Mistakes We Never Made

10 Thursday Afternoon

(Two days before the wedding)

THE MOVIE GAME ISall about strategy. You have to know your opponent’s weaknesses, and you have to force them to play on your ground. For example, I know that Finn Hughes hates anything science fiction or fantasy. Whereas I have a blind spot for war movies, since I’m generally uninterested in watching people getting blown up.

“Stardust.”

“Emma,” Finn groans. It feels good to settle into an old routine knowing that some things never change. I sigh contentedly and settle back into the buttery leather of the Singer. “Is that the Matthew McConaughey space movie?”

“Is it?” I give him a wide-eyed look. “It could be.” His eyes narrow, and I realize I’ve oversold it.

“It’s not, is it?”

I shrug and take a sip of the black coffee we picked up a few miles back. Finn, who is not a doctor no matter how many medically adjacent apps he invents, spent five minutes explaining the effects of caffeine on the nervous system. That it would elevate my heart rate. That it was the last thing I needed after my fainting episode earlier. He even tried to force a chamomile tea on me, which made me laugh out loud. But his concern was sweet, so I compromised and only got a large drip instead of the red-eye I was desperately craving. Another moment where I exhibited an astounding amount of flexibility for which I will get zero credit.

“You can always challenge me,” I say.

“I’m not going to challenge on an opening. You have to know at least one actor from the movie, or you wouldn’t have said it.” Finn takes a sip of his green juice, and I can’t help making a face.

“Maybe I like to gamble,” I counter.

“We’re headed to the right place then.”

Right. Vegas. To find Sybil. For a moment, I’d gotten so caught up in our familiar car-ride banter—honed over many a bus ride to debate tourneys—that I’d almost forgotten why we were on this road trip together in the first place. Locate Sybil, and return her to her happily ever after with Jamie. Despite the fact that Finn has been driving way over the speed limit, the GPS says we still have two and a half hours to go before we arrive in Sin City. As I watch the miles tick away, I can’t help but feel the dull sense of a countdown. Like right now, Finn and I are suspended in a bubble where we can just be our old selves together, without any of the awkwardness and tension that have grown between us over the past eleven years. But as soon as time runs out, all of that will evaporate, and we’ll be back to what we were before. Barely more than strangers.

I look at his strong hands, holding the steering wheel lightly. I take another swig of my coffee, trying to soothe the nagging sense of agitation I feel percolating in my veins, but the caffeine only makes my pulse quicken. Just like Finn said it would. Or maybe it’s not the caffeine, but the fact that Finn has now moved one of his hands to the gearshift, dangerously close to my bare upper thigh…

“I don’t know how you can drink that,” I say, nodding to Finn’s green drink.

Deflect. Banter. Jab.

It may not be as globally recognized as “lick, shoot, suck,” but it’s a routine I know well. One I always fall back on whenever things with Finn veer to close to… something.

The liquid of Finn’s green juice has already started to separate into one level of water and one level of pulp. “Seriously, it looks like something our old cat puked up.”

There you go. Nothing could be remotely romantic or sexy when the subject of cat vomit is introduced.

Finn gives his cup a swirl, and the juice partly rehomogenizes. “I want to live a long and healthy life, Emma.”

“But at what cost, Finn? At what cost? Now come on, guess or challenge.”

He takes a moment to consider. “Challenge.”

“Claire Danes. And Robert DeNiro. And Michelle Pfeiffer.” Finn groans. “You’re at m-o-v-i,” I add, keeping score. Whoever gets to movies first loses.

“Okay, my turn. The Revenant.”

“Ha ha.” I roll my eyes. “You need to win this round to stay in the game. You’re sure you don’t want to try for an obscure World War II movie?”

“I’m sure.”

“Fine. I could say, Leonardo DiCaprio.” I linger over the vowels of his name with obvious pleasure, and Finn snorts. “But I’m going with Tom Hardy.”

“Layer Cake.” Finn looks over at me smugly. Shit. I vaguely remember Finn loving that movie in high school, but could not for the life of me remember who’s in it or what it’s about. “Edward Norton,” I bluff.

