I’M NEARING THE END of my driver’s ed lesson without Hector having used his pedals at all. Once again we went to Dairy Queen, where once again Hector ordered the Royal New York Cheesecake, and once again Daniel evinced no recognition of him when Hector said hi. I pull out of the Dairy Queen parking lot, pausing for a couple skateboarders who cross in front of me, and focus on our next destination. Ethan’s house.
I’ve been preparing all day for having to drive with Ethan. The mature way of dealing with him is to refuse to escalate our disagreements, no matter what. Simple. Easy, even. On the list of the hardest accomplishments in my life, this won’t even rank.
I follow the newly familiar route, Hector complimenting me on how well I glide through the turn into Ethan’s neighborhood. His street is lined with cozy clapboard houses in muted colors. I drive to the end of the block, my nerves calm, my breathing even. It’s the feeling of total preparedness. When I reach Ethan’s driveway, he’s waiting out front.
He gets in without a word, the padded thud of the door echoing in the quiet of the car. I don’t glance in the rearview mirror to meet his eyes.
“Hey, Hector,” Ethan says after a moment’s pause, like he and Hector are the only people here.
While Hector greets Ethan, and Ethan pointedly doesn’t greet me, I pull out of the driveway. Keeping my eyes on the road, I don’t acknowledge Ethan’s silence toward me, which stretches into a stalemate, one I find welcoming in comparison to the fiery conflict I’m used to. Ethan and Hector chat about some superhero movie until they finally fall silent too, and we’re left for a few minutes with no sound except the pumping of the pedals and the wheels on the road.
Suddenly, Ethan speaks up. “Oh, Sanger,” he says, “I put the deposit down on the DJ. I decided this morning she was definitely the person for the job.”
I purse my lips, pressure pounding in my temples. This is a clear provocation. Ethan went behind my back, making a unilateral decision he knew would piss me off. He wants me to reply, wants me to explode, possibly even wants me distracted. He just wants amusement, and fighting with me is his equivalent of having games on his phone or whatever normal, non-evil people do.
Part of me wants to gulp down the bait the way he expects. I’m itching to stop the car, chew him out, and put down a deposit on the Millard Fillmore as soon as I’m home.
I have a resolution, however. A vow. A strategy. I inhale evenly. “I agree,” I say. It sounds strangled. “Thanks for taking care of the deposit.”
I steal a glance in the rearview mirror at a stoplight and find Ethan visibly stunned. “Great,” he replies haltingly. Then he recovers, composure settling over his pretty-boy features. “I found a photo booth vendor I’m going to talk to this week as well,” he adds with renewed cockiness.
Oh god, the fucking photo booth. I feel my blood pressure rising. If I have a stroke behind the wheel, “death by Ethan” will be an interesting obituary. I remind myself this is his final driver’s ed lesson. While I still have one more before my test next month, it won’t be with Ethan. I’ll be free. “Okay,” I reply with herculean restraint. “Why don’t you do some research and then we can have a conversation about it next week.”
Ethan says nothing. I understand it’s because he doesn’t even know how to deal with me when I’m not fighting him on everything. In the mirror, I note he’s fidgeting with the collar of his shirt—one of those crisp white polos with the crocodile logo. I would be pleased that he’s obviously irritated, except I remind myself I’m not engaging in our warfare anymore.
After I pull up to the curb of my house, I say goodbye to Hector. I say nothing to Ethan. Getting out of the car, I glance in his direction, and I’m surprised to find his green eyes on me. He’s not reading The New Yorker on his phone or gazing dispassionately out the window.
His eyes are a hurricane. I pause for a moment, caught in their currents. There’s his everyday vexation at our endless fighting, and the veneer of equanimity he works to uphold. Rising within them, though, there’s a dissatisfaction I’m not used to.
I’m the one who breaks our eye contact. Walking to the front door of my house, I know I deserve to feel victorious. I conducted myself perfectly, exactly the way I’d hoped. But I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t feel irksome hints of the same unfulfilled frustration I saw in Ethan. They tighten my chest, and despite accomplishing each of my goals, I feel like I lost something.