Chapter 30

I took my time walking down the dirt road, wondering if I should write an old-fashioned letter to Fin explaining everything. Not right away, of course, but in a month or so. I could stop by the farm, when I was visiting my dad, and ask Harriet for his address. And maybe by then, she would agree it would be okay for me to contact him and apologize.

About halfway down the road, I noticed a rustling in the woods. At first I didn’t see anything. Then a large white nose pushed through a tall bush.

Beryl.

She trotted over to me and buried her head under my arm. “What are you doing out here?” Her skin flickered as I stroked her smooth coat. “I’m so glad to see you, but I think we both know where you need to go . . .”

Just then, a sharp whistle pierced the air. I spun around and saw Fin. He was standing back at the fork under the big tree. I had no idea how he could have gotten there without passing me.

I expected Beryl to immediately trot toward him, but she didn’t move from my side. So he whistled again, more sharply. Her tail swooshed at a fly, but she stayed put.

I couldn’t decide if I should lead Beryl toward him or if I should wait for him to come over and get her. As it turned out, we both moved forward at the same time.

His hands were in his pockets as he dragged his feet reluctantly across the ground. His head twisted sharply to the side, away from me.

“Hi,” I said.

He swiveled his head and stared at something above me. His whole face was filled with such anger and hurt, I barely recognized him.

“Come on, Beryl,” he said and turned to leave.

But still, she wouldn’t go.

Without thinking about what I should say or what Harriet wanted me to do, I found myself blurting the first thing that came into my head. “You did it to me too, you know, Finley von whatever your snobby last name is. You lied to me too!”

He stopped, still facing the other way.

“Beryl, come!” he snapped and continued walking again.

She refused.

“You never told me you were rich and famous and known all over the world for playing the cello! I HATE the stupid cello!”

He grabbed his head with both hands, then whipped around and glared at me.

“That doesn’t even make sense! Why would anyone hate an instrument?”

“Because that instrument destroyed my life. It split up my parents and stole my dad from our family! From me.”

As soon as I said it, I realized he was right. It didn’t make sense to blame my problems on a chunk of wood and a bunch of strings. Maybe the problem was I had no one to blame.

“I didn’t talk about my music,” said Fin, “because I wanted to feel normal. You have no idea what it’s like being famous. It’s impossible to have real friendships. I needed a real friend.”

“So did I.”

He inhaled and exhaled a series of exasperated breaths. “Do you have the slightest idea what it took for me to tell you everything I told you?” he finally said. “I trusted you.”

“I know. And I’m really sorry. I wish I had been honest with you from the beginning. I just wanted a whole new life where I felt like I belonged. So I experimented and decided to make it a game.”

“A game? You lied about every single thing. About your name, your family, your home, and even your age? You’re only twelve years old.”

He said that last part with such disgust, like Stella did, as if being twelve was the worst thing anyone could be.

“You were the one who said age was just a number.”

He kicked the ground and made a terrible sound, like he was in pain.

I turned to Beryl for help or some kind of sign, but her head was down, practically touching the ground.

“Fin,” I said, gathering all of my courage, “I didn’t know I would end up liking you so much. I wanted to tell you the truth, and I was going to, but then that horrible party happened and you found out everything before I had the chance.”

He stopped kicking the ground.

“Anyway, I’m going home tonight. And I heard you’re leaving too, so we’ll probably never see each other again. I just wanted to say that I’m really, really sorry. And also, thank you for finding Tutu.”

I turned to leave and to give Beryl one last stroke.

“That part about liking me,” said Fin. “Was that before or after I told you?”

I hesitated before turning back and facing him again. “Told me what?”

“About what happened when I was born?”

“Which part?”

Fin’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. “The part about being named Abigail?”

“Oh.” I paused, trying to figure out the right way to word my answer. “I like you because you’re Fin. Knowing what happened when you were born doesn’t change that. You’re still Fin. Right?”

His whole body softened, and he dropped his arms. “Right.”

“To be honest, I’m not sure I would have liked you if I’d known you play the stupid cello.”

His eyes were wet, but he laughed a little. Then he wiped his face and sniffed.

“I have an idea,” he said.

“What?”

“Meet me at the covered bridge ten years from today.”

A gust of wind blew leaves against the back of my legs. “Huh?”

“I mean it. Our ages won’t matter then.”

Ten years seemed like a lifetime away. I would be twenty-two years old and he would be twenty-five.

Fin pulled out his phone and studied the screen. “In one decade, on August 4th at exactly three o’clock Eastern Standard Time, promise to meet me at the covered bridge, Agnes Moon.”

When he said my name I didn’t cringe like I always did. “Okay, I promise.”

At that moment, Beryl pulled away from me, then strolled past Fin, and continued on toward the farm. As if her work here was done.