“Pixies, Surfer Rosa,” she answered, waving a hand, as if nonchalant about knowing the groupandthe album name.
Good thing Manhattan streets were empty at six on a Saturday morning. Phoenix couldn’t help swiveling his attention from the road to this woman. “Are you an old person in a young body? They’re way before your time.”
She laughed. “My parents loved them. What about you? You’re only four years older.”
Twenty-seven. Her parents. He’d known the bare facts about her but her sharing them felt like escape-room clues. To unlock the mystery of Orchid. “My twin brother, Caleb. He’s really into underground subcultures. He says there was this golden period from the Sex Pistols to Nirvana that paved the way for Gaga and Taylor Swift, even if people don’t realize it.”
“Twin brother! Lucky you. I’m an only child.”
“Yeah, he’s alright. I told him about the race today, but it’s not really his thing.” Two syllables,brother,seemed inadequate to represent decades of memories. Caleb was his best friend and competitor. As a teen, Caleb was the rebel who wanted to uncover underground everything, as if seeking answers in songwriters’ dark lyrics.
In the car’s enclosed space, he could detect Orchid’s faint scent of roses and something sweet. The speakers quieted to percussive instrumentals.
“Renegade Soundwave,” she sang out the name of the obscure band.
“Are you always this chipper? Do you even need the coffee I bought you?” He gestured towards the lidded cup nestled in the console between them.
“Thank you,” she said, lifting the beverage and taking a sip. “Caramel Frappuccino, you remembered!”
“As long as fickle you didn’t want something different.”
“This is perfect.” For a moment, her glance at his profile seemed to indicate she meant more than the brew.
Today, Orchid was fresh-faced, her voluminous hair trussed up in a hurried ponytail. This assignment was important to her, and he reminded himself that his dad would be proud that Phoenix was mentoring her.
The most honest insight rattled him. If she learned that they hadn’t met by accident, would she still be happy to see him? Would she believe that his motives were pure, that he’d only intended to meet his father’s last wishes? That he hadn’t meant to fall for her?
They entered the mouth of the Lincoln Tunnel; yellowed lights dimly lit the interior of the car. Their tires keened against the grooved pavement.
“When I was a kid,” said Orchid, “these tunnels always seemed like a portal to another world. Ten minutes and you’d be in another state. I used to dream of flying through the Holland tunnel.” She looked wistful.
“Freud would have a field day with that one.” He decelerated for a slow-moving garbage truck.
“It wasn’t something that needed to be analyzed. More like I was so free, and I might burst out the other side, and into the Milky Way.”
“That kind of dream would make a great ad.”
“Speaking of dreams, thank you for helping me with my dream to get to China.”
John Walker would be proud. “You’re helping me, too,” he reminded her.
They popped out of the tunnel and into the sunshine, then curved past New Jersey billboards and a sign for Weehawken.
He glanced over and saw that she was taking in all of it, from the landscape to the traffic. He was coming to the conclusion that the grace with which she carried herself conveyed more wisdom than her twenty-something years should be able to produce.
She turned towards him. “Have I properly thanked you for the book on Asian culture?”
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“I’m halfway through. It’s super cool. I knew about culture shock, but I never thought aboutreverseculture shock.”
“Coming back is harder than going,” he said, recalling the message in the book.
“After they explained it, it made sense. You change even if your friends haven’t, so suddenly you don’t fit in.”
“You’re going for only six weeks, so you might not get reverse culture shock.”
“I love how you’re talking as if I’m getting the job.”
