Mistakes We Never Made

18 Very Early Friday Morning

(One day before the wedding)

IT’S AN HOUR ORso into our drive toward Albuquerque—making good time but still not caught up to the little floaty blue tracker pin—when I force Finn to pull over at a rest stop so I can use the bathroom. I return to find him leaning against the side of the car, looking exhausted. He never did have more than two sips of the coffee I got him.

“Let me drive the rest of the way,” I say. “I at least got a nap earlier.” He smirks at me, and I instantly regret reminding him—not that he’s aware of the lurid contents of my nap-time dream… I hope.

“Um, not a chance. The terms of the bet were that you only get to drive this thing if we were leaving Vegas with Sybil in tow. And that is very clearly far from the case. In fact, I’m pretty sure you owe me one official compliment. Don’t worry, I’ll give you a few minutes.”

“That bet was made prior to the knowledge that Sybil would have crossed state lines again, and should thus be rendered moot. Besides, I’d like to avoid ending up in a ditch, and I can tell you need the shut-eye. Meanwhile, I’m buzzed,” I say, holding up a Diet Coke I grabbed from the station on the way out.

A smile quirks at his lips. “Fine. You win, not because of the merits of your argument but because I forfeit with a plea of sleepless insanity.” Pulling the keys from his pocket, he spins them once, and grabs my hand. “I can trust you, Emma, can’t I?”

“Of course.” The keys jingle quietly as he sets them in my palm. Both of his hands cup mine, and my body sways toward his as if drawn by an invisible force. He lets go and heads around to the other side of the car.

I grip the keys tightly enough to feel the teeth bite into the heel of my palm. “Just keep it between the lines,” Finn says, sliding into the passenger seat, and I exhale. Finn can trust me. But can I trust myself? We haven’t spoken about or even directly acknowledged our elevator make-out. The sudden twist of Sybil now heading east has captured our focus, putting a pause on the attraction that had begun bubbling over between us. But it’s like a pot of water warming on the stove—I may have put a lid on it and turned the heat down to a simmer, but I know it’s only a matter of time before we reach the boiling point again.

At least for now, though, there’s a quiet calm between us. Within five minutes back on the road, Finn slumps against the window and drifts off to sleep.

Moving from gear to gear, I remember how much I miss driving. There’s no need for it in New York, and I’ve never driven anything as smooth as this Singer. The gear shifting is even more precise than a regular Porsche, the throttle is incredibly responsive, and the steering is almost intuitive. It’s the kind of car my dad always lusted after but could never afford.

Instead, he spent his weekends restoring an old Jeep Wagoneer. He loved any excuse to drive it. When I was seven and the rivalry between Texas and AM still meant something, we took it down to Austin for my first football game. There was never any doubt that I would go to Texas one day. Both of my parents went. It’s where they met. I knew, even at seven, that one day I’d be a Longhorn.

My dad always said you were taking your life in your hands every time you got on I-35, so we took the long way down from Dallas to Austin on 281. In the spring, it’s covered in wildflowers, but even in early fall, it’s a beautiful drive. I remember when we went to that first football game, we left while it was still dark out so we could make the 11:00 a.m. kickoff. Wrapped in a burnt-orange fleece blanket with light limning the dashboard of the Wagoneer and dew shimmering along the fields, I watched the sunrise over the Texas Hill Country. Liz had just started walking that summer, and it felt like neither of my parents had any time for me—always chasing after my newly mobile little sister. Dad especially guarded his time alone, so it felt like a bit of a miracle that we would have so much of it together on this trip. I loved him for it.

My father’s secondary motivation for taking the long way to the game—beyond his somewhat dubious claims of physical safety—was dessert. It gave us an excuse to drive through Marble Falls and stop at the Blue Bonnet Cafe for pie. We pulled into the diner at 8:30 a.m. and slid into a gray vinyl booth. My dad ordered a coffee, a hot chocolate with whipped cream, and two slices of coconut cream pie for us. While he doctored his coffee with cream and sugar, he said, “You’re in for a treat. This is the best pie in the state, Emmie Girl. One day”—my dad licked the meringue off his spoon and pointed it at me—“I’ll be driving you down to Austin for your first day of school.”

“What if I went somewhere else for school though? Would you still love me if I went to AM?”

“You should go to the school where you think you’ll be the happiest.” He wrinkled his nose. “But please, Emmie, don’t go to AM.”

I nodded and went back to my pie, scraping the filling out so I could save the entire crust for last. In that moment, I would have promised him anything.

I don’t remember much about the game beyond standing on the bleachers sucking down a Dr Pepper, basking in my father’s attention, and knowing I could never be happy going to college anywhere else.