“Wrong. That’s m-o-v-i for you as well. The easiest answer would have been Daniel Craig. Pre-Bond, obviously.”

“Obviously.” And now we’re tied. It’s time to pull out the big guns: musicals. “Les Misérables.”

But to my surprise, Finn responds immediately. “Anne Hathaway.”

“The Princess Diaries,” I say instinctively. As my brain processes what I’ve said, my hand automatically reaches for my wallet, trying to snuff out the flicker of regret that always flares to life when something reminds me of my dad. For an instant, I’m eight years old, sitting on our front steps, my eyes glued to the spot where his Jeep Wagoneer had turned off our cul-de-sac. I remember sitting on the stoop, running my finger back and forth over the edge of the ticket. We were going to have popcorn and Reese’s Pieces for dinner. Mom begging me to come inside, and—

“Julie Andrews.”

Finn brings me back to the current moment. I swallow down the memory.

“Wow, look at you, Finn Hughes!” I say, my mocking tone tempered by genuine warmth. Somehow, knowing that Finn has seen this classic movie of my childhood makes me feel slightly better than I did a moment before. I stare a beat too long into his dark eyes, until traffic moves and he’s forced to look back at the road, and I’m forced to get back to the game at hand. “Um, okay, my turn? The Princess Diaries… Two.”

“Oh, come on. Challenge. Sequels don’t count.”

“Are you telling me The Godfather Part Two doesn’t count?”

He presses his lips together. “The Godfather Part Two is a cinematic masterpiece.” I clutch my coffee to my chest and fail at keeping the shit-eating grin off my face. It’s a weak counter, and he knows it.

“Oh, I didn’t realize we were playing the cinematic masterpiece game, Finn. That’s a lot more letters. We’ll be at this through the end of Sybil and Jamie’s honeymoon. I’ll obviously need you to define usage for the terms ‘cinematic’ and ‘masterpiece.’ Just so I’m clear, does that mean nothing ever released straight to streaming counts because it didn’t run in a cinema? That knocks off at least one Scorsese movie—and I know how much you love him. Does the film have to be one of AMC’s top one hundred? Does Criterion have to put it out on DVD? What makes something a flawless masterpiece? Truly—”

“A masterpiece”—Finn cuts off my questioning—“doesn’t have to be flawless. It just has to make you feel something, even years later. Something you go back to over and over, and you’re still surprised and delighted by it.” He looks over at me as he says this, a playful gleam in his eyes, like maybe movies aren’t the only things that still manage to surprise and delight him, even after all this time. I shiver, letting his words settle onto my skin like stardust.

Our brief moment of harmony is obliterated as Finn swerves, and a horn blares behind us. The seat belt jerks tight against my chest. One of my hands braces against the ceiling of the Singer while the other crushes the paper cup in my hand. The plastic top pops off, and the cup’s entire contents fly out and splash down the front of my shirt. On instinct, I lift my hips and spread my body over as much of the seat as possible to keep any of the—still very hot—liquid from staining the leather. Finn pulls the car over to the side of the road, and I inspect the damage. The Singer remains unscathed, but I am soaked in coffee.

“Finn! What the hell?” I begin dabbing at my shirt, but the three tiny napkins I’d grabbed from the coffee shop are not up to the task of drying my shirt.

“Sorry! There was an animal. A kit fox, I think,” he says apologetically, and peers into the rearview mirror. “He seems okay.”

“Okay, well, I’m glad he’s all right at least.” The words come out more sarcastically than I mean them to. Obviously, I don’t want to run over any animals. I twist to look through the back windshield, and sure enough, there’s a four-legged, furry creature with oversized ears several yards back sauntering away, completely unbothered by his near brush with death. Unaware that he was saved only by the soft heart and fast reflexes of Finn Hughes.

Once he seems confident that the fox has made it completely off the road, Finn turns the blinker on to merge back onto the highway. He looks over at the mess that is my shirt, and says, “I told you that you should have gotten the tea.”

“How would that have changed the situation at all? I’d still be soaked in hot liquid.”

“You wouldn’t have been so edgy about slowing down.”

“‘Slowing down’?” I say incredulously. “Finn, we didn’t ‘slow down.’ You swerved and slammed on the brakes.”

