Mistakes We Never Made

5 Thursday Morning

(Two days before the wedding)

MY DAD ALWAYS SAIDyou could tell all you needed to know about someone from how they kept their car. Scraped-off bumper stickers means they’re probably impulsive but can’t commit to anything long term. Grime on the body will tell you they can’t afford a carport—much less a garage. Though my dad always had a soft spot when he saw cars parked on the street with their side-view mirrors folded in. They might not have a lot, he said, but they took care of what they had.

In Texas, we measure our lives in hours of driving. Dallas is three hours from Austin. Austin is nine hours from El Paso. And El Paso is eight hours and two missed childhoods away from my shitty dad. Cars are an assurance that no matter how bad it gets, you can always get in and head into the unknown, which is probably why my dad loved them so much. But it turns out there are some things you can’t leave behind no matter how much horsepower you have.

The Singer purrs beneath us as we weave down the Santa Monica Mountains and out to the coast. The view is spectacular. Manhattan may be an island, but these days the closest I get to the water is when the L train goes under the East River on my way to work.

I start to put down my window, but Finn hits what must be a child-lock button on his driver’s-side door.

“The AC is on,” he says by way of explanation.

“Well, I can’t smell the ocean through the AC.”

“Strong rebuttal, but I’m going to have to counterargue that you won’t smell the ocean so much as the exhaust fumes from that eighteen-wheeler up ahead.”

I roll my eyes at his debate team speak but concede the point. We may be on one of the most scenic highways in the country, but the fact remains that it is a highway and we’re in near bumper-to-bumper traffic.

“So what time did you tell Jamie that we’d be back?”

“Jamie thinks we’re at the spa at the hotel,” I say, pulling my gaze from the ocean to see Finn’s appalled face.

“Jamie doesn’t know?” He reaches for his phone, but suddenly has to pull up short to shift gears as the car in front of us slows. “I’m calling him right now.”

“You are not.” I pluck the phone out of his cup holder. “This’ll all be fixed soon, and he never needs to know.”

“If it was my fiancée, I would want to know.” My skin tingles at the low rumble of Finn’s tone. He reaches across the gearshift, his forearm grazing my bare thigh, but I manage to hold the phone out of reach.

“Well, clearly Sybil didn’t want Jamie to know, or she would have told him her plans. You really want to rat her out?” His loyalty to Sybil gives him pause just long enough for me place the phone on the floorboard beside my feet, where he can’t reach it without risking sending us crashing over the guardrail and into the waves below.

As I lean back into my seat, I notice an old CD in the pocket of the car door. I rotate it so I can see the spine. Celtic Woman.

I stifle a laugh. I used to have this exact album. Well, Mom did. She would blast the melodic wailing, reminding Liz and me that this was our heritage (as if my auburn hair wasn’t constant reminder enough of our Irish roots). It’s the type of CD that would immediately lose Finn cool points with his tech-bro friends, so naturally, I have to call him out on it. I’m racking my brain trying to remember any Gaelic song titles I can work into a sentence, when suddenly the phone at my feet buzzes.

Finn raises an eyebrow at me. “That could be important.”

I lean forward to grab it. “More otter pics from your mom?”

“Emma…” he warns.

“Ooh, is it your girlfriend calling to check in?” The phone continues to buzz in my palm and I check the caller ID. It’s an unsaved San Francisco number. “Wow, you don’t even have her number saved to your contacts? That’s harsh.” I have no idea if Finn is seeing anyone at the moment, and his face is betraying nothing. I guess I could just ask him if he actually has a girlfriend, but first I’d have to care. Which I don’t.

Finn snorts. “I’m sure your boyfriend is saved with about five emojis.” He makes another swipe to grab the phone, catching a bit of side-boob in the process. “Did you go with the eggplant, or keep it classy and stick to the kissy face?”

“Hey, no redirects allowed.” The phone keeps ringing. “Is this chick stalking you? Need me to intervene?”

“I think I can handle it,” he says, holding out his hand.

“Oh, I know you are capable of juggling multiple ladies,” I say. Finn winces slightly but doesn’t look over at me. “Just tell me this.” I’m still clutching the phone to my chest. “Does whoever’s calling actually know she’s not your girlfriend? Or are we still out here breaking hearts?”

