He sucked in a deep breath and tried to get ahold of himself, I could tell, but I refused to look over at him. Finally, he put a hand on my knee. “I’m sorry, H, I’m sorry. That just sounds like—”
“I know what it sounds like. All right? I know. But I don’t know what else to do right now, and Lilah just left for school, and Gina’s telling me I have to move on, and he wrote me this letter and sent me these tickets. And the last thing he said to me was to tell Kyra Kelley about him. That was the last thing he asked me to do.” Tears came now, but I didn’t care. I was already humiliated. “So I’m gonna go to her concert and do that. And yes, I realize how stupid it sounds, okay? But you don’t get to have an opinion about it.”
I got out and heaved the passenger door shut, then wiped my eyes and walked around to the driver’s side, where he sat, finger tapping the steering wheel, stunned-quiet. “So get out. I need to get on the road.” He didn’t move. “Rusty, come on.”
He waved me off. “All right, all right.” But he didn’t get out. Instead, he shoved my stuff onto the floorboard and scooted over to the passenger side. “I’m going too, then.”
“Like hell you are.”
He stretched out his legs in front of him. “Yep. Finn wouldn’ta wanted you going off by yourself like this.” He patted the dash. “What if the car breaks down? Or you get lost?” I didn’t move, and I didn’t say anything. He leaned his head back. “What’re you waitin’ for, H? Let’s go see what’sher-name. I’ll just take a little rest here while you drive.” He patted the seat, then grinned up at me with half-closed eyes before his chin fell to his chest and he was out.
I wasn’t getting him out of the car. I thought for a second about driving to his house and rolling him out onto his front yard, but I didn’t hate him enough to leave him like that to deal with his dad. And what if the car did break down or I did get lost? What then? I glanced down at him in the passenger seat, where he’d ridden alongside my brother for all of high school. Then I turned around and went in the house, to Finn’s room.
Inside, it was still and dark. I twisted open the blinds and stood by the window a moment, feeling almost like I was doing something wrong. Like it should all be left exactly as it was even though I’d been in there a handful of times in the nine months since he’d shipped out. He’d always kept it simple and neat. It didn’t make much of a statement about him. He saved the Impala for that. From the chrome on the wheels to the slick black paint that cost him a fortune, he poured himself into that car. That was where I’d gone to feel close to him when he left. Driving around in it had been a comfort, so maybe it was right that I was about to take it on a mission that made sense only to me.
What didn’t make sense was that I’d made up my mind, somewhere between the car and Finn’s room, that Rusty could go with me. And that he’d need some clothes, because he reeked of a night spent drinking and mourning. I’d been so angry with him outside, I hadn’t let myself think of how he must be feeling. Finn would have been destroyed if it’d been the other way around.
I went to his dresser and pulled out a few shirts and a pair of jeans. Outside of his uniform or practice clothes, Rusty’d always worn boots and long pants, even in the Texas summer heat. But since we were headed to California, I went ahead and grabbed a pair of Finn’s shorts and a pair of flip-flops for him, just in case. He could figure out for himself what to do about underwear.
Clothes in hand, I took one last look around the too-still room. Then I headed out to my brother’s car, where the open road, Kyra Kelley, and his drunk ex–best friend were waiting.
4
There was one thing I had to do first.
When I pulled into the lot of Reagan County Park, I was relieved to find it empty. Certain allowances usually seem to be made for grieving people, but this probably wouldn’t be one of them. I turned the car off and glanced over at Rusty, who was passed out, head back, mouth open, in the front seat. He didn’t flinch when I got out and slammed my door or when I went around to each of the back doors and rolled the windows all the way down so he didn’t stink up the car. After another look around to make sure no one was watching, I walked across the dewy grass to where the town emblem, the Santa Rita No. 1, stood proudly, cordoned off by thick, twisted ropes stiff with dirt and age.
The story of the blessed oil derrick was Finn’s favorite to listen to as a kid and our dad’s favorite to tell. Dad had a knack for weaving words together that made it seem just as exciting every time he told it. According to him, the Santa Rita No. 1 was Big Lake’s very own miracle. It was one of the first oil derricks built here, and after twenty-one long months of construction and several more of dry, hopeless prospecting, it didn’t look very promising.
But one spring day, a partner in the local oil venture climbed to the top of it with a single dried rose in his hand. His name was Frank Pickrell, and he’d received the rose from a group of Catholic women investors all the way in New York. With every oil-less day that passed, they’d gotten more and more nervous about their investment, so they decided to take matters into their own hands. They had a priest bless the rose in the name of Saint Rita, the patron saint of the impossible, and they’d instructed Pickrell to scatter its dried petals over the top of the oil derrick as a sort of christening. Pickrell was willing to try anything by then, so he did just what they said. He climbed to the top of the rig and let the crushed red petals swirl in the wind and flutter down over the greased iron and cracked ground. The very next day, the rig spouted her first gusher, spraying the countryside with shiny black hope and securing the town’s future in oil.