“Well, at least it wouldn’t have stained.”

“Ugh, this is pointless.” Pulling the shirt over my head, I use the driest parts to mop up the coffee that has pooled in my sports bra.

The car lurches again, and I cry, “Finn!”

“Sorry, thought I saw another fox,” he says tightly. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to get dry.”

“You took your shirt off.”

“I did.” But it’s not like I’m wearing something scandalous and see-through beneath it. I’ve got on a very utilitarian Lululemon bra that has more coverage than some of the tops that Sybil wears to brunch. And besides, it’s not anything Finn hasn’t seen before. Memories flood my brain—our torsos pressed together in the glow of swimming pool light, Finn unbuttoning my shirt on a rooftop in New York… Suddenly I feel more exposed than I did a moment ago. “Um,” I begin in a small voice, “do you have anything—”

“Oh… I… here.” Finn keeps his eyes trained on the road as he reaches into the back seat and grabs the ratty Duke sweatshirt. I pull it over my head and try not to think about how it smells like Finn, hazy woodsmoke cut through with the sharp scent of lavender. The cuffs are a bit frayed, and the neckline has been stretched out so much that it falls off one of my shoulders.

Leaning forward in the seat, I reach behind me and unsnap my bra. Then I shimmy out of the damp undergarment and slide it off, all without removing Finn’s sweatshirt. The Singer speeds up. Both Finn’s hands are firmly on the wheel, and his vision is glued to the road.

“Do you need to do that?” Finn asks.

“Did you expect me to just marinate in my coffee-soaked sports bra?” The bra hangs limply from my fingers. I fold it up, careful not to let any off the coffee-stained parts touch the seat, and put it into the bag leftover from my to-go lunch.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything to offer you in place of a bra.”

“You don’t have a box of discarded bras and panties from all your conquests filling up your trunk?”

“No, I keep that in my Sprinter van.”

“That is so murdery, Finn.”

The car is back to a reasonable speed, and Finn seems to have relaxed. His hands unclench from the wheel, one of them returning to its spot, resting on the gearshift.

“To be honest, there’s nothing interesting about women’s underwear once it’s no longer on a woman. When I’m with a woman, and she takes off her underwear, I’m very focused, and it’s not on helping her sort laundry.”

I swallow. My cheeks are burning. I’m reminded of how small the car actually is, and how easy it would be to reach over and touch Finn. Images—half memory, half fantasy—of Finn and me and underwear and lack thereof start bombarding my brain again, sending it whirring. I grasp for anything to bring me back to safer ground.

I pull the Celtic Woman CD from the car door. “Should we put this on? My mom used to record the PBS specials and play them on a loop, so I know all the harmonies.”

Finn smiles. “Unfortunately, this car doesn’t have a CD player.”

“Then why do you have it?”

“My mom gave it to me when she was doing some house purging. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that CDs are basically obsolete these days.” He lapses into a short silence, as if he’s sinking into reminiscence. “Whenever we traveled, my parents would go all out. Movies and books set in that country. We’d research all the local food and map out how to get to everything from our hotel. I thought it was annoying at the time, but now I really appreciate it. It was a sign of respect, and it felt like the vacation began months before we got on the plane. The last trip we ever took as a family—before my dad died—was to Ireland.”

“Wow,” I say softly. I remember Finn’s dad from the odd school event—tall, his skin a few shades darker than his son’s, but his eyes that same deep brown, streaked with amber. I feel an unexpected pang of regret that I didn’t get to know him better before he died. I swallow the emotion. “Well, I guess I see where you get your affection for guide maps from.” Finn rolls his eyes and grins over at me. “My family was never that organized,” I say, grinning back at him. “When Mom took Liz and me on vacations, it was usually just a last-minute overnight trip to SeaWorld in San Antonio. One time we showed up, and the park was closed for renovations.”

“Like in National Lampoon’s Vacation?”

“A true cinematic masterpiece if ever there was one.”

“Well.” Finn’s expression is soft, presumably from pleasant memories of his dad and family trips. “I guess I know where you got your freakish obsession with schedules from.”