“Trust me, I’m very open about the fact that I’m not in a relationship place right now.” Finn’s eyes are on the road, and I’m a little deflated that he’s being so serious, even while admitting that he’s basically a self-proclaimed player. I don’t know why, but I’m in a teasing mood. Finn brings it out of me.

“You know, maybe I should take this for you. You are driving, after all.” I pretend to press the answer button on the phone and hold it to my ear. “Sexual Emoji Department, Emma Townsend speaking.”

“Hello?”

A tinny voice emits from Finn’s phone, startling us both. I involuntarily toss the phone back to the floor then quickly grab it and pass it over to Finn. “Shit,” I whisper. “I am so sorry.”

He glances at the screen. “It’s work,” he says to me, and then into the phone he answers with a gruff “Hughes here.”

I curl away from Finn, pressing my body into the passenger door, as if perhaps I’ll be able to melt into the smooth leather interior.

Desperate for any distraction from my mortification, I pull out my own phone and scroll through my work inbox. There’s a meeting invitation from my boss for Monday morning with just two words in the subject line: Performance Review. I accept the meeting and close out my email. Great. Now I’ll have that hanging over my head like a guillotine blade all weekend.

I take a deep breath in, hold it for seven seconds, then exhale for eight, just like the antianxiety app taught me.

Finn wraps up his call, placing his phone back in the cup holder, where I don’t even dare to look at it.

“Sorry about that,” I say sheepishly.

“That was one of my top investors.” He stares straight ahead out the windshield, so it’s hard to tell how pissed he is.

“Shit. Seriously, Finn, I am so sorry. Did I screw anything up for you?”

“Just a multimillion-dollar sale.”

My jaw drops. I’m about to start groveling when I notice the corner of his mouth twitch. Finally, he looks over at me, and when he does, I can see that I haven’t actually ruined his career with my stupid joke.

“Screw you,” I say, relieved. I punch my window-down button defiantly. Despite Finn’s counterargument, I can smell the salt air. I take a deep breath, not bothering to count my inhale this time. Traffic has cleared a bit, so we’re moving with speed now. The wind whips my hair around my face, getting caught in my mouth, but I don’t care. I’m suddenly transported back to bus rides to debate tournaments when Finn and I would pass the time by playing round after round of truth or dare. I glance over at him, trying to reconcile this version of Finn with the kid I met in middle school—shy, and sweet, but with a biting wit that could surprise you. The breeze ruffles the sleeve of his shirt, and for a moment, I can almost see him—and not this semi-stranger that Finn has become.

“I am selling my company though,” he says, raising his voice over the sound of the air rushing by us. “Or really, I’ve sold my company. It’s just paperwork at this point.”

Things begin to click together. The investing, the Singer, the second-nicest cottage at an incredibly expensive hotel… suddenly I’m thinking the phrase multimillion-dollar sale might not have been part of the joke. I roll my window back up and look over at him.

“Oh, wow. Congrats.” I almost wince at how sullen I sound. Sure, Finn may have stomped on my tender heart more than once, but why shouldn’t he be a crazy-successful entrepreneur? It’s not like I’ve spent the last five years praying for his demise. If it weren’t for our respective friendships with Sybil keeping us tethered to the same gravitational force, my interactions with Finn would be negligible. I couldn’t care less how many classic cars he owns or how many perfectly tailored T-shirts he can afford. It’s just that my own current professional situation is a nightmare, all my friends are living somewhere else, and my love life’s on ice. (Alas, no eggplant emoji to speak of. My most recent relationship ended last fall. He always put his wet coffee spoon back into the sugar bowl. Enough said.) Work is all I have right now. It’s rough to see so many of my contemporaries thriving as full-blown, successful adults, while I’m barely managing to hang on to my job.

Until a few months ago, I had actually been doing really well. I was on my way to becoming one of the youngest senior designers in company history. But then the Hansons came along. They were a couple from Dallas who’d recently purchased a gorgeous, neoclassical mansion in Highland Park. Excited by the hometown connection, I lobbied my boss hard to let me take the lead on the project. She relented when the Hansons mentioned how much they liked the foyer I’d worked on here in NYC.

I put together my pitch and flew home to Dallas.

It was a shit show.

