I save my work and close my computer. I stand and stretch my back. “Okay, if you insist.” I pick up the keys and grab my purse and the small overnight bag I have packed. It’s weird to think that I live here most of the time now, so an overnight bag is all I’ll need to go home. I jingle the keys excitedly as he takes my overnight bag. I walk behind him as he heads downstairs and to the garage. “Am I taking the Soob?” I joke.
“Not exactly,” he says, opening the door. “I was thinking the red one.”
My eyes adjust to the vintage convertible Mini Cooper. The red one. “What?” I exclaim, jumping up and down. “Are you serious?” I look at him with big, hopeful eyes. “Please say yes, please say yes.”
He just laughs. “You can drive stick, right?”
“Of course. Oh my God! This is so cool.” I run over to the car and giggle hysterically. I place my purse and overnight bag in the trunk, pocketing my cell phone and sunglasses. I take a second to stare at the beautiful car in front of me.
The Mini is cherry red and fully restored to its former glory. Four seats clad in white leather. An overly large steering wheel and manual settings. The dashboard is mahogany and gleaming. I can picture myself with a scarf and oversized sunglasses, cruising down 5th Avenue.
“I can’t believe you’re entrusting me with this beautiful specimen of a car,” I say, crossing my arms and walking over to Emerson.
“I have really, really good insurance,” he replies smugly.
“What time do you need me back Sunday?” I ask, the smile still wide on my face.
His eyes flick over my face as if he’s studying me, and I start to feel an achy feeling in the pit of my stomach. What is that?
“Anytime Sunday night is fine.” He moves his lips to form a thin line, and the forehead wrinkles return. “Drive safe, okay?” he adds, his voice tender and concerned.
“I’m an excellent driver.” I flash him a cheesy grin. He just continues to watch me with apprehension. “I’ll be fine,” I add for his benefit.
“Thank you for all of your help this week, Finley,” he says sincerely. The achy feeling is back, and my smile lessens. I dig my hands into the pockets of my jean shorts, suddenly feeling awkward with our goodbye.
Do I hug him? Wave? Turn and leave?
“No problem,” I respond, biting my lower lip. I don’t make eye contact, so instead I glance around at the other car in the garage. “Looks like you’re stuck with the Civic,” I joke, and he relaxes and laughs. God, this guy is tense. “Why do you need three cars again?” I begin to walk backward toward the Mini. My knees feel kind of weak, and the achy feeling is becoming unbearable. I should probably leave.
He thumbs his nose and squints at the Civic. “Well, the Civic is my travel car. Good gas mileage,” he adds, and I nod in return. “The Soob is for everyday. I like it. I used to have a dog, so it was great for taking him around town. And the Mini,” he grins and winks, “is just for fun.” Just. For. Fun. Emerson Whittaker is lending me his just for fun car. This whole week has been surreal.
I also like how he’s adopted my nickname for the Subaru. Soob is so much cuter than Subaru. “I see.” I give him a tight smile and then get into the driver’s seat. Emerson opens the garage door, and sunlight floods the place. I quickly adjust the seat to accommodate my shrimpy legs, as well as the mirrors. I glance down and see a box on the passenger seat floor. When I pick it up, Emerson walks over and takes it from me.
“What do you want to listen to?” He leans against the car and opens the box. It’s filled with cassette tapes.
“Wow, you really kept this thing true to its time, eh? How about you put in one of your favorites.”
He nods and sets the box back down on the floor, leaning over the ledge and placing the cassette into its slot. I turn the car on so he can push it all the way in—I see the words Fleetwood Mac on top of the tape, and hide my cheesy smile with my hand.
“So you might be too young to remember, but when this side of the tape is over, you press eject—”
“Let me stop you right there.” My voice is a little annoyed. “I know how to use a tape player. Also, excellent music choice by the way.”
He just smiles and pushes away from the car, saluting me. I salute him back, and we both laugh.
“Bye,” I yell as I shift to reverse. I was mostly telling the truth when I said I drive stick. I drive stick as in I’ve driven a stick once or twice. It’s like riding a bike, right?
