Mistakes We Never Made

7 Thursday Afternoon

(Two days before the wedding)

“I DO FEEL Alittle bad for Aaron,” Finn says, tearing back the wrapper on his burrito. “It’s no fun to be on the other end of your wrath.”

We’re back in the car, sitting in the parking lot. Finn hands me half of his burrito—mine having been a tragic casualty of my attack on Aaron Brinkley—but I decline the peace offering. I’m still savoring my righteous rage.

Finn just shrugs, as if to say Your loss, and goes on eating. After he takes a couple of bites, he says, “I remember the first time I saw you go beast mode like that. Some dick was making fun of your sister, and you totally lost it on him.”

“I don’t ‘go beast mode,’” I insist. But I blush as the memory comes to me. The dick in question had leaned over the bus seat and asked my redheaded nine-year-old sister “if the carpet matched the drapes.” Liz had no idea what it meant but could sense that he was trying to make her uncomfortable, snickering with his buddy. As soon as I saw the tears start to well in her eyes, I launched from my seat, not bothering to wait for the bus to come to a complete stop before pouring an entire can of iced tea on his head while screaming at him to leave my sister alone.

Finn chuckles as if he’s been replaying the scene in his mind too. “You really do, Em. But it’s nice. You only go Hulk like that for the people you love.” There’s a softness in his voice, and when I meet his eye, I see something that almost looks like longing there. But then he breaks the moment, going in for another burrito bite. “Anyway, you must really love Nikki based on that display in there. You were impressively detailed in how you would kill Aaron. Like maybe you’ve thought about it. A lot.”

“He deserves it. You can’t claim to care about someone, and then abandon them. It’s cruel.”

Finn turns in his seat to face me, seriousness replacing the amused smirk that had graced his face moments before. “Is this about what happened between us?”

“No,” I say, which is mostly true. Though I can see why Finn might think I’m making a slightly passive-aggressive reference to our shared past. I reflect on the handful of times I was led to believe Finn might care about me, only to have that misconception corrected in the most mortifying ways. Because in the end, Finn always showed me who he really was: thoughtless and untrustworthy. Just like Aaron, and just like my dad.

I think back to five years ago, when Sybil asked if Finn could crash at our place for a couple of nights when he was in town for work. I’d pretty readily given in and agreed, but later that night I began to regret my decision.

“Does he have to stay with us?” I asked, legs swinging off our fire escape. Struggling to find a good reason why he shouldn’t, I landed on “He is such a flake.”

“He is not a flake.” Sybil rolled her eyes affectionately, and I shot her a skeptical look back. “Okay, so he sometimes has flake-ish tendencies,” Sybil admitted as she handed me a Bluetooth speaker before climbing through my bedroom window to sit next to me. “But so do I, and you still love me.”

“He stood me up at prom because he was at the mall.” I connected my phone to the speaker, and Sybil’s latest indie-pop playlist began to mingle with the sounds of the city.

Sybil opened her mouth to speak but then pursed her lips.

“Just spit it out, Sybs.”

“Okay, yes. He did flake on prom, and standing you up was a shitty thing. He screwed up,” Sybil conceded. “But does one mistake define a person?”

Yes, I thought, turning back to watch the world pass below on Second Avenue. Some mistakes do define you. Some mistakes leave you irrevocably changed.

BACK IN THE SINGER,Finn seems for a minute like he wants to press the issue, to actually get into what happened between us four and a half years ago at Katie Dalton’s wedding, but he just puts the car in drive and pulls out of the lot. We drop down a gear as we turn back onto I-5. Finn keeps hold of his burrito as he lets go of the wheel and moves his left hand to the stick shift. It’s an incredibly smooth maneuver, and I can’t help but be a little impressed. Once, after I’d admitted to rewatching The West Wing for the eighth time, Willow told me I had a “competence kink” because I love people talking fast and skillfully solving for solutions. Her words inexplicably come back to me now as I watch Finn weave in and out of traffic. It’s probably just that the Singer is such an exceptional machine, it can make anyone seem like a great driver.

