‘I am, aren’t I?’Finn had replied needily, fingers tugging at Hank’s beard, his soul a famished, bottomless pit when it came to Hank’s praise.
‘Of course you are. You’re the best boy anyone could ever want.’ And then he’d cried silently against Hank’s shoulder because that’s all he’d ever wanted to be. Someone’s best boy. Because best boys got rewards and were not locked inside dark closets for God knows how long.
“Settle down, girls! Settle down!” Cara’s clear voice tore through his thoughts like some divine intervention just when the memories were becoming too much to stomach.
Brushing cookie crumbs from her chest, Pamela beamed at him, knocking her elbow against his.
“Number three from the left. That’s my Hayley. You watch now,” she cooed as if she were promising Finn the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Finn nodded politely because what else could you do when you were sitting next to Power Mom Pamela, which he’d named her a minute and a half into theirconversation. He offered her a piss-poor attempt at a smile and a half-assed thumbs up, which seemed to satisfy Pamela as she proceeded to scarf down what was most likely her tenth cookie, eyes glued to her little prodigy.
The next forty-five minutes were spent in a blur of pinks and baby blues, whirls and twirls, accompanied by first Liszt’sLiebestraumand then Bach’sThe Well-tempered Clavieruntil Finn zoned out and there was only Hank left. Hank, listening to Rod in the small, cozy kitchen, coffee brewing on the orange coffeemaker that was so early eighties and just so perfectly Hank. The soft piano tones were replaced by Rod’s raspy, ‘Cause I know you don’t play, but I’ll teach you one day, because I looove you.’
When the class came to an end, Finn exhaled a deep sigh of relief as his gaze found his sister’s across the dance studio, her blue eyes bright with passion and her cheeks flushed from instructing the girls.
And then shame coursed over him because, up until then, hehadfelt pity for his sister. Even earlier, when she’d made him promise her not to, he’d pitied her. Because he’d thought that he’d robbed her of a full life, but the look of sheer joy and fulfillment displayed on Cara’s face this very minute contradicted all his previous notions of what a full life entailed. Because as much as Cara’s life—and his own—had changed on that fateful night eight years ago, it appeared his sister’s dreams had changed with it. The fact that she was now in a wheelchair had not put a damper on Cara’s joy of life. On the contrary. She did something that she loved, and on top of that, she’d made a family of her own. A child, even.His nephew.
Sadness overcame him once again, because while Cara had forged through, making a life for herself post-catastrophe, he’d punished himself by denying himself that very thing—a life.
A phone dinged in his pocket, and it took him a few seconds to remember that his mom had handed him an old one of his before they’d left for the dance school.
‘Just so you know, sweetie, I put a tracker on it.’His mom had winked at him, the corner of her mouth trembling just a tad. ‘No getting away from me again, Finnie. I’ll track you down myself this time.’ He withdrew it from his jeans as Cara rounded up her class. Touching the screen, he saw a message from his mom.
MOM:Dinner’s at seven. Fenn helped me make apple pie *smile emoji* *pie emoji*
There was a photo of his nephew attached, a broad grin on his face as he stirred a large bowl, probably more batter on the kitchen counter than inside it. Finn chuckled quietly, sweeping his thumb across the photo. Then, those small dots appeared and disappeared across the screen before another message appeared. Instead of a message, it was a link to an Instagram account.
MOM:Instagram.com/annaknitsandreads
That was new. His mom certainly hadn’t been on social media when he’d left Florence. Tapping on the link, he was redirected to what appeared to be his mom’s account, photos of homemade sweaters, Regency romance novels, and pictures of Fenn dominating the feed. Then he noticed her latest post. It was a photo from their deck, the grayish-bluish ocean in the background, the pale winter sun peeking out from behind heavy clouds. The photo was a bit blurry, like the one taking it had shaky hands. Or perhaps it was his own gaze that was suddenly turning fuzzy as he read the caption. “Best view in eight years. My Finn is home.”
“All good?” his sister asked next to him, placing her hand on his right knee, squeezing it reassuringly.
“Mom’s on Instagram,” he blurted stupidly, pushing up his glasses on his nose, eyes not leaving the photo.
“Yeah, go figure,” Cara chuckled. Then her voice grew solemn. “She created it when you disappeared. I think it was her way of focusing her attention on something else. Or perhaps she hoped that you’d find her account, and you’d notice.”
“Notice what?” Finn swallowed, his mouth impossibly dry. Cara reached for his phone and tilted her chin at the screen.
“May I?”
“Sure,” he murmured. Grabbing the phone, she scrolled, her index finger hovering over a folder that read “Dear Finn.”Tapping it, a saved story appeared titled “To my son Finn on his 29thbirthday.”
“There’s one for every year that you’ve been gone,” Cara spoke quietly. “Every year on October 16th, she sat down and wrote you a birthday message. They never lost hope, you know. That you’d come home again. Never. You’re their firstborn.” She shrugged, swiping a finger below her left eye.Firstborn.He tasted the word on his tongue. His mother hadn’t borne him nor given birth to him.
“I’m not their real child,” he whispered, finally giving voice to that awful, ugly truth that had haunted him since he was three years old. “I’m no one’s real child.”
“No?” Cara countered, handing him his phone back. “If you really believe that, Finnie, then I think you should read your birthday letters. It’s long overdue. I’m pretty sure they’ll convince you otherwise.” She squeezed his knee again. “Don’t let that one pitiful voice overpower all the others that mean you well. Youareloved, Finn. By all of us.” She chuckled. “Even Fenn, and he doesn’t even know you yet.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, voice gruff, heavy with emotion.
“I mean, he knowsofyou, and that's enough for him to love you. I’ve always told him about you. Showed him pictures. Toldhim about all the times you took me whale watching when you had other—better—things to do.”
“I never had anything better to do,” he sniffed.
“Okay.” Cara shook her head. Then her phone buzzed. “That’s probably Mom, one text away from sending out a search party. You ready?” His sister smiled at him.
“Yeah, I’m ready.”I’m ready.
His mom had made up the bed in his old teenage room above the garage. It had either been that or the basement, but Finn preferred the view from the small window facing the ocean. On clear days, you could get a fairly good glimpse at the small sailboats and charters bobbing up and down on the unruly waves. Besides, he preferred the airy feel of the bright, whitewashed walls and the wooden floors of the apartment to the stuffiness of the carpeted basement with the magenta-colored Ingrain wallpaper. Even though he was a grown-up now, it still creeped him out, the firm conviction he’d held as a kid that small bugs—spiders, the horror of it alone—lived underneath the bumpy wallpaper.
