Finn stiffens and steps back. His face dims. “Actually, I can’t think of any other ones. You’re right.”
I nod.
“You like being right,” he reminds me.
“Maybe,” I concede, but I feel like I’ve lost something. “I think it’s strange to go to a wedding when we don’t even remember our own wedding.”
“Yeah.”
Isaiah’s wedding invitation was on thick stationary. He’ll have the sort of wedding Finn should have had. The type of wedding Finn will have later, whenever he marries the person whom he actually loves, when his marriage to me will eventually become a “fun fact” for sports people in the know, and even he will forget most days about it.
We are walking into a ticking clock, and I’m the only person who cares.
“I think we’re finished getting ready,” Finn says suddenly. “Let’s go.”
Right.
I cast a lingering look in the mirror and set my pomade down. Then I follow Finn from the apartment to the parking lot. We slide into his super fancy Mercedes, and I no longer ask him what all the buttons do on the screen.
We leave the city and its dense, beautiful architecture via the Zakim bridge and its large series of cables. We pass Boston’s sprawling suburbs, presumably more elegant when not viewed on the I-95, pass dreary mini-malls and bright fast-food restaurants, until we finally turn off onto a coastal road. The Atlantic billows beside us, the waves undulating atmore intimidating rates than whatever we see on the harbor, and I watch dark clouds march over the sky.
“Do you think it will rain?” I ask.
Finn stretches his hand over the console and squeezes my thigh. “Not everyone is as lucky as us.”
I snort.
“What wedding would you have liked?” Finn asks.
“You mean if I ever get marred in the future?” I ask. “For real?”
Finn removes his hand from my thigh, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. His knuckles tighten, and he inhales.
I look at the road. More cars have flooded the road, and I guess Finn needs to concentrate on driving. I turn my gaze and stare at the colonial-houses, some with autumn flags up, and I stare at happy turkeys waving in the breeze, as we continue to head North toward Ipswich.
The road to the Peregrine Estate takes us through lush farmland dotted with red-painted barns and imperfectly preserved stone walls that would inspire the most sleep-inclined sheep to jump.
We glimpse the Atlantic Ocean again as the car moves up a hill toward the manor house.
“I thought they only have places like this in England,” I say, staring at the imposing brick building, imposing and perfectly maintained stone walls, and immaculate garden.
Finn laughs, and I stiffen. He turns his head. “But you’re from New England too.”
“I didn’t know places likethis existed.”
“Ah. My sweet virgin,” he says, tangling our fingers together.
I force my lips into a smile, never a difficult ask when Finn is being silly, but now other thoughts tumble through my mind.
Like not remaining a virgin.
Finn could enter me...there.
I squirm in my seat, suddenly imagining Finn naked and thrusting inside me. Maybe he’s looking into my eyes from above, or maybe I’m on all fours, and yeah... there are lots of ways this scenario could be hot.
I glower at him.
“What’s wrong, baby?”