My phone buzzes, and Nikki’s name appears on my screen with an incoming call.

“What is the one thing I asked you before you left here?”

Shit.

I decide to go straight to denial and diversion. “To drive safe? Hey, by the way, any word from Sybil yet?”

“Aaron just texted me.”

“He did?” Playing dumb never works. My pulse is causing my neck to throb.

“Yes, he very much did, Emma Mae.”

Uh-oh. We’re in full-name mode.

“In fact, to be specific, he texted, ‘Tell your psycho friend with the red hair to leave me alone.’”

“That is specific.”

Nikki is not amused. “He said you threatened to kill him like a bear.”

I don’t say anything.

“From The Revenant.”

I might not be able to duck out of this one.

“I know how obsessed you are with Leonardo DiCaprio.”

Damn. You have one cardboard cutout of a celebrity in your childhood bedroom, and everyone thinks you’re obsessed. “I just really respect his climate advocacy,” I say, folding my arms as Finn turns off I-5 and onto the Coronado Bridge.

“You dressed up as that bear for Halloween senior year. I’ve seen the pictures, Emma.”

I pull the phone away from my ear, but it’s clear that Finn has heard every word. He sputters like he’s trying to hold in a laugh. I did dress up as a semi-slutty bear and painted blood around my mouth. It was a real whiff of a Halloween costume because I had to spend the entire time we were on Sixth Street explaining it. People thought I was a satanic Winnie-the-Pooh or something.

“Look, I didn’t mean to run into him. Finn was hungry, so we stopped to grab a burrito, and Aaron was just there being an idiot. Finn was the reason we stopped; you should be mad at him.”

Finn flips me the bird as the crisp white wooden facade and the iconic red rooftops of the Hotel Del Coronado come into view.

“Finn isn’t the one who threatened to disembowel him.”

“Well, that only proves that Finn’s not as good a friend as I am. Nikki, we’re about to pull into the Del. Once I get Sybil back to Malibu, you can yell at me all you want.”

“We’re not done with this, Emma.” Nikki hangs up, and I let my phone rest on my knee, trying to practice the app breathing again.

“I’ve really got to see a copy of those photos.” Finn pulls the Singer onto the paved brick roundabout at the entrance of the Del.

“I will be dead and buried before you ever see those photos.” And before he can press further, I’m out the door, leaving Finn to handle the valet. I’ve already asked the concierge to point me toward the spa before Finn makes it into the lobby.

It’s impressive how they’ve managed to keep so much of the original wood and still leave the space feeling bright and spacious instead of dark and claustrophobic. The elegant, climate-controlled interior calms me, and I take a centering breath, reminded why we’re here.

Finn catches up to me as I pass an ornate brass elevator—it looks like there’s an actual bellhop inside. I call Sybil as we’re crossing the courtyard to the spa, but it rings to voicemail. Unlike the opulence of the lobby, the spa is a bright, soothing white. Gentle Muzak plays in the background. Eucalyptus-scented diffusers sit on a lightly veined marble countertop. I try Sybil’s number again on the off chance I can hear it ring nearby, but it goes to voicemail once again.

A severe-looking woman with slicked-back hair appears behind the receptionist’s desk. “Hi,” I say. “I’m meeting my friend here.”

“Of course. What’s her name?”

At least, I think that’s what she says. She seems to be speaking in a decibel only dogs can hear.

“Sybil,” I respond. But, suddenly, speaking in a normal volume feels like I’m shouting, so I repeat in a whisper, “Sybil Rain.” The spa receptionist frowns a bit and taps at the computer in front of her.

“No one named Sybil Rain is scheduled for appointments today,” she murmurs.

Finn steps up to the counter beside me. “Maybe it’s under her parents’ card? Greg or Melissa?” I try not to think about how his raspy whisper is giving serious Morning Voice vibes.