“See you Sunday,” he calls, and the car jerks backward. I wave again as I shift into first. This is easy-peasy lemon squeezy.
I don’t look back at him as I slowly crawl down the street. The achy feeling intensifies as I turn the blinker on to merge onto the main road. I stay stopped at the stop sign for longer then necessary. Despite a rather rocky, tumultuous start on Sunday, we fell into a fairly smooth routine. We would start early, have breaks for lunch, sometimes together, sometimes apart. Afternoons we worked again. He was intense, mercurial, driven, but also deliberately reticent at times. He fascinates me. The dreams haven’t stopped, which made mornings a little difficult at times. The whole experience thus far has been surreal. Stimulating. Invigorating . . .
I want to turn around. I don’t want to leave. Shit. After one week, I don’t want to leave. Am I going to turn around? No. I want to, but I already know I won’t. But what is that feeling? The achy feeling?
Am I going to miss Emerson? The thought is so silly that I laugh into the fresh air. I shift and the car jerks forward.
*
Two hours later, I’m blasting Everywhere by Fleetwood Mac as I pull up in front of my building in the East Village. I text Hannah and tell her to come outside ASAP. When the front door opens, she screams and runs over, flailing her arms.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Shut. Up.” She throws the passenger door open and we sing along to Christine McVie’s voice. “I don’t know what’s more beautiful—you or this gorgeous car,” she says, laughing.
“I missed you,” I say before pulling forward.
“Missed you too, Finn.” I can see her carefully observing me as I shift and pull into oncoming traffic. “You seem different,” she adds, resolved.
I look at her for a second, before continuing to stare ahead at the street. “What do you mean, different? I’m fatter. Emerson feeds me cheese everyday,” I reply, smiling.
“That’s good.” She looks away, unsatisfied with my answer.
“How are things at the apartment? With Geoff?”
This perks her up. “Good. He’s an excellent cook, and he utilizes the notes you left him every day.”
“I’m glad I won’t have to kill him, then,” I say, laughing. “Emerson is a good cook too. Last night, he made this rigatoni with goat cheese and greens . . . oh my God, Hannah. You would’ve died.”
“Wow, it sounds delicious.”
I look over at her, and she’s looking out of the window morosely. “So things are going well with Geoff?”
“Yeah,” she answers, letting out a surprised breath of air. “Really well. Sometimes I think it’s too good to be true.”
We pull onto 7th Avenue and I make a right on Barrow, and then a right on Hudson. When I turn onto Grove, Hannah reaches out for my hand and squeezes it once.
“You know me so well,” she says, throwing her head back and grinning. She flings her arms up into the air and lets the wind blow through her hair as I try to navigate New York City parking. It takes us over twenty minutes to find a spot, and Hannah has to direct me in to ensure I don’t tap the cars on either side of Irma.
Oh yeah, and we named the car.
It’s only four thirty so The Little Owl isn’t very crowded. We’re able to get a tiny table next to the front window. I order us martinis and their famous gravy meatball sliders.
“Emerson told me about these sliders. Says they’re the best sliders he’s ever had. I can’t believe we’ve never had them before.” I look at Hannah but she doesn’t say anythi
ng.
“Well, we’ve never exactly been rich enough to eat here,” she mumbles. “Except when Geoff is kind enough to pay.”
“I know, but I got paid last week. I wanted to take us somewhere nice,” I explain. “Plus, we’re basically in Central Perk.”
Hannah laughs. “You and your Friends obsession.”
I giggle. “I know. I wish Emerson’s house had Internet. I’m having Netflix withdrawals.”
The waiter brings our drinks over, and we each take a sip. Hannah leans back and continues to analyze my every move.
“What?” I say, exasperatedly.
“Nothing, it’s just that you’re different.” She gives me a small smile. “Happier.”
“I think the beach has that effect on me,” I reply, sipping the cocktail slowly. I already know I won’t be able to finish it because someone has to drive us home safely.
