Mistakes We Never Made

17 Thursday Night

(Two days before the wedding)

AT JAMIE’S WORDS, Asmall gasp escapes from Nikki, which she covers up by coughing, and I realize that while I’ve been on the road trying to track down Sybil, Nikki hasn’t had the distraction. Her anxiety is probably through the roof, like mine was earlier. Before I let myself get caught up with Finn, when I should have been focusing on my friends.

“Well, at least my voicemail heard from her.” Jamie puts his phone on speaker, and we gather around to listen as Sybil’s slightly tipsy voice spills out. “I love you so much, Jamie. Like, soooo much. You’re too good for me. You’re perfect. I’m so sorry I missed the welcome party. I’ll—I’ll talk to you soon.” The line goes dead. I hadn’t allowed myself to imagine the worst, but it must have been there in the back of my mind, because a wave of relief crashes through me. Sybil is alive and okay as of this evening.

“I’ve tried calling her back,” Jamie says, “but it’s gone through to voicemail each time.” He tucks the phone back in his pocket.

Knowing that Sybil has called Jamie is a huge relief and sparks a renewed sense of optimism. If she’s willing to reach out to Jamie, maybe she’ll be willing to reach out to us soon. And we can get this whole debacle sorted in plenty of time for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow. I just need to eke out a few more hours… “We’re supposed to meet up at a club to go dancing, but she might’ve already beat us there.” The lie comes out almost too easily, and the guilt follows almost immediately.

Jamie runs his hands through his hair. “I’m glad she’s getting a chance to blow off steam, but you know, usually when Sybil takes off to party like this, it’s because she’s upset about something.” I’m struck by how on the nose his statement is. Nikki and I both nod in unison, and I wonder if the guilt at lying to Jamie is eating at her the way it’s eating at me. Looking at Jamie’s face, I understand why Nikki wasn’t able to tell him the truth that likely Sybil has run off. There’s an earnestness in his dark eyes, concern in the slope of his brows. He runs a hand through his wavy hair, mussing it up in a way that makes him look a bit like an absent-minded professor, or an exasperated hot young dad. Which is just so classic Jamie. He is in every way a great guy, and Sybil deserves someone great. The full weight of what’s at stake bears down on me. Jamie truly loves Sybil, and I know Sybil loves him too. We have recorded proof in Jamie’s voicemail inbox. Two lives could be ruined if we don’t get this figured out.

“Let me tell Dan and Vittal that we’re going to a club,” Jamie says.

“Oh, you want to come?” Nikki’s voice is an octave higher than normal.

“Sybil is always saying I need to go out dancing more.”

“Um…” I look at Nikki, but twelve hours into our Sybil safari, we’ve finally run out of ways to divert Jamie.

“Why don’t we let the girls catch up, while you and I go to the Kuzmin-Ibarra fight? Can I have my tickets, Emma?” Finn’s hand is warm on my shoulder.

“Oh, yeah, of course.” I rummage through my bag and hand Finn two rumpled tickets for the fight tonight.

“Man, are you sure? I mean, I’d much rather go to that fight than a club.” Jamie turns to me. “You don’t think Sybil will mind?”

“Not at all!” I say too cheerfully. “I’ll let her know we’re meeting up later.”

Finn leans closer to me, his hand on the small of my back, and I shiver as his lips brush against my ear. “If there’s no sign of Sybil by the time the fight’s over, you’ve got to tell the guy the truth. Deal?”

I swallow and nod my head. “Deal.”

Finn and Jamie head back inside, and I text Willow an update so Sybil’s parents can relax.

“I’m so relieved Sybil’s okay,” I say.

“Okay-ish, I would say.” Nikki reapplies her lip gloss using the mirror of a Rolls-Royce Wraith that the casino valet has left parked front and center.

“I wish she would just talk to us.”

“Me too,” Nikki says, popping the tube back into her bag and scanning me from head to toe. “So. I see you’ve taken the opportunity of Sybil’s vanishing to go shopping?”

I laugh. “I had to. Finn made me spill coffee down my shirt.”

“Oh, I see. He has an awfully bad history with your shirts, doesn’t he?”