“We’re really not supposed to disclose the names of our guests,” the receptionist says. “Perhaps you should wait for your friend in the lounge?” And with that she glides away.

“Now what?” Finn asks, his voice back to full volume.

“Now we go back there and find Sybil.” I gesture to the double doors beside the reception desk that must lead back to the treatment rooms.

“Oh, sure.” Finn nods like this is a wise plan. “I think I’ve seen this episode of I Love Lucy. So do you want to pretend to be the masseuse or should I?”

I roll my eyes but can’t help the corners of my mouth curling up. I had forgotten that Finn loves old-timey TV shows. “We’re not going to Lucy this—we’re just going to go back there and see if we can spot Sybil. She’s probably getting a wax or something and didn’t want to put her own name down.”

“You’re going to walk in on your best friend getting waxed?” Finn raises an eyebrow.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” I shrug. Obviously Finn has never had to come to the rescue after an at-home waxing kit goes wrong. When you’re girls, best friends, and roommates, there are no secrets.

I’m about to walk through the doors, when my stomach lets out the most audible growl. Like a cross between a rumble of thunder and my East Village radiator in December. I flinch, half expecting slicked-back-hair lady to come out and shush me like a librarian.

“Let’s grab you some lunch first.” Finn reaches for my elbow, and I let myself lean on him just for a moment as we follow the signs pointing toward the poolside bar.

On the Sun Deck, we find an unoccupied couch near a firepit and look over the menu. I want everything. I look up, hoping to flag a waiter, when my eye is caught by a petite blonde in a distinctive blue-and-white swim shirt.

“Sybil!” I shout.

“Where?” Finn asks, immediately standing.

“Over there. ” I point several feet away, where the woman in the swim shirt is now stepping off the final stair that leads down to the beach, her back to us.

“Are you sure that’s her?” Finn frowns, unconvinced.

“Don’t you recognize her hair?” I ask.

“We’re in Southern California, where ninety percent of the women are some shade of blond.”

Men.

“Well that shade is hers. It has to be.” Sybil bought that exact designer swim shirt last month. I remember her telling me encouragingly that rash guards were back in. She was seeing them all over her Instagram! My freckled shoulders should rejoice!

Finn dials Sybil’s cell, but once again, it rings and rings, then goes to voicemail.

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s just go down there. Looks like she’s heading toward that shed thing.”

“That’s the kayak rental hut,” Finn says, pulling from his pocket a creased resort map he must have grabbed from the valet.

Whydo I find his dorkiest qualities so frickin’ cute?

We head down to the beach, and sure enough, I can see the blond woman in the blue-and-white swim shirt paddling a bright green kayak.

“I still don’t think that’s her,” Finn says, shielding his eyes with his hand and squinting into the sun.

“Well I know it is. Let’s just paddle out there and find out. It won’t take long.”

Finn sighs and goes to pay the vendor.

“You’re not really dressed for this,” I say as we tip a two-person kayak off the rack at the rental shed and tuck two paddles into the seats. I’m still wearing the flip-flops, exercise shorts, and tank top that I had on for our spa day, but Finn is in tennis shoes and slacks.

“These are performance-wear pants,” he says as he rolls up his cuffs to just below his knees. “They can handle anything.” He says it like he’s reading off a podcast ad.

“Oh, can they?” I grab the front end of the kayak. Finn takes up the back and then promptly drops it. Turning around to grumble at him, I see that he has two life jackets. He hands me the smaller one and says, “Safety first,” as we maneuver the boat into the surf.

“You were an Eagle Scout, weren’t you?” I say dryly.

“Two badges short,” he says. “I’m a rebel like that.”

The kayak sways precariously as we climb inside, and Finn makes a noise that is higher pitched than any sound I’ve ever heard him—or, you know, any full-grown adult—make.

“Did you just squeak?” I ask.

He clears his throat. “Absolutely not.” He takes a moment to settle onto the kayak. “Just not a big water fan. If this boat tips over, you’re walking back to Malibu.”

“Don’t worry. I promise to keep you safe.”