“It could be the beach. But I think it’s the person you’re spending all that time with—the same person you’ve brought up three times since you picked me up.” Her perfectly shaped eyebrows arch as she takes a long gulp of her drink, watching me for my reaction.
I shake my head. “It’s not like that,” I say defensively.
She purses her lips and reaches out for my hand. “Look, Finley, I . . .” she sighs and looks over my shoulder before looking me dead in the eye, “I just don’t want to see you get hurt. I care about you way too much.”
I pull my hands away. “I won’t get hurt, Han, because nothing is going to happen.”
The sliders are delivered to our table, and we forget about everything after the first bite. We gobble them down. We even order more before Hannah brings Emerson up again.
“All I ask is that you’re careful.”
“I will be,” I say quietly. “I promise.”
I know Hannah’s concerns are natural. She’s still investigating Emerson’s past, and she updates me daily even though we haven’t made any more progress. His past remains a secret. Perhaps one day he’ll find the courage to tell me, but I don’t feel like I’m in any danger.
I don’t mention Emerson again all night, even after we finish the meal and I receive a text from him.
I hope you got into the city safe and sound. You never texted, so I can only assume you’re lying dead on the side of the road. If you are alive, I wanted to let you know that I have a reserved spot in the garage off Avenue A and Houston. Also it might be nice if you could shoot me a line so I don’t stay up all night worrying. :)
I smile and reply.
Irma and I are safe and sound. :) Thank you for the info. See you Sunday!
He responds almost immediately.
Oh jeez, you’ve named the car . . .
And then:
Finley, have a good weekend. You have a round of drinks on me at Ace Bar if you want to go in later. You know, since I can’t be there to buy them for you. Have fun!
I’m grinning like an idiot when Hannah grabs my phone out of my hand. Her eyes scan the text conversation, and then she pushes the phone back into hand.
“Does he have a place in the East Village?” she asks, watching as I put my phone back in my purse.
“Yeah. It’s actually really close to our place.”
“Hmm.”
When we get to the car, I stop and watch her before getting in. “Are you okay? You’ve been acting weird all night.”
She shrugs and fiddles with the door handle. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just trying to protect you. I didn’t realize he lived so close. How come we’ve never seen him around?”
I laugh. “New York City is huge, Hannah.” I unlock the doors, and we slide in.
“Yeah. I guess you’re right.”
I start the engine, and Fleetwood Mac begins to play. I turn it down and face Hannah. “I will be fine. I promise. I can take care of myself.”
For the first time all night, she seems to come out of her funk. She smiles and leans back into the seat. “Well, at least I know where we’re going for drinks later tonight.”
I sigh. I’m glad she seems to be back to normal now. Fortunately, the rest of the night passes easily. We drop Emerson’s car off and head home to change and get ready for Ace Bar. Although it’s not the same now that it reminds me of Emerson, Hannah and I still manage to have an enjoyable night. And I totally whipped butt at the skee-ball table.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Finley
On Sunday afternoon, I say goodbye to Hannah once again and head down the street toward the parking lot, carrying my purse and overnight bag. I can’t deny the sadness I feel leaving Hannah again, but I now know Geoff is taking extremely good care of her. I made sure to badger him with questions this morning, and although I find him a bit aloof, it’s obvious he loves Hannah. The man brings her coffee in bed every morning and does the laundry. It seems I’ve left her in good hands.
Before I start the engine and head in the direction of the beach, I text Emerson quickly. I have my tapes picked out, so I slide in a David Bowie and rock my head back and forth along the highway. The first hour passes quickly. I switch tapes, sliding in a Blondie tape, and before I know it, I’m on Highway 27.
It baffles me how it can go from city, to suburbs, to rural within such a short period of time. A few cars pass me by, but for the most part, I’m alone on a two-lane road.
That’s when Irma decides to die.
It starts as a sputter as if I’m out of gas, but I still have almost a quarter tank left according to the gas gauge. The car begins to slow all the while jerking forward at uneven intervals. I steer the car toward the side of the road and it dies completely. I swear under my breath and hit the steering wheel angrily. Really, Irma? I try to restart the engine, but it doesn’t turn over.