“Ha ha.” I start marching away from the casino and from the memory that comes rushing back. Finn and I pressed into a ratty old lounge chair on the rooftop of my New York City apartment. My legs parted around him, my shirt hanging open, missing a button from where it came undone just a little too hastily… Another moment that I’d only told Nikki about. I can’t seem to stop myself from trying to climb Finn like a tree.

She catches up with me and asks, “Seriously, how has today been? It seems like y’all were getting close to a happy ending.” Nikki waggles her eyebrows at me, but before I can respond, we’re briefly separated by a pack of tourists following a tour guide holding a polka-dot umbrella aloft as a beacon. When the stream of people has passed, Nikki links her arm with mine and continues her line of questioning. “I know this whole thing was your idea, but I had been worried about you—stuck in the car with Finn all day. Though from the look of things in the elevator, it seems like y’all have worked out your issues.”

“That was…” I pause. “I don’t know what that was,” I admit. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I feel…” Out of control. Happy. Obsessed. Confused. Like I always end up feeling when it comes to Finn.

A pang of longing for Sybil hits me. As much as I love Nikki, she’s an analyzer like me. She’s great when I want someone to parse indecipherable dating app communications with, or someone to help me break down every pro and con of getting balayage at my next hair appointment. But sometimes, I just need to get out of my own head. And Sybil has always been there to help me with that. “Come on, let’s go check at the MGM.”

Nikki looks like she wants to say something more, but she lets the Finn thing drop and allows me to guide us through the throngs of people.

We zigzag down the Strip, crossing occasionally to the other side of the street, trying to mimic the ping-ponging of Sybil’s earlier movements, but our journey is slow, the sidewalks packed with all manner of humanity—tourists, vendors hawking T-shirts, people dressed in character costumes, breakdancers performing right in the middle of the crowded pathway. We struggle to get a cell signal for Find My Friends, so instead we show Sybil’s picture to people as we pass, but no one seems to recognize her—not that I can blame them. Every face I’ve seen tonight has blended together from the sheer sensory overload that is Vegas. When we get service, we try her phone a couple of times each, but it just rings and rings before going to voicemail. After forty-five minutes of this, it’s becoming all too clear that trying to locate Sybil in this city is like trying to find a small blond needle in a Technicolor-neon haystack. Traffic is bumper to bumper, but the stream of taillights just adds to the cheerfulness of the lights flashing off buildings and billboards. One billboard announces a Miranda Lambert show, which reminds me—“Remember that year when Sybil disappeared at Stagecoach?”

“We finally tracked her down on a bus with half of the Turnpike Troubadours.” Nikki smiles and leans over the rail of the pedestrian bridge where we’ve stopped.

“The fun half.”

“Yeah,” Nikki agrees. “Sybil always knows where to find the fun.”

“Once, when we lived in New York together, she went out to pick up our falafel order and was gone for hours. I found her singing showtunes with the cast of Wicked at the piano bar next door.

“And she went AWOL in Tuscany for those two days.”

“We found her in a literal castle.”

“Yeah, but at least then, she kept having that guy’s butler deliver those very official handwritten notes to our hostel.”

We laugh, and I make a mental note to reference some of these classic Sybil moments in my maid-of-honor speech—the one I’ve still avoided spending any time thinking about, though I guess now I have a good reason to be putting it off. Step one, locate bride. Step two, draft speech. Besides, how could I possibly attempt to encapsulate my wonderful, weird, completely unique best friend in a two-minute toast? Yes, she’s the life of the party, everyone knows that. But she’s so much more than that. And her Technicolor-rainbow spirit has darker shades too.

The thought sobers me. “I know Sybs is always disappearing and falling into adventures. But then there are other times… like graduation night—”

“What happened on graduation night?” Nikki asks.

“She never showed up at the after-party. Willow and I assumed she was probably at some better, cooler party. Maybe already hanging with a crew of college kids. But we found her parked down by the creek, sobbing in her car.” My heart sinks, remembering holding Sybil as she cried, her voice gasping out through her tears—Everything’s ending, Emma.

