I help Finn?”
She peers up at me and smiles, oblivious to what I’m talking about. “Essie loves Finn.”
I laugh and tickle her sides, making her giggle too. “Essie loves Harmony!”
That night I sleep, checking off the steps of the dream I know so well. Only this time instead of driving with Finn, I’m taking him there. Instead of walking down the Bernard’s street, I’m helping Finn find the way.
I can waste my time doubting, but the truth is, I assume it’s the right thing to do—otherwise, why would I be prompted to go?
34
I wait three more days. I wait for October. But the snow still hasn’t fallen. Still, I cannot keep this to myself any longer knowing that Finn is searching up obituaries every other day.
I feel the weight of Anthony’s obituary in my purse, tucked inside my favorite book. I don’t look for Marley—who isn’t at the register, but skip up the first flight of stairs to the Matthews’ home and then on to the next flight. I tap on Finn’s bedroom door, shaking out my nervous fingers.
“It’s open,” he says. His sandy hair waves just a touch over his ears and his blue eyes focus on his computer screen. He types out another sentence before looking over at me. “Essie.” He grins, surprised to see me. He looks so—normal.
He stands and meets me by the door, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me in for a hug. He’s tall and strong and not as broken as he’s always thought. His short whiskers brush my cheek and I breathe him in—summer in the fall. I brush my lips to his jaw and he turns his head, his lips meeting mine. I’ve pecked his mouth two dozen times since his surgery more than two months ago, nothing more. But Finn doesn’t pull away and he holds me close.
“Are—are you okay?” I ask, my mouth on his.
He answers me with his kiss, deep and moving.
I pull away first, needing air and needing to see his face. “Good day?”
“You’re here. Yeah.” His words make me think of his list, of his number thirteen. I don’t know if Finn loves me, but his kiss makes me believe he does. At least this is what I hoped love would feel like.
My purse slips from my shoulder, reminding me what I came to do. I slide my arms from his neck to his forearms. “Can we sit?” I quickly add, “I brought you something,” because my words sound so ominous and serious—even to me—and I don’t want him thinking I’m leaving town or something.
His brows raise and he leads me to a pair of bean bags on the floor. We sit side by side. I slip off my shoes and pull my legs into a cross.
“I brought this book for you.” I shrug—it sounds kind of stupid now. I mean, we work in a bookstore. He has his pick of books. But I know he’s reading a hundred classics and I want him to add this one to his list. It feels important. “I’m not a huge reader.” I shift in my seat, my nerves a jumbled mess. “But I’ve read this one a few times.” I pull out the book and slide Anthony’s obituary into my lap.
“Jonathon Livingston Seagull,” Finn says, darting his eyes from the cover with the flying seagull to my face.
“It’s about a bird.” I swallow. “Who wants to be more and do more. He won’t conform, and because of that, he becomes something great.”
He takes the book and looks over the cover of my own personal copy.
“You’re Jonathon,” I tell him, my hand finding his, “whether you know it or not. You were meant for great things.”