“What?” I ask, confused how he could possibly draw that conclusion from the story I shared. My childhood was anything but scheduled. More often than not, it was a chaotic, stressful whirlwind—Mom never having enough time to be in all the places a single working parent needs to be at once.

“It sounds like someone had to keep the family on track.”

I’m struck by how much Finn’s words echo the voice I’ve had running through my head for years. Someone had to… Someone had to make sure Liz got to every swim meet on time. Someone had to make sure we had cold cuts for lunches. Someone had to keep my mom’s Subaru running… I never begrudged my mom. There were more things to be done than one person could handle, and if Mom was at work—which she was twelve hours a day—that person was me. My friends seem to think I just came out of the womb loving planners and sticky notes, but the truth is, if I didn’t cling to those organization tools as tightly as I do, my life would have spun out of control a long time ago. And the look in Finn’s eyes—perceptive, a little concerned, but still warm—tells me that he knows the truth.

My skin prickles along my spine. That exposed feeling is back. But it’s even stronger than I felt when I was in just my sports bra.

“Let’s play a song in honor of your dad and my mom,” I say, trying to bring us back to safer ground. I open my music app and navigate to the Celtic Woman album. We sit in silence as the music plays. My eyes drift closed, and I imagine myself in a field of knee-high heather. Maybe a catnap is the reset I need. It feels so good to let my eyes close. I know the cardinal rule of being a good copilot is staying awake to entertain the driver, but maybe I’ll just give myself a minute or two…

I’M IN A LIVINGroom that I don’t recognize, but the beige built-ins and faux Tuscan wall treatment mean that it could be any of a dozen suburban houses my mom listed when I was a kid. Sybil is standing on the glass coffee table with a karaoke mic in her hand. I reach for her, but my mom walks in wearing a bright blue ball gown.

“There you are. I need you to help Liz finish her school project.” My mom moves toward a table stacked with dozens and dozens of shoebox dioramas, each one a different room that I’ve designed. “I’m counting on you, Emma.”

“I can’t now, Mom. Sybil and I have to go.”

“Sybil’s isn’t here, Emma.”

“She is—” I turn back to the coffee table, but Sybil has disappeared.

“Emma, don’t be difficult. Please just help for once.”

I want to shout back, All I do is help! I help you. I help Liz. I help Sybil. There’s never anyone who helps me, but my mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton.

I charge through the kitchen and open the door to the backyard, only to find myself stepping into the spa at the Del, but there’s still no Sybil. In the middle of the room is a massage table, and I realize Sybil and I had plans to get massages today, so I lie facedown on the table and let myself relax. A masseuse comes in, and the smell of lavender and woodsmoke fills the air as strong hands begin kneading up my back. All of the stress I’ve felt fades away, and I feel… safe. I exhale and let myself sink into the table.

Strong fingers press up and down my spine, then move to dig into the muscles beneath my shoulder blades. A low voice rumbles above me. “How’s the pressure?” It’s Finn. Excited anticipation coils in my chest, like a thousand hummingbirds fluttering in my stomach. “Turn over,” Finn says. I obey, wondering when he’ll realize it’s me.

He begins by massaging the arches of my feet, but eventually his hands move from my feet to cup my calves and glide to behind my knees. Even lying down I can feel them weakening. As my heart races, I don’t resist. I’m still covered by the sheet, but beneath it, my legs quiver as his thumbs begin to drift higher up my legs.

“Is there any other tension I can help relieve, Emma?”

His voice is some kind of permission for me to shift, allowing the sheet to drift further off one knee. Gradually, I reach down and begin to pull the sheet, inch by inch, up my body as his hands continue their journey…

A moan jerks me awake, and I realize to my eternal horror that it’s my own.

My head is wedged between the seat and the car door. “Oh my god.” I blink into the light, hoping that Finn attributes the red burning across my face and chest to sunburn—not complete mortification.

But seeing the look on his face does nothing to ease my mind. He’s smiling so wide, I’m positive I must have narrated the entire sex dream out loud in my sleep.

He trains his eyes back on the road, betraying nothing, but I can detect a hint of smug laughter in his voice as he asks, “Nice nap?”

And now, I’m officially dead forever.