Turns out they weren’t looking for the dramatic foyer that I’d done for Nikki’s sister. They were talking about a hotel I’d worked on in Williamsburg, a sleek obsidian and malachite space for their lobby. I was proud of how I’d executed my boss’s vision on that one, but it was never something I would have designed myself. The Hansons took one look at the bold, artistic design I’d drawn up for their home, and promptly fired our firm.

The only thing worse than seeing the dirt lot where they razed the historic mansion was the ominous references to “reassessing my role within the team” that my boss has been making ever since.

Finn flips on the radio, looking for a clear signal, eventually settling on some bland Top 40 station. I consider mocking him for the Celtic Woman CD, but the reminder of the disparity of our work situations has zapped the fun out of it. Sure, you might be a tech wunderkind with career success and Mr. Darcy levels of financial stability, but I have cooler taste in music—so there!

Instead, I take in the rest of the car. The back is filled with papers, a soft-sided Yeti cooler, a beat-up gym bag, and a ratty Duke sweatshirt. Pretty basic stuff, but it all feels strangely intimate and out of place here in the Singer. This is a car built for escaping your life. For driving along the Pacific Coast Highway with your windows rolled down, Tom Petty blasting. But Finn is treating the Porsche like a minivan. It’s like he’s dragging his whole life with him. I wonder when he was last home to his parents’ house in Dallas. Mother’s, I remind myself. Finn’s dad passed away when we were freshmen in college.

A thought comes to me, quick as a reflex. It’s one of those dark, selfish ones you don’t say out loud: sometimes, I wish my dad were dead. It’s terrible, I know. I don’t mean it in a he’s-so-awful-he-should-just-be-dead kind of way. Because he’s not, most of the time. Most of the time he’s just… nothing. A blurry vagueness whose absence has played a far bigger role in my life than anything he’s actually done. I guess I just mean it like… maybe it would feel cleaner. Grief may be a heavier burden to carry, but I don’t think it poisons you quite the same way that bitterness does.

The traffic stalls again, getting worse and worse as we head into San Diego. Finn looks something up on his phone, then puts on his blinker and pulls off I-5.

“What are you doing?” Finn turns down another street, and it’s clear that we’re no longer headed toward San Diego.

“I’m grabbing something to eat. There’s a place up here that’s supposed to have the best tacos in the state. Apparently, all the pro golfers hit it when they play Torrey Pines.”

“No, we’ve got to keep going.” Not only are we losing our window to find Sybil and bring her back in time for the welcome party, but Nikki will lose her shit if she learns we found ourselves within a nine iron’s swing of Aaron.

“I didn’t get anything to eat this morning, because a semi-feral woman dragged me out of the shower and didn’t give me time to grab breakfast.”

“You could’ve just given me your keys,” I say sweetly. “Then you could’ve had all the pancakes you wanted.”

Finn executes a flawless parallel park outside a buttercream-yellow building with a cheery green roof. “That was never an option.”

We step out of the car, and directly across the two-lane road is a small inlet of water between us and a forested hill. If we had the time, it’d be a beautiful place to sit outside with the sea breeze and the still-gentle Southern California sun. I give myself one deep breath to enjoy the view then turn toward the taco shop. My breath catches when I see that Finn had been watching me. He breaks into a small smile as if laughing at his own private joke.

We head inside and wait in line behind a multicolored-tile counter. When it’s our turn, Finn leans over the counter and grins at the cashier. “So, what’s good here?”

The cashier, a sweet-faced Latina girl who can’t be more than nineteen, smiles back at him. “Our loaded hash brown burrito is really good. I like to add avocado.”

“That sounds perfect. I’ll have one of those. Emma?” He turns to me for my order, and a loaded hash brown burrito honestly does sound delicious, but I don’t let myself order the same thing. “Bacon, egg, and cheese burrito, please,” I say primly.

Finn winks conspiratorially at the cashier. “Add avocado to hers too.”

“Do you have to flirt with the cashier?” I ask once we move to the side to wait for our order.

Finn gives me a confused look. “I’m just being polite.”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” he echoes. But then a smile breaks through his confusion. “Are you jealous, Emma?”

“Ugh. No.” I wince slightly at how unconvincing I sound. Pulling out my phone to avoid any eye contact, I add, “I just don’t think you should be pursuing children.”

He leans toward me, and I can feel the warm brush of his breath against my cheek. “Emma, I promise you, I only ever pursue fully grown, enthusiastically consenting, adult women.”

