We didn’t grow up religious, and there weren’t many things Finn wasn’t confident about, but when he was up against one of them, he always came and grabbed a pinch of the Santa Rita’s dirt for good luck. If it was a game he needed it for, he’d smear it on the inside of his helmet. If there was a girl he wasn’t sure would say yes, he’d rub a few specks between his hands before he asked her out. And it never let him down. He believed in the patron saint of the impossible.
It was kind of a joke between the two of us, but this morning I figured if there ever was a time I needed her, it was now. I pulled Finn’s letter out of my purse and held the envelope open with one hand while I bent for a pinch of the blessed dirt with the other. Slowly, I rubbed my fingers together above the open envelope until the last tiny specks fell over the pages that contained his words and wishes.
Now I could go.
When I stood again, I felt a little glimmer of something in me. Hope, or confidence maybe, that I was doing the right thing. That I wasn’t completely crazy. That Finn would be proud and the impossible would become possible. I nodded a grateful thank-you to the Santa Rita and headed back to the car.
The engine rumbled when I laid my foot into the gas, and dry August air whipped through the open windows, blowing my hair into tangles all around me. Rusty slumped against the passenger door, snoring and down for the count, and I prayed he’d stay that way for a while. I needed to be alone with the road in front of me. And with Kyra Kelley, who was singing about wishing she’d never had to grow up. I understood, more so now than I had when I bought the album.
My whole life, I’d set my course by Finn, depending on him to guide me, like old sailors did with the stars. He’d been the one with the big ideas and the force of will to see them through, but now it was supposed to be me. Without him. The thought was foreign and hard to swallow. Even so, I told myself that the miles of desert and nothing towns stretched out in front of me were full with the possibility to do it. It didn’t matter that I only half believed it.
Rusty shifted in the seat and took in the deep, heavy breath of someone who was worlds away from consciousness. With him like that, I could almost pretend like it wasn’t a terrible idea to bring him along. He did, at one time, have his good points. Ever since I could remember, he’d been Finn’s most loyal and devoted friend. They were inseparable, despite that they were so different, and Rusty spent more time at our house growing up than his. Which I understood.
At his house, it was just him and his dad, who drank too much and blamed Rusty for the way his life had turned out. In his sober moments, which were few, he obsessed over Rusty’s football playing and was the proudest dad ever, convinced his boy was going to the pros. Inevitably, though, when game nights rolled around, he’d show up to the stands already primed up, and I’d hope the boys played well, especially Rusty, so his dad wouldn’t make a scene. Sometimes it was the other team or the coach or the refs that were the target, but most often it was Rusty—something he didn’t do well enough or fast enough or hard enough.
So he came to our house, where Gina would make us big dinners, fawn over the boys, and do her best to smooth it all over. They went out a lot too, especially by their senior year. After the game, they’d leave the house all showered up and smelling like Old Spice and mint gum, and roll off into the night in the Impala, leaving me behind wondering what went on out at the Pit or the field or whatever party spot they were headed to. I never got to go with them no matter how much I begged, but the following Monday at school, I’d always hear stories about the parties they’d been at. They were the party. Finn because of his friendly, contagious personality that could make you like him in five seconds flat, and Rusty because of his football bravado and ability to shotgun a beer faster than anyone around.
They were a team, on and off the field, so it wasn’t surprising when Northern Arizona University recruited both of them with full rides and they accepted. The only surprise came right before graduation, when—out of nowhere—Finn turned his scholarship down and enlisted, and Rusty turned on the both of us so fast, it was like they’d never been friends to begin with. With Rusty passing us by without so much as a glance and Finn getting ready for boot camp instead of college, nothing could have been more surprising or more wrong. Until now.
I pushed the thought away and set my eyes on the horizon. Between the heat of the day and the heat seeping through the floorboards from the engine, my feet were burning inside the boots I’d pulled on without thinking, so I took a gulp of water that had now turned warm and worked on slipping them off while driving. The left one wasn’t so hard. I just had to dig the heel into the floor and slide my foot out. The relief was immediate, but so was the smell of leather and foot sweat. I glanced over at Rusty and inched the window down the last bit. My gas-pedal foot was trickier. I moved it off to the side and put my bare toes on the pedal so both feet were on it, then I gingerly lifted my booted foot and used one hand to yank it off.
The car swerved, and I overcorrected, tossing Rusty into the door. “What the hell?” He sat up rubbing his head and looked around, trying to get his bearings. “What happened?” He didn’t wait for me to answer, but sniffed. “Ugh. Didn’t anyone ever teach you to wear socks?”
I looked at him out the corner of my eye, being careful to keep the car steady, and turned the music down. He leaned his head toward the open window. “You got any aspirin?”