Backseat Driver

    He was an obnoxiously smooth driver. It wasn’t as if his credentials - the Diamond Changemakers Award, the Harvard Business School Degree, the internships at Atlas Bank, Compass Financial, Zuri Group, and five other big firms - were enough. He also just had to be the best driver in the world. If Imogen didn’t know, she’d think he was doing it out of spite. The sun cast his face in gold for all of the I-90 to see. Imogen even thought she saw one driver swoon as she drove past them in the other direction. 

    But Imogen knew better.

    Léo Dupont could not be trusted. 

    She eyed him from the passenger seat suspiciously, watching his impeccably white, crisp, unwrinkled shirt, searching for any stain. Any sign of weakness. In all honesty, she was relieved he was the one driving, and not her. Their boss had handed them gold-embellished invitations to a hedge fund and venture capital function upstate in Buffalo, New York, given them car keys, and sent them out the door. Imogen would have raced to be the first one to the rented car in the garage in the parking lot below, but she let Mr. Dupont think he won this time. They weren’t children, but he sure acted like one, giving her a satisfied smirk and making sure to open the door extra wide for her. He even checked his watch, like he was waiting, for emphasis. And the utter satisfaction on his face and in his sigh when he ran his hand along the wheel for the first time was excruciatingly painful. 

    She wasn’t sure if they’d make it; not because there was too much traffic, but because she might end up decapitating him like the headless horseman legend native to the Tarrytown they passed earlier. “It was perfect for the upcoming Halloween season,” she imagined explaining her actions to her boss innocently.

    Who in their right mind would send business professionals all the way upstate for a function? She scoffed to herself.

    “What was that, Ms. Lang?” Mr. Dupont asked. She must’ve been louder in expressing her disdain than she thought.

    “Nothing,” she grumbled. He was always watching her like her own personal CCTV camera. 

    They sat in silence for another ten minutes. She preferred it that way. Every time they were given a joint assignment, whether it be managing the company’s deal flow or taking part in the Screening Committee after a company pitch, Mr. Dupont always made sure to “forget” to hand her the files with the most important companies to compile a report on or to get the first word in. One time, after coming back from the bathroom, she caught him snooping around her desk, lifting folders and reading what was on her computer screen. 

    She returned in kind, always making sure to communicate with her boss about upcoming projects three weeks ahead to ensure she got to them before he did. She always had her business card ready in case she had the chance to network with other professionals. She swiped files from his desk in kind. Two could play this game. So far, she was winning, 500 to 498. 

    Except, of course, for the small driving setback.

    Suddenly, Mr. Dupont pulled over on the side of the road. 

    “Why did you stop?” She sounded too nervous. She cleared her throat, smoothing over the feeling, like a wrinkle in a sheet that can be patted down, disappearing as though it was never there. “Did you take a wrong turn?” 

    His gaze flickered toward her, obvious disdain on his face for a millisecond before he switched back to his usual knowing smirk. But she saw it. He registered the insult.

    “No, I’ve just become tired after driving for 3 hours, and you seem a bit restless. I thought it might do you some good to drive while I rest. Let’s switch seats.” 

    Always playing the boss. I think you’re being lazy so I want you to drive, is what he really meant.

    What worried her more was that he might be catching on.

    “Ah, I would, but, you see, I recently sprained my wrist, and it only just began to feel better. I wouldn’t want to revive the injury.” She didn’t hesitate to fabricate the story.

    He looked her once over, furrowing his brow in feigned concern. Then, he got up. Imogen exhaled softly. That was close. However, as he stood, the keys stumbled out of his hands. Now, the chain held a very valuable looking digital key card that was sensitive to any fall. Which didn’t make sense to be on a keychain. Nevertheless, they were told to be careful with it. That’s why Imogen jumped over the divide between her seat and his, stretching her arm and catching the key before it landed. 

    “What’s wrong with you?! This is a very important card, you know!” She could not hide her aggravation. He only gave a wry smile in response.

    “My apologies. Well, it seems your wrist is doing fine. I’m glad to see. Perhaps we can switch seats after all.” 500 to 499. She needed to turn this around quick. And, now, the best way to do so was to drive.