I don’t dignify Finn’s words with a response. Instead, I try to ignore the fact that my skin all of a sudden feels too tight for my body and pull up the Map app to see that we’re only twenty-eight minutes from the Del. Less than half an hour, and I’ll have this whole Sybil debacle wrapped up.

Through the window I see a black Range Rover Sport pull up. I’m weighing whether to add a side of jalape?os, when the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Which can only mean one thing. Sure enough, I turn back to the window just in time to see Aaron Brinkley exit the Range Rover. His sandy hair is tucked under a baseball cap, and there’s a smattering of freckles across his forearms. To be honest, I never really understood what Nikki saw in him. He’s no better looking than every other douchey white guy that populates America’s frat houses, and clearly his character leaves something to be desired. Aaron makes his way across the parking lot and I turn away from the window.

I nudge Finn. “Shouldn’t he be playing?”

Finn, who still can’t seem to keep a smile off his face, pulls up Twitter on his phone, then shakes his head. “Apparently he didn’t sign his scorecard.”

“English, please.” I’m growing agitated. Finn is still gloating over my nonjealousy, and in just a few moments I’ll be sharing breathing space with the man who destroyed my best friend.

“It’s an automatic disqualification.” Finn shrugs. “It’s been a rule forever. It’s to prove your integrity—you’re signing that you’re going to self-report your scores accurately. You have to be able to trust the other golfer’s word, or there’s no point in playing.”

Integrityand trustworthiness. I can’t think of two words less suited to describe Aaron Brinkley. He walked away from someone amazing who loved him despite the fact that he was an idiot who didn’t deserve her. He lied to Nikki. Just like Finn lied to me, and my dad lied to my mom. Everything I’ve been feeling about Sybil running out on Jamie erupts to the surface, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m fully across the taco shop when Aaron walks through the door.

“Hey, asshole.” My finger presses against the striped green of his polo.

Eyes wide, he puts his hands up reflexively as if this isn’t the first time he’s been accosted by an angry woman in a taco joint. “Do I know you?”

“No, you don’t know me. I was just supposed to be a bridesmaid in your wedding, you cheating piece of shit.”

He puts his hands down and looks somewhat relieved. “You’re one of Nikki’s friends.”

“Thank god she didn’t marry you, because if she had and then I found out you cheated on her, I would have torn into you like the bear from The Revenant and left you to die in the Canadian wilderness.”

Confusion paints Aaron’s face, along with a slight glimmer of fear in his eyes like he thinks I just might be unhinged enough to gnaw through his ribs.

“LovedBy was a reality TV show. She should’ve known what she was getting into.” He heads to the counter dismissing me.

“She was trying to find true love, and you used her,” I say to his back. Aaron just stands there. Meanwhile, Finn has collected our order and comes up beside me.

He nudges my shoulder with his. “Let’s get out of here.”

“No. I’m not getting out of here until this jerk admits what he did.”

Aaron rolls his eyes, and something inside me snaps.

Before I can process what I’m doing, my hot and toasty burrito is out of the paper bag in Finn’s hand and flying across the room.

Piping hot cheese covers Aaron’s smug face. Egg and avocado drip down his green polo.

Two thoughts hit me simultaneously: one, Nikki is going to kill me; and two, it was worth it.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Aaron shouts, brushing off the piece of bacon that landed on his shoulder.

Adrenaline courses through my veins. I’m breathing heavy, in and out, in and out, exactly like the antianxiety app tells you not to do.

“Emma,” Finn says, placing a firm hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t touch me,” I snap.

Finn pulls his hand away. “Emma, please,” he says, softer this time.

Those words trigger a memory—the first time I made the mistake of trusting Finn Hughes with my heart. Suddenly I’m sixteen again, standing alone, waiting for the boy I liked to show up where he said he would. Emma, please.

I whirl on Finn, jabbing a finger in his chest.

“You know what? You’re just as bad as him.”

Finn’s eyebrows shoot toward his hairline. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” My blood is buzzing.

Finn’s looking at me like I’ve lost it.

Behind the counter, the teenage cashier is recording the whole scene on her phone.

“Ma’am.” A man with a name tag that reads “manager” approaches me warily. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

I let him lead me to the exit. But before I pass through the swinging glass door, I turn back to the cashier, looking straight into the phone camera.

“He broke her heart.”