It was almost time for lunch, and Joan had a place in mind. They were driving farther north, to the water, but he wouldn’t say more. He put on the Maroon 5 CD and sang along.
“You know Maroon 5?”
“They’re okay, yeah,” Sylvia said. In her normal life, she would have made fun of him, but now she felt like a stupid American who no longer had the right to say if things were good or bad.
Joan took this as encouragement and turned up the volume. He danced in his seat as he drove, mouthing the words. Sylvia couldn’t tell if he was being serious or ironic, but decided it didn’t matter, some people were beyond reproach. They drove for almost an hour, on roads that made her wish she’d packed a Dramamine, before Joan made a sharp turn and the car started to go down the mountain instead of up. Tall pine trees lined the road on both sides, and the abundant sunlight was quickly gone.
“Are you going to murder me?” Sylvia asked.
“Hmm, no,” Joan said, and kept driving, now with both hands on the wheel.
They drove for a few more minutes before coming to a small, empty parking lot. “We walk from here,” Joan said. He hopped out and opened the trunk, removing a sizable backpack and cooler.
Sylvia had never been on an actual date before. She’d gone out with bunches of people, some of whom were boys, and Gabe Thrush had shown up on her doorstep a thousand times, but at no point had anyone ever called or texted or passed her a note that asked her out on a real, serious date. Even before Joan had yelled at her, she’d had no indication that this was an actual date. She wasn’t sure how to behave.
“So you, like, planned this?” Sylvia said.
“Did you want to eat sand?” Joan shrugged. He was a professional.
“Only if you packed sand sandwiches, I guess,” Sylvia said. She sounded like a moron. Get it together, Sylvia. The key to being cool was pretending that you’d done everything before; she knew that.
Joan pointed to Sylvia’s feet, clad in her dirty slip-on sneakers. “You can walk in those? It’s a little hike.” She nodded, and then followed him down a narrow path into the trees.
By the second hour, even beatific Terry seemed ready to get on with it. “Oi,” he said to Jim. “You sure you want to stick around for this?” They were perched on a bench in a park along the water. Franny and Antoni had been sitting on the restaurant’s sunny patio for what seemed like eternity. From his bench, Jim could just make out Franny’s arm movements.
“Yes,” Jim said. “Please.”
Terry acquiesced. “Whatever you want, mate. I’ll just shut my eyes for a moment.” He lay down on his back along the wooden bench, and let out a satisfied groan. “That’s the stuff.” His enormous leather boots rested against Jim’s thigh.
Franny and Antoni must have had at least four courses—the lunch went on forever, and waiters kept coming back to the table, holding aloft more dishes. Jim’s own stomach began to gurgle with hunger. He thought about sneaking into the restaurant and ordering something to go, but he didn’t want to take the risk of getting caught. And so he waited. Every few minutes he thought he could hear Franny’s laugh carrying over the sound of the water, which was enough motivation to keep him going.
Eventually, Franny and Antoni stood up. Antoni put his hand on Franny’s lower back as they walked through the restaurant, and he kept it there all the way until they reached the car. He opened the door for her—Franny always had liked nice cars, even though they thought it was silly to have one in New York. When they got home, if she took him back, Jim vowed he would buy her a car, whatever she wanted. A car and a motorcycle and anything else. He wanted to be the one to drive her wherever she wanted to go. Jim nudged Terry awake.
“Oi,” Jim said. “We’re back on.”
Jim’s biggest fear was that Antoni would take another route—have another destination, like a hotel, or maybe his house—but the car went back the way it had come, straight to the tennis center. Terry and Jim stayed enough of a distance behind that they weren’t obvious, but close enough to catch up if necessary. They stopped in a different spot from where they had the first time, a little ways farther back, because Franny was a nervous driver and was sure to look both ways several times before attempting to pull out into traffic. It didn’t take long—Jim peered over the wall and watched as Franny and Antoni said good-bye. She was facing the courts, and Jim could only barely make out the lower half of her body, the rest hidden by trees. It was clear that Antoni was embracing her, and leaning toward her face, but Jim couldn’t see what was actually happening. Then Franny started to clomp away, always unsteady in those shoes, and Jim hurried back to the bike, pulling on his helmet. He hid again behind Terry’s leg, accidentally hitting himself in the wounded eye on Terry’s knee. “Shit,” he said.
“Okay, there she goes,” Terry said, and Jim hopped back on. He was starting to feel like he’d lived his whole life wrong—maybe he should have been a motorcycle cop, or a private investigator. He’d spent too much of his allotted hours on earth indoors, staring at a page with words on it. Franny would have cried hallelujah to hear him say it—she’d been telling him that for years, that life was lived outside, on the move, out of one’s comfort zone. She’d gone so many places without him, and Jim mourned them all now. Franny was driving slowly, and Terry matched her pace. Jim wanted to move to England and retroactively send his children to see Terry, clearly the world’s greatest pediatrician.
Terry shouted something, but Jim couldn’t hear him. They were still slowing down. Over Terry’s shoulder, Jim saw the tiny rental car swoop over to the shoulder of the road and come to a halt. Jim knocked on Terry’s back and then pointed at Franny’s car. He held up his palm, STOP in the name of love, and Terry did just that, gracefully exiting traffic and pulling over just in front of Franny’s car.
She hadn’t gotten out but was squinting through the windshield. Jim took off his helmet and tucked it under his arm like an astronaut. He hoped that he looked handsome and rugged, and not like he’d just removed a scuba mask, but he feared the latter was probably true. Recognizing her husband, Franny shook her head and dropped her chin to her chest, just what she did in dark movie theaters when a serial killer was about to jump out and claim his next victim. Jim walked to the driver’s-side window and waited for Franny to press the button to roll it down. She didn’t want to laugh—was trying not to laugh—but she couldn’t quite keep it in.
“Jim,” she said. “Are you following me?”
He crouched down, holding on to the bottom of the car’s window. “Maybe.”
“Have you been following me all day? On the back of that guy’s motorcycle?” Franny gestured with her chin toward Terry, who really did cut an imposing figure when you didn’t know him. He was on the phone now, scowling into the middle distance. He saw them looking and waved.
“Maybe.”
“Why, if I may ask such a pedestrian question?”
“Because I love you. And I don’t want to lose you. Not to some tennis pro, not to anyone.” Jim stood up and opened the car door. He reached a hand down for Franny. She paused, put her foot on the clutch, and turned off the car.
“I keep fucking that up,” she said, once she’d climbed out. “I think we’re going to have to buy it when we return it. I’m pretty sure that I’ve ruined it completely.”
Jim put his hands on Franny’s shoulders. She was so much smaller than he was, almost an entire foot. His parents, who’d wanted him to marry some gangly sylph from Greenwich, had never understood. They were worried about the gene pool, about producing generation after generation of tall blonds. But Jim loved her, only Franny, only his wife. “I’m the one who fucked up. Fran, I am so sorry. I will do anything. I can’t be without you, I can’t.”