Nikki nods. “There were a couple moments like that at USC too.” We walk a bit in silence before Nikki turns the conversation away from Sybil. “So seriously, what’s going on with you and BOAT Man? Y’all have clearly passed the ‘I want to tear your head off’ stage of your relationship, and are actively in the ‘I want to tear your clothes off’ stage.” She chuckles, and even if it’s at my expense, it’s nice to hear Nikki laughing again.

“We’ve just had an okay day together, and we had a nice dinner. And then… we had a pretty fantastic elevator ride,” I say, fighting to keep a silly grin from taking over my entire face. “He told me I should start my own design firm.” I don’t know why that detail has risen to the top, given everything that’s happened tonight, but for some reason it feels important. I remember the absolute confidence in Finn’s voice as he encouraged me to take the leap and strike out on my own.

“Well, obviously, Em.”

“What do you mean ‘obviously’?”

“Emma, you’re so good at what you do. I don’t know why you’re still at that place that works you to the bone—for definitely not enough money—and doesn’t appreciate you.”

“Well, maybe it’s something to think about,” I reply, with no real intention of doing any such thing.

It’s nice to dream big and all, but some of us need to live in reality and make pragmatic decisions. My little mental escape in Vegas has been fun, but it’s not real life.

As if on cue, a woman in a neon-magenta feather headdress and not much else walks by.

“Sybil’s probably in the penthouse of some high roller right now hand-feeding Wagyu beef to his pet tiger,” Nikki says.

“Oh no, she’d never get with someone with a pet tiger.”

“True. Maybe a capuchin monkey or something.”

“I can see her being okay with that. As long as the monkey is well taken care of.”

“Of course.” We both laugh, but I do wonder—would Sybil cheat on Jamie on their wedding weekend? I’d like to think she would never go through with anything that extreme. Freak out with uncertainty? Sure. Flirt with some hot strangers? Probably. But I hope she wouldn’t go so far as to ruin what she and Jamie have—or break his heart. I’d like to think that Sybil has moved on from her truly wild ways, because I’d like to think I’ve changed from the person I used to be, back when I was in my early twenties and still figuring out how to be a real adult. But then again, I know what it’s like to get swept up in the heat of the moment. To let passion cloud your better judgment. To end up doing something you never thought you’d do—even cheat.

Finn texts me that they’re finishing up at the fight, so we head over to the arena where the fight took place.

“Time to face the music with Jamie. I guess.”

Nikki nods but doesn’t say anything. She’s not looking forward to disappointing Jamie any more than I am.

I can tell the exact moment Jamie realizes that Sybil’s not with us. His face drops even as we approach from across the crowded concourse in front of the arena. Finn gives me a look, silently communicating our agreement from an hour earlier, and I know I have to tell Jamie—at least part of—the truth.

“Hey, how was the fight?” Nikki starts.

“It was good,” Jamie says. Finn, meanwhile, is looking nauseated enough that I can tell he barely hung in there.

I almost want to laugh and tease him about it, but I clasp my hands together in front of me, all business. Time to rip off the Band-Aid. “Wait—before you tell us about it, we have to tell you something.”

“Okay,” Jamie says hesitatingly, as if he knows exactly what’s coming. His shoulders sag in his perfectly tailored suit. His thick brows come together in a frown that’s more concerned than angry. But his warm brown eyes project a steady sense of resolve. Like he’s bracing himself for whatever’s coming, but he intends to weather it.

Suddenly, I’m struck by a memory. It was a week after Sybil and Jamie got engaged, and she and I were both back in Dallas for the holidays. The day after Christmas, the two of us holed up in her childhood bedroom, working ourselves into a sugar coma from gingerbread cookies and spiked eggnog, giggling like teenagers. Then, finally, I lobbed the question I’d been wondering about since I got Sybil’s elated FaceTime call telling me the news. “So, you really think he’s the one?”

It was a reasonable question, I felt. Sybil had been proposed to twice before, and neither engagement had panned out.