At the time, it was the best weekend of my life. By August of next year, he was gone.

The twice-a-year phone calls with my dad on my birthday and Christmas had mostly petered out by my senior year of college, but I called him as soon as I got accepted to Texas.

I could tell he was happy for me, but in the removed way that he might be happy for anyone going to a school that meant so much to him.

“Maybe we could drive down together,” I say.

“I’ve been meaning to get to Austin, Emmie Girl. Let me check my schedule.” Months passed, and I never heard back from him, so near the end of summer, I sent him a text: First day of school in a week!

Two days later he texted back, Proud of you! Hook ’em! But nothing about driving me to school, like we’d once talked about. And I was too stubborn—and too hurt—to bring it up again.

Mom and I loaded up my Bronco with monogrammed towels, extra-long bedsheets, and my prized Titanic poster. Work was so busy that she couldn’t drive me to school, and I knew the only reason I was able to afford college and all its peripheral costs was that my mom worked so hard. I couldn’t ask her to take time off for me. And in the back of my mind, part of me still hoped my dad would be there. After my mom said a teary goodbye, she drove away to work, but I waited in our driveway for an hour. He never showed, so I took the straight shot to Austin down I-35 and didn’t stop once.

FINN STIRS BESIDE MEand rubs at his eyes. “Where are we?”

“Closing in on Kingman.”

Finn glances at the dashboard clock, which reads 2:42 a.m. “I can’t let you just drive all night.” He pulls up a map on his phone. “Take the next exit, and we’ll make camp at Hualapai Mountain Park. Just for a few hours,” he adds, to ward off any protestations from me. But at this point, none are coming. Thoughts of my dad have drained my energy, and now I feel one slow blink away from disaster. Following Finn’s directions, we make it off the highway and onto a dirt road that leads to a small campground. After turning off the car, I recline the seat back as far as I can.

“Oh, we’re not sleeping in the car.” From the back seat of the Singer, he pulls out a Yeti blanket and a small nylon pouch, in which I assume must be a tiny pup tent or something. I step out from the driver’s seat, but the green silk dress that had been the perfect thing for Vegas is deeply out of place in the woods.

Sensing my discomfort, Finn hands me a soft cotton shirt. “Here, you can wear this if it’s more comfortable. I’ll… um… turn around while you change.”

I put on my shorts and slip Finn’s oversized T-shirt over my head, but it’s been worn so many times that the fabric is nearly translucent in some spots. I reach back into the car for the sweatshirt and put it on too. “I’m decent.”

Finn turns back around and smiles. “You’re all kitted out in Duke gear.” He pauses. “It looks good.” He clears his throat and shakes out the vinyl pouch into a large rectangle. He knots it between two pine trees, and in less than two minutes, we have a hammock. “It’s not the cushiest, but it’s better than the ground or trying to squeeze into the car.”

“I’m incredibly impressed.” I sit sideways on the hammock and give it an experimental swing. My feet leave the ground, and I’m looking up through a web of pine needles to the night sky. There’s enough moonlight that I can see banks of clouds floating gently above us.

Finn produces a bottle of tequila from the car. “A night-cap?”

“Is that the tequila that sent Sybil into a tailspin last night?” I can’t believe it was only twenty-four hours ago that Sybil went off the deep end. Only twenty-four hours since Finn Hughes came back into my life.

The hammock rocks as he takes a seat beside me. “It’s one of many she tried.” He passes me the bottle, and I focus on unscrewing the lid instead of the fact that the entire right side of his body is pressed against the entire left side of my body.

I take a small sip and let it linger on my tongue. There’s a burst of flavor that almost tastes like my mom’s gingerbread loaf with a hint of orange blossom. After I swallow, the faint taste of cloves lingers. It does taste remarkable. Score one point for snobby man-bun bartender. I guess some tequila should be sipped. I hand the bottle back to Finn.

“So why do you think Sybil is going to Albuquerque?” I ask.

Finn pauses with the tequila bottle halfway to his lips, as if he’s not sure he wants to say.

“Come on, Finn. Just tell me.”

He exhales. “I think she’s going to see Liam.”

“Liam Russell?” It’s a name I haven’t thought of in years—Sybil’s high school boyfriend who broke up with her the night of prom and then proposed before graduation. “That was a million years ago. Why would she go see him?”

“It’s just a hunch. I hope I’m wrong. He’s bad news.”

My mind races. I’d never liked Liam, but I hadn’t realized that things between him and Sybil were that bad. The worry etched around Finn’s eyes is real though.

“What happened with them?”

