Free Summer of Two Wishes by Julia London Page A

in years. They were almost too intense after the emotional swirl of the last week; another wave of nausea came over Macy. She pulled her arm free of his grip, gulping for air. “Excuse me,” she said, and hurried past him to the bathroom.
    Inside the small bathroom, Macy gripped the edge of the sink, her eyes closed, her belly churning. She was a horrible person. He was home, alive, and he still loved her, and she felt wobbly. It reminded her of the physical pain she’d felt when she’d lost Finn—too great to endure.
    When the nausea passed and she emerged, Brodie was standing outside the door, his arms folded over his chest. “Did you tell him about Two Wishes?” he asked quietly.
    The ranch—oh God, the ranch. “No,” she said, and when Brodie looked accusingly at her, she added, “I don’t need to tell him anything, Brodie. I am going to fix everything. He doesn’t need to know. What’s the point?”
    “You’re making a mistake, Macy,” Brodie said. “He should hear it from you.”
    “Just trust me, will you?” Macy asked with exasperation, and ducked around him. “Everything is under control,” she said as she passed, and ignored Brodie’s dubious expression.

8
     
    Finn’s head and heart were racing, giving him an excruciating headache. He lost sight of Macy after their talk; Brodie said she’d left with her mom.
    He wanted out of there, away from all the peering eyes, the smiles, all the hugs and pats on the back, proclaiming him a hero. He was starting to feel claustrophobic. Antsy.
    At last, Finn said good-bye to all the military personnel and Friends of Fort Hood, the reporters, his extended family, and God knew who else, and piled into his father’s Chevy Suburban with his entourage, headed for home.
    He rode in the front passenger seat, a seat of honor, apparently, as his mother had insisted he take it. But as the Suburban pulled onto Highway 71, they were met with an onslaught of lights rushing by in the opposite direction. The lights were blurring into each other and Finn blinked, trying to focus. He instinctively braced his arm against the frame of the car. He didn’t like riding in the front, sitting up high with nothing but glass around him. He felt dangerously exposed and defenseless. He tried to tell himself this was Austin, not Kabul, but it didn’t help his anxiety.
    He was so tense he could scarcely respond to the many questions his brother Luke put to him, could not concentrate when Mom talked about the family reunion she wanted to have as soon as possible. Finn could feel the trickle of perspiration running down his back as cars darted around his father’s lumbering machine. His heart lurched every time a dirty little white car swept past them—they reminded him of the car that drove into Danny and him, and there seemed to be an inordinate number of them in Austin.
    By the time they reached the old home place, his nerves were frayed. He spilled out of the Suburban and quickly walked away from it, pretending to get a good look at the house where he’d grown up, but gulping for air before anyone could notice. The house, a fifties-style ranch, was surrounded by scrubland and flanked to the south by a barn bigger than the house. A windmill that didn’t pump water anymore stood on the north side. The place looked exactly as it had the day Finn left, as if time had stood still on this little ranch.
    Someone put a hand on his shoulder; Finn flinched and whirled around.
    “Hey,” Luke said, quickly lifting his hand. “I didn’t mean to scare you, man. Are you all right?”
    “I’m fine,” Finn said. “I was just wondering—you think Dad has any whiskey?”
    Luke grinned. “Are you kidding? It’s still under the oil cans in the garage. I’ll get it and meet you on the back porch.”
    Finn grabbed his rucksack from the back of the Suburban and walked inside the house.
    “Finn, you’ll be in your old room,” his mother called from the kitchen. I’m going to fix us