Sybil took a bite of her cookie, chewing thoughtfully as she considered my question. “I used to think love was like a roller coaster, you know,” she said. “The heart-pounding thrill of it all. The lows making the highs feel that much more exhilarating. But Jamie’s not like that.”

“What’s he like?” I had only met him once at this point.

Sybil hugged a pillow to her chest. “He’s like… he’s like the ocean. The feelings are just as powerful, but they’re steadier—like the tide, rolling in and out. Sometimes it feels like he’s the only one who can weather all my storms.”

And then, the dreamy look of deep thought still on her face, she bit off the leg of her gingerbread man.

At the time, I hadn’t been fully convinced, instead just brushing off her ocean metaphor as the semi-philosophical musings of an eggnog-tipsy Sybil. It took seeing her and Jamie interact several more times over the course of their engagement to understand for myself how true her assessment really was. And looking at Jamie’s worried but resolved expression now, here on the Vegas strip, I’m reminded of Sybil’s words. Jamie can weather her storms. I know he can. By this point, he has to know something is up. But knowing that deep down and having the reality thrust in your face are two different things. Jamie just needs us to shield him from the worst of it. At least, for as long as it takes for Sybil to complete her roller-coaster ride and realize that what she really needs is right here waiting for her.

So I send up a quick prayer to the gods of lying by omission, and say, “So… Sybil really wants some alone time right now.” It’s not a complete lie. In fact, it is absolutely very much the partial truth.

“Alone time… away from me?” Jamie’s voice stretches thinly over the words.

“From everyone really,” Nikki chimes in, which is also true. After all, no one has been able to get through to her.

For a moment, it seems like Jamie wants to push back, to demand more information, but mostly he just seems… tired. “Well, thanks for passing along the message. I know she’s in good hands with you girls keeping an eye on her.” I swallow down the lump in my throat. “But the moment”—he pinches the bridge of his nose—“and I mean the moment she doesn’t want to be alone, you tell her to call me. Okay?”

“I will,” I say, at the same time Nikki jumps in with “Absolutely.”

“Okay, well. The rest of the guys are out… somewhere. But I think I’m just going to go to bed.” His totally deflated look kills me. “Vittal scheduled the plane to go back tomorrow at nine a.m. I’ve texted Sybil the details, but I’ll send them to you too.”

I try to manifest into the universe a vision of Sybil sitting side by side with Jamie on his friend’s jet tomorrow morning, but the odds of that happening feel incredibly slim. We still need to locate her and resolve whatever insecurities sent her running off in the first place, and I’m highly doubtful we’ll be able to accomplish all that before 9:00 a.m., a mere eight hours from now.

We all give Jamie hugs and watch him slump back toward the hotel.

“Lord, that was rough,” Nikki says with a sigh.

“You really think that was the best move?” Finn asks. “Keeping the charade up like that?”

“I didn’t hear you stepping up to drop the bomb on him,” I shoot back. Exhaustion and stress are settling into my bones, and that mind-altering kiss I’d shared with Finn in the elevator seems like a distant memory.

Finn holds his hands in front of his chest defensively. “Hey, I was genuinely asking. I have no idea what the right thing to do is here. I want to respect Sybil’s wishes…” He trails off, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “But sometimes you just have to bite the bullet and tell the truth, even if it hurts.”

I know he’s right, but looking at Jamie’s puppy dog face has stoked my protective instincts—the same ones that spun a story for three-year-old Liz about our dad being an astronaut who was on his way to the moon, and therefore couldn’t take her to the daddy-daughter tea after church that Sunday. Eventually she learned the truth, but in that moment, the blow was cushioned.

“Let’s give this one more try,” I say as I navigate over to the tracking app for the first time in hours. “If we have no leads on her whereabouts by the time Jamie’s heading to the airport, we’ll fess up. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Nikki says.

Finn just nods.

As the tracking app loads, I pray that Sybil’s little blue dot is headed toward Caesars Palace… and Jamie.

But I have to zoom out three times to find her. And when I do, my stomach does an unpleasant flip.

Sybil is no longer in Vegas.

And she hasn’t just left the city. She’s left the whole frickin’ state.

“Oh shit,” Finn says, peering over my shoulder at the map.