One of my ex-boyfriends was a mechanic and my parents hated him. Thankfully, he taught me a lot about cars. I pop the hood and the radiator isn’t steaming, so that’s not the problem. The fan belt is still in place. I check the fuel filter and don’t see any fuel. Maybe there is a blockage or a busted hose because the tank wasn’t empty. Nothing looks broken, though a more thorough inspection will be needed. There is nothing I can do. Shit. I close the hood.
I walk to the driver’s side and try the engine one more time, but it doesn’t start. The temperature has dropped, and as I look to the grey sky, it looks as though it might rain. Great. Of course, when I go to the trunk and dig through my overnight bag for my sweater, I can’t find it, which means I left it in my bedroom in the city. Double great.
Cursing, I grab my phone from my back pocket and begin to call Emerson. Three beeps. Let’s make that triple great. I don’t have service.
Zero bars.
And then it starts to rain.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mumble, scrambling into the car and fishing through the glove box for instructions on how to close the roof. I leaf through the pages, finally landing on one page of potentially helpful information. “Flip the switch on the driver’s door,” I read out loud. I use my phone as a flashlight, looking for the mysterious switch. The rain begins to pelt down, and I start to panic. I see a small switch below the latch to pop the hood. I press it, and nothing happens. I leaf through the rest of the manual, but that page is the only valuable page, aside from the page on how to care for your roof.
I jab at the switch over and over, whimpering and shivering.
“Damn you, Irma. You bitch,” I hiss, grabbing the box of cassettes and emptying them into the trunk so they don’t get ruined. I find an old newspaper and lay a few pages across the seats, trying to protect the beautiful leather. I put the empty cassette box over the gearshift. I try my phone again, but the three pitiful beeps sound in my ear once more.
Right, into the trunk you go. Stupid phone. Then, I wait.
A few cars pass me by but they don’t stop, even as I wave my arms exuberantly. By the time a large pickup truck stops, and a young man gets out, I’m soaked from head to toe. My sneakers literally squish as I walk over to him, gratefully
.
“Hello,” I say meekly, pointing to my car. “I broke down, and I don’t have cell phone service. Would you mind if I borrowed yours?”
He frowns. “I’m sorry. I never get service on these roads.”
My heart sinks. “Thanks anyways.”
“Do you need a ride?”
I study his disposition. Even though I’m sure he’s harmless, with blond hair and a nice, appealing face, I decline.
“No thanks. I’ll try the phone down the road.”
He reaches a hand out. “I’m Joe. Nice to meet you.” We shake hands, and a cold shiver runs down my spine. Was that the rain, or was it Joe?
“Finley. Thanks for the offer,” I add, hoping he’ll leave soon.
“No problem.” His eyes linger on me for a second too long before he gets in his car and leaves.
Shaking the eerie feeling off, I begin the walk to the highway phone, keeping my eyes on the blue sign the whole time as the rain pelts down onto me. A quarter of a mile later, I open the yellow box all the while looking over my shoulder and glaring at the car.
My teeth are chattering and my hand is shaking so much I can barely open the latch. I stare at the buttons on the phone—emergency buttons only. I can’t call Emerson.
Is this an emergency? I’m not sure if it qualifies. Now I’m pissed. First, Irma dies, and then my phone doesn’t get service, and then it rains!
And I’m basically stuck until someone can help me.
I trudge back to the car with my arms around my sides. I stare at my reflection in Irma’s window. My mascara is streaked down my cheeks, and my hair is matted against my head. Also, this was a bad day to wear a light pink T-shirt with an unpadded bra . . .
I lean against my car and continue to wave my arms at the passing vehicles. No one stops. What is wrong with humanity? Do I not look pitiful enough? I begin to whimper from the cold. Maybe I should just walk until I find service?
I try my phone one last time, but there’s still no service. I tuck it into the back of my soaking wet pocket, grab my purse, and resolve to walk until I find a spot.
Between the Pages: A Novel Page 7
