“I did.” But it’s not like I’m wearing something scandalous and see-through beneath it. I’ve got on a very utilitarian Lululemon bra that has more coverage than some of the tops that Sybil wears to brunch. And besides, it’s not anything Finn hasn’t seen before. Memories flood my brain—our torsos pressed together in the glow of swimming pool light, Finn unbuttoning my shirt on a rooftop in New York… Suddenly I feel more exposed than I did a moment ago. “Um,” I begin in a small voice, “do you have anything—”
“Oh… I… here.” Finn keeps his eyes trained on the road as he reaches into the back seat and grabs the ratty Duke sweatshirt. I pull it over my head and try not to think about how it smells like Finn, hazy woodsmoke cut through with the sharpscent of lavender. The cuffs are a bit frayed, and the neckline has been stretched out so much that it falls off one of my shoulders.
Leaning forward in the seat, I reach behind me and unsnap my bra. Then I shimmy out of the damp undergarment and slide it off, all without removing Finn’s sweatshirt. The Singer speeds up. Both Finn’s hands are firmly on the wheel, and his vision is glued to the road.
“Do you need to do that?” Finn asks.
“Did you expect me to just marinate in my coffee-soaked sports bra?” The bra hangs limply from my fingers. I fold it up, careful not to let any off the coffee-stained parts touch the seat, and put it into the bag leftover from my to-go lunch.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything to offer you in place of a bra.”
“You don’t have a box of discarded bras and panties from all your conquests filling up your trunk?”
“No, I keep that in my Sprinter van.”
“That is so murdery, Finn.”
The car is back to a reasonable speed, and Finn seems to have relaxed. His hands unclench from the wheel, one of them returning to its spot, resting on the gearshift.
“To be honest, there’s nothing interesting about women’s underwear once it’s no longer on a woman. When I’m with a woman, and she takes off her underwear, I’m very focused, and it’s not on helping her sort laundry.”
I swallow. My cheeks are burning. I’m reminded of how small the car actually is, and how easy it would be to reach over and touch Finn. Images—half memory, half fantasy—of Finn and me and underwear and lack thereof start bombarding mybrain again, sending it whirring. I grasp for anything to bring me back to safer ground.
I pull theCeltic WomanCD from the car door. “Should we put this on? My mom used to record the PBS specials and play them on a loop, so I know all the harmonies.”
Finn smiles. “Unfortunately, this car doesn’t have a CD player.”
“Then why do you have it?”
“My mom gave it to me when she was doing some house purging. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that CDs are basically obsolete these days.” He lapses into a short silence, as if he’s sinking into reminiscence. “Whenever we traveled, my parents would go all out. Movies and books set in that country. We’d research all the local food and map out how to get to everything from our hotel. I thought it was annoying at the time, but now I really appreciate it. It was a sign of respect, and it felt like the vacation began months before we got on the plane. The last trip we ever took as a family—before my dad died—was to Ireland.”
“Wow,” I say softly. I remember Finn’s dad from the odd school event—tall, his skin a few shades darker than his son’s, but his eyes that same deep brown, streaked with amber. I feel an unexpected pang of regret that I didn’t get to know him better before he died. I swallow the emotion. “Well, I guess I see where you get your affection for guide maps from.” Finn rolls his eyes and grins over at me. “My family was never that organized,” I say, grinning back at him. “When Mom took Liz and me on vacations, it was usually just a last-minute overnight trip to SeaWorld in San Antonio. One time we showed up, and the park was closed for renovations.”
“Like inNational Lampoon’s Vacation?”
“A true cinematic masterpiece if ever there was one.”
“Well.” Finn’s expression is soft, presumably from pleasant memories of his dad and family trips. “I guess I know where you got your freakish obsession with schedules from.”
“What?” I ask, confused how he could possibly draw that conclusion from the story I shared. My childhood was anything but scheduled. More often than not, it was a chaotic, stressful whirlwind—Mom never having enough time to be in all the places a single working parent needs to be at once.
“It sounds like someone had to keep the family on track.”
I’m struck by how much Finn’s words echo the voice I’ve had running through my head for years.Someone had to…Someone had to make sure Liz got to every swim meet on time. Someone had to make sure we had cold cuts for lunches. Someone had to keep my mom’s Subaru running… I never begrudged my mom. There were more things to be done than one person could handle, and if Mom was at work—which she was twelve hours a day—that person was me. My friends seem to think I just came out of the womb loving planners and sticky notes, but the truth is, if I didn’t cling to those organization tools as tightly as I do, my life would have spun out of control a long time ago. And the look in Finn’s eyes—perceptive, a little concerned, but still warm—tells me that he knows the truth.
My skin prickles along my spine. That exposed feeling is back. But it’s even stronger than I felt when I was in just my sports bra.
“Let’s play a song in honor of your dad and my mom,” I say, trying to bring us back to safer ground. I open my music app and navigate to theCeltic Womanalbum. We sit in silenceas the music plays. My eyes drift closed, and I imagine myself in a field of knee-high heather. Maybe a catnap is the reset I need. It feels so good to let my eyes close. I know the cardinal rule of being a good copilot is staying awake to entertain the driver, but maybe I’ll just give myself a minute or two…
I’M IN A LIVINGroom that I don’t recognize, but the beige built-ins and faux Tuscan wall treatment mean that it could be any of a dozen suburban houses my mom listed when I was a kid. Sybil is standing on the glass coffee table with a karaoke mic in her hand. I reach for her, but my mom walks in wearing a bright blue ball gown.
“There you are. I need you to help Liz finish her school project.” My mom moves toward a table stacked with dozens and dozens of shoebox dioramas, each one a different room that I’ve designed. “I’m counting on you, Emma.”
“I can’t now, Mom. Sybil and I have to go.”
“Sybil’s isn’t here, Emma.”
“She is—” I turn back to the coffee table, but Sybil has disappeared.
