Turns out they weren’t looking for the dramatic foyer that I’d done for Nikki’s sister. They were talking about a hotel I’d worked on in Williamsburg, a sleek obsidian and malachite space for their lobby. I was proud of how I’d executed my boss’s vision on that one, but it was never something I would have designed myself. The Hansons took one look at the bold, artistic design I’d drawn up for their home, and promptly fired our firm.
The only thing worse than seeing the dirt lot where they razed the historic mansion was the ominous references to “reassessing my role within the team” that my boss has been making ever since.
Finn flips on the radio, looking for a clear signal, eventually settling on some bland Top 40 station. I consider mocking him for theCeltic WomanCD, but the reminder of the disparity of our work situations has zapped the fun out of it.Sure, you might be a tech wunderkind with career success and Mr. Darcy levels of financial stability, butIhave cooler taste in music—so there!
Instead, I take in the rest of the car. The back is filled with papers, a soft-sided Yeti cooler, a beat-up gym bag, and a ratty Duke sweatshirt. Pretty basic stuff, but it all feels strangely intimate and out of place here in the Singer. This is a car built for escaping your life. For driving along the Pacific Coast Highwaywith your windows rolled down, Tom Petty blasting. But Finn is treating the Porsche like a minivan. It’s like he’s dragging his whole life with him. I wonder when he was last home to his parents’ house in Dallas.Mother’s, I remind myself. Finn’s dad passed away when we were freshmen in college.
A thought comes to me, quick as a reflex. It’s one of those dark, selfish ones you don’t say out loud: sometimes, I wish my dad were dead. It’s terrible, I know. I don’t mean it in a he’s-so-awful-he-should-just-be-dead kind of way. Because he’s not, most of the time. Most of the time he’s just… nothing. A blurry vagueness whose absence has played a far bigger role in my life than anything he’s actually done. I guess I just mean it like… maybe it would feel cleaner. Grief may be a heavier burden to carry, but I don’t think it poisons you quite the same way that bitterness does.
The traffic stalls again, getting worse and worse as we head into San Diego. Finn looks something up on his phone, then puts on his blinker and pulls off I-5.
“What are you doing?” Finn turns down another street, and it’s clear that we’re no longer headed toward San Diego.
“I’m grabbing something to eat. There’s a place up here that’s supposed to have the best tacos in the state. Apparently, all the pro golfers hit it when they play Torrey Pines.”
“No, we’ve got to keep going.” Not only are we losing our window to find Sybil and bring her back in time for the welcome party, but Nikki will lose her shit if she learns we found ourselves within a nine iron’s swing of Aaron.
“I didn’t get anything to eat this morning, because a semi-feral woman dragged me out of the shower and didn’t give me time to grab breakfast.”
“You could’ve just given me your keys,” I say sweetly. “Then you could’ve had all the pancakes you wanted.”
Finn executes a flawless parallel park outside a buttercream-yellow building with a cheery green roof. “That was never an option.”
We step out of the car, and directly across the two-lane road is a small inlet of water between us and a forested hill. If we had the time, it’d be a beautiful place to sit outside with the sea breeze and the still-gentle Southern California sun. I give myself one deep breath to enjoy the view then turn toward the taco shop. My breath catches when I see that Finn had been watching me. He breaks into a small smile as if laughing at his own private joke.
We head inside and wait in line behind a multicolored-tile counter. When it’s our turn, Finn leans over the counter and grins at the cashier. “So, what’s good here?”
The cashier, a sweet-faced Latina girl who can’t be more than nineteen, smiles back at him. “Our loaded hash brown burrito is really good. I like to add avocado.”
“That sounds perfect. I’ll have one of those. Emma?” He turns to me for my order, and a loaded hash brown burrito honestly does sound delicious, but I don’t let myself order the same thing. “Bacon, egg, and cheese burrito, please,” I say primly.
Finn winks conspiratorially at the cashier. “Add avocado to hers too.”
“Do you have to flirt with the cashier?” I ask once we move to the side to wait for our order.
Finn gives me a confused look. “I’m just being polite.”
“Fine.”
“Fine,” he echoes. But then a smile breaks through his confusion. “Are you jealous, Emma?”
“Ugh. No.” I wince slightly at how unconvincing I sound. Pulling out my phone to avoid any eye contact, I add, “I just don’t think you should be pursuing children.”
He leans toward me, and I can feel the warm brush of his breath against my cheek. “Emma, I promise you, I only ever pursue fully grown, enthusiastically consenting, adult women.”
I don’t dignify Finn’s words with a response. Instead, I try to ignore the fact that my skin all of a sudden feels too tight for my body and pull up the Map app to see that we’re only twenty-eight minutes from the Del. Less than half an hour, and I’ll have this whole Sybil debacle wrapped up.
Through the window I see a black Range Rover Sport pull up. I’m weighing whether to add a side of jalapeños, when the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Which can only mean one thing. Sure enough, I turn back to the window just in time to see Aaron Brinkley exit the Range Rover. His sandy hair is tucked under a baseball cap, and there’s a smattering of freckles across his forearms. To be honest, I never really understood what Nikki saw in him. He’s no better looking than every other douchey white guy that populates America’s frat houses, and clearly his character leaves something to be desired. Aaron makes his way across the parking lot and I turn away from the window.
I nudge Finn. “Shouldn’t he be playing?”
Finn, who still can’t seem to keep a smile off his face, pulls up Twitter on his phone, then shakes his head. “Apparently he didn’t sign his scorecard.”
“English, please.” I’m growing agitated. Finn is still gloatingover my nonjealousy, and in just a few moments I’ll be sharing breathing space with the man who destroyed my best friend.
“It’s an automatic disqualification.” Finn shrugs. “It’s been a rule forever. It’s to prove your integrity—you’re signing that you’re going to self-report your scores accurately. You have to be able to trust the other golfer’s word, or there’s no point in playing.”
Integrityandtrustworthiness. I can’t think of two words less suited to describe Aaron Brinkley. He walked away from someone amazing who loved him despite the fact that he was an idiot who didn’t deserve her. He lied to Nikki. Just like Finn lied to me, and my dad lied to my mom. Everything I’ve been feeling about Sybil running out on Jamie erupts to the surface, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m fully across the taco shop when Aaron walks through the door.