    Imogen sat down gently in the driver’s seat. Mr. Dupont plopped down like he hadn’t a care in the world, his hand resting on the window as he looked out at the reds and oranges of trees at the height of autumn. She could feel her palms sweating as she gripped the wheel. She tried to remember what her grandmother told her once. Turn on the ignition, press the brake, shift gears - wait, do you have to do that before or after pressing the break? No, it must be after. Accelerate…

    “While I quite enjoy this view, we do have to be there in the next three hours,” Mr. Dupont chuckled.

    “Give me one second, I just have to get the car started.”

    “Just start driving.”

    She sighed. Finally, she got the car to move. That shows him.

    They sat in silence. This driving thing really didn’t turn out to be all that terrible. She was doing just fine, even without having a license. Just one more thing to show Mr. Dupont how much more of a prodigy she was, how effortless her attempts could be. That was, until, the cars began to stop, traffic accumulating. She had about thirty feet ahead of her before she’d crash with the car. Her hands began to shake. 

    Mr. Dupont knew something was wrong.

    “Hey, are you okay?” That was the most informal thing he’d ever said to her. In other circumstances, she would’ve laughed.

    “I’m perfectly fine,” she snapped.

    “You’re going to crash into the car ahead. I wouldn’t call that fine.” He still looked genuinely concerned - not about his own safety, but about her.

    “Well, you seem pretty calm despite your prediction.”

    “Can you drive?”

    She knew what he meant, but, still, she couldn’t resist saying: “What do you think I’m doing?”

    Ten feet left.

    She couldn’t get it under control, no matter how hard she tried. She didn’t know which pedal was which, and didn’t want to accidentally step on the gas. She started panicking, but she couldn’t let Mr. Dupont know. She just couldn’t. All of a sudden, right before she thought she’d crash, she felt hands come down on hers and a shoe press on the brakes.

    She couldn’t stop looking forward, looking at what could’ve possibly happened. She breathed out sharply, visibly shaking. 

    “Why didn’t you stop? If it wasn’t for me, we would be dead by now!” Mr. Dupont was angry - really, really angry. And that was saying something, given he never showed any emotion besides perpetually amused. He kept telling her about how dangerous that was, how she should’ve pressed on the brakes, how stubborn—

    “I can’t drive, okay! You caught me!” Imogen shouted. “I don’t have my license,” she whispered, ashamed of revealing this embarrassing secret.

    Mr. Dupont could’ve scoffed or said something insufferable, like how a grown, 25 year-old woman could not drive herself anywhere. He could have laughed at her. He could have reprimanded her for driving illegally. And she thought he would.

    The only thing he did, though, was ask her softly, “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

    Before she could respond, he told her to drive. 

    “But I don’t know how.”

    “That didn’t stop you before, now did it?”

    When traffic cleared up, he told her how to start moving again, how to turn the car without totally ramming into a tree, and warned her when she got too close to the cars ahead.

    Imogen got the hang of it quickly. They drove in silence the rest of the way. They didn’t talk about the whole illegal-driving issue. When she pulled into the parking space flawlessly, Mr. Dupont whistled, impressed. She took the key out of the ignition. Before she could get out, he spoke to her. 

    “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten so mad.” He actually spoke to her. Not at her.

    She decided that, although she usually wouldn’t ask, she just had to go for it. Who knows when their truce would come to an end.

    “Mr. Dupont?” She hesitated.

    “Hmm?” He was checking his phone.

    “I just have to know: Why do you hate me so?”

    He looked shocked for the second time in the two years she’d worked with him. She began to think he was going to laugh at her and say she was being ridiculous.

    “I don’t hate you. In fact, I admire you, Ms. Lang…” He paused, thinking. “From the moment we met, I knew you were my real competition, the one person I’d been waiting to meet. I feared you, feared losing to you. Because you have something everyone else doesn’t: you actually care about your job and the work you’re doing. To me, I used to think every job was just another credential, another label or award. But you see its importance in the grander scheme of things.”

    They got out of the car and headed for the building.

    She was shocked. He looked into her eyes with such intensity. He truly meant it. 

    Perhaps…

    “Maybe we should…reintroduce ourselves. A fresh start.” She reached out her hand. “I’m Imogen Lang. You can just call me Imogen. It’s nice to meet you…”

    “...Léo. It’s nice to meet you, too, Imogen.”

    They shook hands, with somber expressions on their faces. But they couldn’t hold it in. The plastic wrap around their relationship was discarded and stomped upon. They laughed together, for real.