“That’s Sybil’s story to tell, Emma.” His words sound familiar, but I can’t place them. “I just have a hunch that she went to see him. He’s a personal trainer in Albuquerque now.”

“How do you know that?” I ask, pulling the tequila bottle back from Finn and taking another small sip. I know Finn still isn’t on any social media, because every now and then I check—just to see what he’s up to, just like I would with any old friend…

“He’s an incredibly active LinkedIn user,” Finn explains with a half smile. “A lot of multi-paragraph motivational posts.” I grimace, and Finn nods. “Yeah, it’s pretty cringey.”

I pass the bottle back to Finn and pull the sleeves of his sweatshirt down over my hands, balling them into fists for warmth. “I can’t believe she’s chasing down an old boyfriend two days before her wedding,” I say. “Honestly, I’d be a lot less surprised if she was trying to chase down Sebastian. That would at least make sense.”

“Maybe she just needs some closure.”

A breeze slips through the trees, and the susurration of pine needles slipping against each other fills the space between us. When I look up again, the cloud bank has moved with the wind, traveling westward. The vastness of the sky and forest settles on me, but it doesn’t overwhelm me. Tucked beside Finn in this hammock cocoon, I feel rooted and safe.

“You know, my dad lives out this way. Around Flagstaff.”

I don’t know why I bring this up. Maybe Finn’s talk of closure just now. That’s something I never got with Dad.

“Do you get to visit a lot?” Finn takes a sip of tequila and leans back in the hammock, wedging the bottle between us.

I lean back, too, and the hammock sways softly. “No. This is my first time in Arizona. It’s been”—I do the math in my head—“almost eight years since I’ve seen him. He came to Austin for a football game junior year, and we got breakfast. It was super awkward because I hadn’t really seen him for years before that—and I haven’t seen him since. He’s not a bad guy, he’s just like a nonentity.”

The silence from Finn is heavy.

“What?” I ask.

“I think leaving your family makes you an objectively bad guy.”

“Yeah, definitely in some ways.”

“I mean, I can understand a marriage not working out, but your kids are your kids. That’s not something you can walk away from.”

“And yet…” I let the sentence trail off, and reach for more tequila. “Do you want kids?”

“Not right now, but definitely someday. My dad and I had our differences, but there’s never been a minute of my life that I doubted how much he loved me. Everyone deserves that. At least one person to love you completely unconditionally. I don’t think you should have kids if you can’t be sure you can do that.”

“My mom is like that,” I say and then tip the bottle back.

“Good.”

His hand closes over mine, and he takes the tequila back for another pull. “I told you I got in a big fight in Austin when I was nineteen?”

“Mm-hmm.” I don’t know if it’s the tequila, the rocking of the hammock, or being this close to Finn, but I feel totally at peace right now.

“They booked me and took me down to the station. Those blue couches are burned into my brain. Even though my dad was dying, he drove down 35 and picked me up. It was a super-shitty drive home, but you can afford to make mistakes when you know you have a parent like that. I don’t know that my mom has ever fully forgiven me. He took a pretty bad turn a couple of weeks later, and just never got better.”

“Oh, Finn. I’m so sorry. It wasn’t your fault.”

He clears his throat. “Anyway. I think that if you can’t love a kid unconditionally like that, then you shouldn’t have one.”

“I don’t know if I love my dad unconditionally.” It feels good to get the words out of my body. I’ve never been this candid with anyone before. Not Willow, or Sybil, or Nikki. Not even Liz. The anxiety that normally curls around my neck eases up, and I take a deep breath of mountain air.

“It’s not a two-way street,” Finn says. “Parents have to love their kids. Kids get to choose if they love their parents.” He closes his eyes, and then, almost as if he’s talking to himself, he says, “But I don’t think romantic love always works like that. Sometimes, it’s just… inevitable.”

For some reason, this thought makes it hard for me to swallow. I reach for the tequila bottle just as Finn reaches out for it… and slips his hand around mine.

“But don’t you think we can choose who we love and who we don’t?”

I wait for him to let go of my hand, but he doesn’t.

“I guess I just don’t think we have as much control over our feelings as we’d like to believe.”

“I disagree. You always have a say. No matter how tempting it may be, you can choose not to make the mistake of letting yourself love someone.”

“I challenge your stance.” He looks into my eyes. His face is serious, but his eyes are sparkling with something like laughter… or maybe it’s something else.

I smile—I’m enjoying the references to our debate days. It feels right to accept the challenge. Natural. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“So what’s your counterargument?”

Now he’s grinning, definitely. “Sometimes, Emma, making the mistake is the best part about love.”