“You might as well take something for your anxiety, because nothing’s getting her on that plane.” Stephanie bit back a laugh. “I guess, she might do it if she thought someone else’s life depended on it. Otherwise, you’re out of luck.”
Bingo!
“Thank you, Steph. Thank you so much.” He pumped her hand so hard her whole body shook and ignored her confused expression in his hurry to reach his office. He didn’t have much time, if this was going to work.
“What do you mean, I ‘inspired’ you?” Laurie asked, not even bothering to hide the skepticism in her tone. She’d been busy tying up all the final loose ends for the fundraiser when Finn appeared in her doorway.
He strolled in and sat down in the chair in front of her desk, as if he owned the place. Well, technically, I guess he does own it.
“When I saw how you were willing to sacrifice to save money for the kids, I realized I was being selfish flying on the company plane. We’re talking $20,000 each way, in fuel costs alone.”
Her stomach twisted. “Please tell me you didn’t cancel the company jet.”
“I did, and it’s a good thing. One of our spina bifida patients needs to be transported for hip surgery.”
“It’s not safe for you to ride on a commercial airline.” She gave him her sternest look, one designed to instill terror in the strongest of wills. “I won’t allow it.”
“Most people don’t own a private jet, you know. A ton of people with cystic fibrosis fly commercial every day.”
So much for the stern look. She might as well have stuck out her tongue and crossed her eyes.
She tried logic. “And some of those people get sick from the germ exposure, and some of them end up in the hospital—which you just left, by the way—and some of them die.”
His face clouded, but only for an instant. Then his dimples reappeared, mocking her efforts to reason with him.
“My doctor said the same thing, when I called. But I told her I’m going anyway. I have to.”
“No, you don’t. There’s no reason to take that kind of risk. Especially when you just got out of the hospital. Your resistance is already down.”
“I’ll probably be fine. Of course my doc is pretty worried. She gave me some steroids and extra oral antibiotics in case I get an infection.” He leaned back, propping his ankle across his knee. “The good news is I got a flight on Saturday, so I’ll have a few days to recover if I catch something on the plane.”
“No, no, no, no, no. This isn’t happening.” Laurie opened her water thermos and drank until it was half empty. She slammed it back onto her desk and glared at him. “What do you have to do?”
He blinked in confusion. “What are you asking me?”
“In the airport… on the plane… when you fly commercial… what do you have to do so you won’t get sick? Do you have to wipe down the surfaces with a disinfectant?”
“I think that’s right, but it’s been a while.” He sat forward, his brows knitting. “For sure, I’ll wear a mask. But if anyone recognizes me, I always take it off.”
“You can’t do that. You have to leave it on.” Hands on her hips, she frowned at him, but those taunting dimples flashed again.
“You don’t understand. Most people don’t know anything about CF, so I’m the most public face for it. If I wear a mask, some people are actually afraid of me—afraid of CF—like I might make them sick.”
“That’s ridiculous. Those people are a threat to you, not visa-versa.”
“I know that, and so do you. But not the general public. One of my most important jobs is educating people.”
“What good is it to educate people if you die in the process?” She meant for her question to sound rhetorical, but it came out with a bit too much force.
The dimples winked out of view. “I’ll tell you like I’ve told Branson and Cole and Jarrett… I’m not afraid to die. I’ve had a good life already. Every day I live now is just gravy. And when I pass, my work will go on… probably even stronger.”
Her stomach flipped over about a dozen times.
“You know what, Finn? That… what you just said… You know what I think?”
His brows arched together in the middle over his clear blue eyes, reminding her of an innocent little boy saying his prayers at night. “What?”
“I think that’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.”
His mouth fell open, but no words came out.
She ranted on. “Do you have some kind of death wish?”
“I never said that,” he sputtered.
“No, you just made this big martyr-speech about why you’re not going to work hard to stay alive.”
“I’ve always worked hard to stay alive.”
He stood up and leaned forward over her desk, but she didn’t back down, meeting his glare with her own.
“Then why are you talking like an old man on his death bed? If you’re representing all those other people out there with cystic fibrosis who are fighting for their lives every day, you’d better start acting like it.”
“I’m only being realistic.” He jutted out his chin, his arms flailing with emotion. “The average lifespan for a person with CF—”
“Has absolutely nothing to do with how long you’re going to live.” She stood, her hands clenched. “Have you lived the rest of your life trying to do what the average person does?”