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“It looks like she’s headed to Albuquerque.”

“Albuquerque?” Nikki repeats.

The anxiety that I’ve kept at bay through most of the evening curls around my chest. “How do you know?” I ask Finn.

“Call it a hunch,” Finn says cryptically.

He leans back on his heels and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “It’s after midnight. I think we should just crash in the room I got, and try to catch up with her first thing tomorrow morning.”

My entire body starts tingling, my mind already drifting to the feeling of Finn’s hands around my waist in the elevator and his thigh pressed between my legs…

The sounds of a Rat Pack cover band spill out into the night each time the door to the casino opens, and the golden glow of the marquee lights shimmers around us. For a second, everything melts away—Nikki, Jamie, Sybil, pregnant Willow holding down the fort back at HQ… they all fade away, leaving nothing but Finn and me. His body pressed against mine at the roulette table. The hungry look in his eyes when he saw my new outfit. The way he opened up to me at dinner. The scorching kiss in the elevator. All the mistakes I’ve made with Finn have been in moments like this. Moments that feel too good to be true. Brimming with starlight or drunk on fresh victory. I’m not going to make the mistake of sharing a hotel room with him. The actual love story belongs to Sybil and Jamie. I can’t let myself get distracted, imagining things will be different with Finn this time around.

“It’ll be too late by then,” I insist. “We should just go now.”

“Are you sure?” Nikki asks. “I’m going to stay here for the night and catch the flight back with Jamie and the guys in the morning. You can crash with me, Em,” she adds, like she knows I don’t trust myself to share a hotel room with Finn.

“I’m sure. I’ll pound some coffee and be good to go. Finn?”

Finn doesn’t look especially excited about the prospect of getting on the road again, but he says, “We could make it to Albuquerque by morning if you’re set on going.”

“Then it’s settled. We’ll power through, and just get to Sybil.” I start doing the math in my head. It’s an eight-hour drive… then a two-hour flight to LA… “We could be back in Malibu by late lunch tomorrow—in plenty of time for the rehearsal dinner.” It rings hollow in my ears though. I’ve kept moving the goalposts further and further back for Sybil, and now I’m not sure I can see the field anymore. But Finn is still here beside me, and for the life of me I don’t understand why.

Nikki makes us promise to keep her updated regularly, then follows Jamie’s path toward the hotel rooms.

“You grab the coffee, I’ll go check us out of the hotel and call for the car,” Finn says.

Luckily, there’s no shortage of twenty-four-hour places from which to source caffeine. I return to the front entrance of the casino a few minutes later and hand an insulated paper cup to Finn, who takes a sip with a grimace.

“I hope Sybil appreciates the sacrifice you’re making for her,” I say. “You don’t mind if I take a couple dozen photos of Finn Hughes drinking this death-beverage, do you? For posterity’s sake.”

“Ha ha,” Finn says, pushing my phone camera out of his face.

The valet brings the Singer around, and Finn pulls open the door for me. It’s a simple gesture, but despite all my protestations about staying focused on finding Sybil, the action of sliding into the passenger seat in my new outfit feels like heading home after a date, anticipating whether or not it’ll end with a kiss—or something more.

After taking off his jacket and throwing it in the back seat to get crumpled anew, Finn joins me in the car, where we lapse into a comfortable silence—unusual for us. We are so used to debating and playfully—or genuinely—arguing, that there’s something surprisingly intimate about the quiet. I rest my arm on the thin center console between us. Finn moves to shift gears, and the soft cotton of his shirt brushes against my forearm.

I expect him to pull his hand away, but it settles beside mine. I feel the slightest brush of his pinkie before it loops over mine. A thrill rockets through me. I don’t understand how the slightest movements of Finn’s fingers can have such a powerful effect on me. His eyes are still on the road, but he has a soft smile on his lips. Despite how late it is, and the weakness of the coffee I’ve only had a few sips of, I feel like I’ve drunk half a dozen Red Bulls, and the floating feeling from the elevator is back. But now it’s ten times more intense because this is—or could be—real.

I leave my hand right where it is and stare out the window into the starlight.