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Then he slid into the driver’s seat, motioning for me to take the passenger side.
“Get back in the car,” he said.
I kept kicking but it was no use. The muffler wouldn’t go back into place, nothing would go back into place.
The Brothers’ Tavern was still several blocks away, but its lights were visible in the distance. Finn could make it by himself. He was going to have to try. I started walking in the opposite direction.
Finn called out the car window. “What are you doing?” he said.
I turned around, still under the spray, getting drenched. “I’m leaving you.”
“Why?”
“You’re an asshole, Finn. You weren’t talking about me and Ben. You were talking about Bobby and Margaret, at least the version of them you want to be true.”
He laughed. “Really, then why are you running away from me?”
“I’m walking.”
“Semantics. You’r
e running. You’re just not very fast about it.”
Finn called out after me as I walked fast down Main Street, soaking wet. My wallet was still in Finn’s truck, my phone too.
“Come back!” Finn said.
But I turned left onto Green Street.
And I saw him standing there in front of the small French restaurant that my parents used to go to when I was growing up, the only restaurant in town that served after 10 P.M.
Henry.
He stood under the awning, backlit by the open sign, the streetlights. His hands were in his big pockets, his cashmere sweater hanging over his stomach. He was looking at the menu longingly, though he must have felt my gaze, because he turned toward me.
I walked over to him, pulling my hair behind my ears, tugging on my drenched shirt.
He smiled. “Hi there, Georgia.”
He took his hands out of his pocket, like he was going to reach out to shake mine, or dry some wet streaks from my face, or both. Thankfully, he thought better of it.
“You’re . . . wet,” he said.
“I had a fight with a fire hydrant,” I said.
He looked at me like that was the weirdest thing he’d ever heard. For that, at least, I didn’t blame him.
“Are you looking for your mother?”
“I’m actually looking for you.”
This surprised him. He stepped back, looking uncomfortable. “Why’s that?”
I tried to think of how to answer him. What was a good answer? Why had this little confrontation seemed like a good idea? Maybe because there was no one else that I was able to talk to. Not Ben, or my brothers, or my parents. I had no idea what I wanted to say to any of them, but I knew what I wanted to say to Henry. I wanted to tell him to stay away.
“I thought we should talk.”
“Okay . . .” he said.
