Page 26 of Exit Lane
“Do you want to just listen to music for a little while?” I offer an olive branch, hoping to avoid conversation, anything real.I knew Marin would be here, I remind myself. I just thought we’d nod at each other during the rehearsal and maybe smile for some pictures as we bookended our best friends.
“Yeah. Yes.” Marin connects her phone to Bluetooth. “I’ll let you know when we need to exit, but we have a while.”
I listen for a sign in every song she plays, something like a cosmic arrow pointed in the direction of what’s next. Could the Prince acoustic cover be a callback to our night at Sing Sing? Does the Sufjan Stevens song allude to something beyond the state we’re in? She sits with one leg crossed over the other, leaning into the space between the door and the seat, as beautiful as ever. She pulls the hair that falls in front of her face behind her head, twirlingit into an impossible bun that just as quickly slips apart. I want to tell her how angry I’ve been. To tell her how I’ve considered every possible explanation for how she acted and none of them have been good enough. To express how utterly infuriating it is that the most highly capable person I’ve ever known gave up on something so easily because it was hard. I want to ask her everything. I want to obey the ever-expanding part of me that aches to give her another chance. But instead, I keep driving.
The car moves at glacial speed, the steering wheel tugging as the tires meet patches of ice. Pickup truck wheels laced in spikes plow past us. Every minute the GPS puts us closer to Iowa City is a relief. Who plans a winter wedding in the Midwest? People who insist on getting married on the anniversary of their first official date, I guess. People like Sloane.
I let the sliver of my brain not laser-focused on driving drift to Carter’s cousin Lucy, my potential wedding-weekend setup. She’s a Dartmouth grad with a high-profile job in DC working for Teresa Powell. The highlight reel Carter presented me included accounts of how she swims laps every single morning and sweeps at poker nights on the weekends. When I received a text from an unknown number on my way to the airport that read “Looking forward to meeting you x,” I felt relief knowing that no matter our chemistry, I’d at least have something—someone—else to focus on aside from the person who broke my heart weeks before I started chemo.
Maybe I could build a life with Lucy, have two and ahalf kids and move next to Carter and Sloane and store Christmas decorations in giant plastic bins in the garage and host annual Fourth of July parties. Lucy could be the thing I’ve never found in New York. Lucy could be the thing Marin never could be.
“You’re daydreaming. Snap out of it. Focus on the road.”
But there she is. She’s harsh and hilarious. She’s bracing—a shock to my system. And still, after all these years, even when I’m swirling with sadness and anger, it feels like a rare and special privilege to get to be alone with her.
Her dad’s death hardened the outside parts of her, but those mornings in Copenhagen, I swear I’d never seen someone so caring and vulnerable—so open to the possibility of love. But then she threw it away—every single memory we built together disposed of so she could cling to her fear. Her inability to be with me through the toughest years of my life.
“Did they tell you I’m the best man?” The words are out of my mouth before I’ve thought them through.Why are you doing this? Giving her an opening?I berate myself.
She looks up, her eyes—ten shades bluer than I remember—fixed on mine, stirring the same feelings in me they used to.
“Of course they didn’t tell me. Sloane and Cart love to use the phrase ‘separation of church and state’ when the conversation comes within ten feet of the topic of you. Which, to be clear, is not the right usage of the phrase. They never talk to me about you.”
“Same. Once, Sloane let it slip that you were seeing Gabby when you were in New York and immediately followed up with an apology email.”
“Well, I’m notseeingGabby, first of all. We just hang out when I’m in the city for work. And what I’d accept is an apology email for the timing of this marriage ceremony.”
I laugh, and the sound mixes with the intro of a Kenny Loggins classic, either an act of fate or the Spotify algorithm screwing with us. Shoving my resentment and hurt aside, I speak for the piece of me that always hoped I’d be able to talk to Marin again.
“You never tell me when you’re in the city,” I say, voice low. I squeeze the steering wheel tighter.
She shifts in her seat, like she’s adjusting to the sea change, first furrowing her brow in defensiveness, then stifling a pleased smile and tossing her phone in her bag.
“For all I know, you’re married in Copenhagen with a kid and a dog.” Before she can respond, I continue. “Which is a joke, obviously, because you’re committed to a life devoid of joy, and you hate pets.”
She laughs, a real Marin laugh. “First of all, I’m only ever in for a couple of days, just enough time for work, dinner with Violet—she lives there now—and occasionally a nostalgia fuck.” She blushes as we both sit with those words—that Marin could ever be nostalgic and that I could never be just a fuck.
The sound of Kenny Loggins’s vibrato echoes. Just the mention of sex sends a slideshow of our greatest hits tothe front of my mind. I try to ignore the image of Marin arching her body on top of me, fresh out of the shower, my hands anchoring her thighs.
“Second, I’ve been given explicit instructions never to reach out to you again. You could be the one with a dog and a wife for all I know.” Her tone softens at the end as we both realize how little information about the other we’ve survived off of for the past three years. How much we’ve been feeding off of crumbs.
I refuse to read into her mention of instructions—the notion she might have behaved differently if permitted otherwise—and press on. “My Hinge profile’s hard at work: Single. Open to something casual or long-term. Votes Democrat; leans disillusioned. Drinks in a way that’s not a problem. Has both an income and a savings account.” And because I can’t resist, or maybe because I feel the karmic imbalance of letting her off easy, I add, “But Carter has promised me an introduction to a very promising cousin of his, so the story could be different after tomorrow night on that portable dance floor.”
“Lucy’s cute, but she only goes for old-money guys. Hate to break it to you.” Marin delivers her verdict without pause as she slips her arms out of her coat, leaving it draped over her shoulders. “Plus, Sloane and I are like 90percent sure she’s a lesbian. But maybe you have a type?”
She looks up, her expression some uncanny mixture of smirking and pleading. Kenny Loggins is belting out the bridge, and I see the Marin I miss more than anything. Behind her jabs, there’s everything else that’s ever beenexpressed between us. Our eyes lock, and I feel her starting to say things I’m not sure I’m ready for.
I wipe a palm on my pants, sweating for a million reasons, when I spot hazards blinking. As I edge the car to the left out of caution, the median appears more quickly than I anticipate. I overcorrect, feel the wheel slip out from under me as we hit a patch of black ice and spin into the ditch. Neither of us scream, all of it happening in hyperspeed, and the stereo keeps playing over our racing hearts.
XXI
Marin
Stuck somewhere in a snowbank on the side of I-88, our hatchback settles at an angle as we catch our breath. “Are you OK?” I ask, reaching across the console to check for Teddy’s seat belt before he can respond.
“God, yes, I’m fine. I just sort of hit my head on the headrest, but I’m OK. Are you OK?”
His hand reaches for mine, and the touch of his cold fingers is steadying for the split second before we realize we’ve made contact and return our limbs to our respective halves of the car.
