I shoot him a look.
“I’m hungry,” he mouths, but I just shake my head and follow my dad.
“You like mustard on yours, right, Emmie?” He lights up like he’s remembered something about me.
“Um, no mustard. I’m a purist.”
“Ah, okay.”
“I’ll take some mustard,” Finn says.
“Good man.” In a matter of minutes, our sandwiches are sizzling on the griddle. “So, what brings you two to the neighborhood?” he asks, as if our popping by is a casual occurrence.
“We were on our way to Albuquerque,” I say vaguely. “And then we had a small car accident.”
“Oh, man, Emmie Girl. I’m so sorry to hear that. What kind of car is it? I might be able to help with it.” My dad slides the sandwiches onto three plates, and hands me my mustard-free one. The kitchen is tiny, so we carry our plates back out to the living room and sit on the brown leather furniture and eat with our plates in our laps.
“It’s a Singer.”
“A Porsche 911 reimagined by Singer. Technically,” Finn clarifies.
My dad’s eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline, and he lets out a whistle. “A man with a Singer, eh?” He gives me a playful punch on the shoulder. “Nice catch, Emmie Girl. You’ve gotta hold on to this one.” Before I can correct him, he turns to Finn. “Those Porsches can be tough to drive.” But he fixes Finn with a pitying look like anyone with half a brain could figure it out. “Should have let Emmie drive it. She’s a natural.”
I wait for Finn to clarify, to absolve himself of this insult to his driving abilities, but he just shrugs and continues to eat his grilled cheese. It’s almost like he’s covering for me, which makes my skin prickle. Why should he? I screwed up. I should take ownership of it. Finn’s words from right before the crash come back to me.Well, maybe your life would be a little better if you were a little more willing to make mistakes.
“Actually, I was driving when we had the wreck.”
“Oh.” Dad’s face drops the slightest bit. “Well… tough with those engines in the back, you know.”
We sit in silence, chewing our grilled cheese sandwiches, and I’m struck by the surrealness of it all. It feels like some bizarre dream: Finn Hughes sitting across from my estranged father in Flagstaff, Arizona.
Finn points toward to my dad’s commemorative UT cup. He seems to have a nearly endless supply. “Been a rough go for Cowboys and Longhorn fans.”
“Don’t I know it,” Dad says, and takes a long drink.
“Most valuable franchises in their respective leagues but can’t seem to turn it into a championship.”
“You’re telling me.” He’s animated with Finn in a way he isn’t with me, as if sports is safer ground. “Did you go to Texas too?”
“No, I was in North Carolina.”
“UNC?”
“Duke.”
“Good basketball team.” My dad takes another bite of his sandwich, and I want to scream. “More of a football guy myself.”
“Me too.”
It’s the most banal conversation I’ve ever heard. My father hasn’t seen me in eight years, and he’d rather talk to Finn about Duke basketball?
“Dad, I think I would like some mustard after all,” I practically shout. “Could you grab me some?” The second he’s up from the table, I lean over to Finn and hiss, “What are you doing?”
“Me?” Finn’s eyebrows shoot upward.
I assume an exaggeratedly deep voice, mocking Finn’s own. “Oh yeah, gotta love that Tar Heel basketball!”
“We are the Blue Devils,” Finn corrects. “And I’m just trying to be polite to this asshole who abandoned you. You think I want to be making small talk with him? I’m just following your lead here.”
