He was there when I pulled into the parking lot.
Standing behind the athletic building in jeans and that burgundy team hoodie—the same one he wore everywhere, slightly too big, cuffs frayed, a bleach stain on the sleeve. Handsin the front pocket. Hair still damp. He looked like he gotten dressed in ninety seconds. I knew this because I knew him, and Liam Moore did not spend time on things that wasn't rowing…. and me, apparently.
I pulled up and rolled down the window. He stared at the car. Then at me.
"A BMW?"
"It's my car."
"You're picking me up behind the Riverside gym in a BMW." He looked left, then right, then back at me. "Real subtle, Alex."
"Get in the car."
"Everyone on this campus drives a ten-year-old Honda. You might as well have shown up in a helicopter."
"Liam."
"I'm just saying—"
"Get. In. The car."
He got in the car.
He ran his hand along the dashboard.
"Your car smells new," he said.
"It's not new."
"It smells like it just came off a lot."
"That's because I don't eat fast food in it."
"Isn't that the whole point of having a car?" He was settling in though. Adjusting the seat. "Where are we going?"
"Away."
"Away where?"
"I don't know yet." I pulled out of the lot and turned north. "Is that okay?"
His sarcasm softened into something real. "Yeah. Sounds fun."
It took about fifteen minutes to drive out of Ashford.
The campuses disappear first—Kingswell's stone towers in the rearview, then Riverside's concrete sprawl. Then the town fellaway—the cobblestone downtown, the bridge, the river. And then it was just road.
Two-lane highway cutting through New England, trees blazing red and gold on both sides, the sky that sharp blue that only happens when the air gets cold enough to strip the haze.
Liam had his window down even though it was forty degrees.
"You're going to freeze," I said.
He smirked. "Okay mom."
Then he was going through my radio presets. Classical. NPR. Jazz. A playlist my mother had synced to the car last Christmas that was entirely Yo-Yo Ma.
"Dude," he said.
