If Only I Had Told Her(37)

“So you did…whatever it was that you did with her last night, Finn.”

I don’t need to look away from the road to know she’s rolling her eyes.

“But that doesn’t mean that you were faithful this summer,” she continues.

I drive, and we argue about the definition of cheating.

Our argument would have lasted longer had Sylvie not been on the speech and debate team, but we would have ended in the same place. Because she’s right.

This didn’t start last night.

From the phone call all those weeks ago when I told Sylvie, “I’m about to eat breakfast,” and didn’t disclose that it was with Autumn, I was betraying Sylvie.

I told myself that I wasn’t talking about Autumn during our phone calls for Sylvie’s sake, but that wasn’t true. I didn’t tell Sylvie that Autumn and I were friends again because I didn’t want to explain we were platonic friends. When Sylvie called from Europe and asked what I’d been up to, I’d say, “Watched a movie,” and leave out “with Autumn,” let alone “with Autumn in my bed, and when she fell asleep before it ended, I muted it and lay beside her.”

After I’d decided that I was breaking up with Sylvie, I considered answering honestly, giving her a chance to suspect something, but when she asked what I was up to, I would say, “Nothing,” instead of “Autumn and I parked near the airport and watched planes take off while she ate so much candy her teeth have turned green.”

“You’re right,” I say as we cross the bridge back into the city. “I lied to you all summer. I’m sorry.”

“So you get that this isn’t only about last night?”

“Yeah,” I say, “I get it.” We’re back in Missouri. I turn north, toward home. It’s still raining, but the thunder is far away.

“My second question,” Sylvie says. “Were you ever in love me?”

“Syl,” I start, but I don’t know where to begin. I stay on the highway, passing all the exits that could take us home.

“Were you ever in love with me?” Sylvie repeats. Her voice is firm, but she’s saving her anger. “I don’t want to hear that you cared about me or about any other kind of love besides romantic. No more lies by omission.”

I take a deep breath. “I am in love with you, Sylvie.” I wait for her to protest. There’s only the sound of the rain and the windshield wipers.

“I believe you,” Sylvie replies.

I’m so surprised that my mind shuts down. I wait for her to say something so I know what to think next.

“I can’t ask you to apologize for loving her more than me.”

“I don’t love her more than you,” I interject. I can see her body shift in her seat out of the corner of my eyes. “It’s not about more.”

“What’s it about then?” Her question almost twists into a laugh.

“Our souls.” I know how ridiculous I sound. But I owe Sylvie the truth, even if it’s proof of what a fool I am.

“Your what?”

I take a deep breath.

“Whatever our souls are made of, hers and mine are the same.”

“Wh—Are you—” Sylvie is so rarely without words that I instinctively glance over at her. She is pink and angry. “Are you quoting Wuthering Heights to justify cheating on me?”

“No,” I say. “I can’t justify that.” I grit my teeth and swallow the lump in my throat, because it’s time to tell the cruelest truth. “I’m quoting Wuthering Heights to explain why I’m choosing Autumn over you.”

The wipers are too loud against the windshield, and I turn down their urgency. The rain is slowing. The streetlights are on. I occupy myself with adjusting the air so that the windows don’t fog.

“You should let me out,” Sylvie says and clears her throat.

I glance from the road to her face. Tears stream down her cheeks. Her calm voice had disguised what the streetlights reveal.

“I’ll take you home,” I say quietly. The suburban road is empty. I turn on my blinker to make a U-turn.

Sylvie says, “No, I mean let me out here.”

I make the turn anyway. Sylvie unbuckles her seat belt.

“Syl,” I say as I drive toward her house, speeding up a bit. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve been enough of a bastard already. I’m not letting you walk home in the rain.”

“I just want to get away from you!” she screams.

I glance at her, but I’m not sure what happens after that. The road is wet, and the car is sliding. I try to brake and turn, but we’re going too fast toward the ditch. We’re spinning.

This could be it. This could be how I die.

We hit something.

Suddenly, everything is still.

What happened? I’m still alive. My face hurts. I touch my upper lip, and my hand comes away with blood. The airbags didn’t go off. Did I hit my face on the steering wheel? Why is there glass?

I look to my right to—

Sylvie!

Where is she? Did she get out?

And then I see her.

On the other side of the low median we hit, sprawled across the wet asphalt.

She’s crumpled. Surely broken.

I am…okay. I can move.