The Car Wasn't Mine

I met Rachel on Hinge, and before we even went on our first date, I had already created a problem for myself.

I told her I drove a McLaren.

Technically, I had driven a McLaren before. Maybe four times. The problem was that it belonged to my friend Danny.

My actual car was a 2009 Honda Accord with 187,000 miles, a dent in the passenger door and an air conditioner that worked whenever it felt emotionally ready. There was nothing wrong with my Honda. It got me to work every day. But Rachel's pictures made her look like she lived a completely different life from mine. She worked in marketing, traveled constantly, and every photo seemed to be taken somewhere I couldn't afford. Cabo. Paris. Some rooftop in New York. Even her dog looked expensive.

I was 28, making decent money but spending most of it pretending I made better money.

A few days before our date, we were texting about cars. She asked what I drove. I don't know what possessed me.

"McLaren."

I sent it and immediately stared at my phone.

Then I looked out the window at my Honda.

Danny was one of my closest friends, and he'd recently bought a used McLaren 570S. It was his dream car. He treated it better than most people treat their children.

When I called him and explained what I'd done, he went quiet.

"You told a girl you drive my McLaren?"

"I didn't technically say it was mine."

"What exactly did you say?"

"I said I drive a McLaren."

"You drive a Honda."

"I've driven yours."

"Four times."

Eventually, he agreed to let me borrow it for the night, mostly because I think he wanted to see how badly this was going to end. Before handing me the key, he gave me instructions for almost fifteen minutes. Don't valet it. Don't park near anyone. Don't eat in it. Don't let her eat in it. Don't take it somewhere crowded. Don't launch it. Don't touch some setting I'd never heard of.

Friday night, I pulled up outside Rachel's apartment in a bright orange McLaren.

There is no casual way to arrive somewhere in an orange McLaren.

People were looking at me at red lights. A kid took a picture of the car at a gas station. I hadn't even picked her up yet and already regretted everything.

Then Rachel came outside.

She stopped.

"Oh my God."

I tried to act like this was completely normal.

"Hey."

She walked around the car before getting in.

"This is yours?"

There it was. My opportunity. One word could have ended the entire lie.

Instead I said, "Yeah."

Dinner actually went great. That was the worst part. She was funny and completely down-to-earth. Within twenty minutes, I realized I'd invented this entire version of her based on Instagram pictures. She wasn't asking about money or watches or what neighborhood I lived in. She told me about getting drunk at her cousin's wedding and falling asleep in a coat closet.

Meanwhile, I had a borrowed McLaren sitting outside.

After dinner, we decided to get ice cream. When we came back to the parking lot, I noticed something underneath the car.

A puddle.

I froze.

I knew absolutely nothing about McLarens, but I knew enough to understand that mysterious liquid underneath someone else's supercar was not something I wanted to see.

I called Danny.

He answered with, "What's wrong?"

Not hello.

What's wrong.

"Nothing. Probably."

"Why are you calling me?"

"There's some liquid under the car."

There was silence.

"What liquid?"

"I don't know. Liquid-colored liquid."

He started asking questions I couldn't answer. What side of the car? What does it smell like? Is there a warning light? What's the temperature reading?

Rachel was standing beside me listening.

Then she asked, "Who's Danny?"

"My friend."

Danny shouted through the phone, "DO NOT START MY CAR."

Rachel looked at me.

Then she looked at the McLaren.

Then back at me.

"His car?"

I didn't say anything.

Her mouth opened.

"No."

I started laughing because there was nothing else left to do.

"Okay."

She stared at me.

"This isn't your car?"

"No."

She started laughing.

I told her everything. The Honda. The stupid text message. Danny. Borrowing the McLaren because I thought she'd be impressed. She was laughing so hard she eventually had to sit down on the curb.

Then she said something that made the entire situation even worse.

"You know I drive a Corolla, right?"

I thought she was joking.

She wasn't.

Her glamorous travel photos were mostly work trips. Cabo was her sister's bachelorette party. The New York rooftop belonged to a client. Her actual car was a six-year-old silver Toyota Corolla.

I'd borrowed a McLaren to impress a woman who drove a Corolla.

Danny arrived about thirty minutes later looking like he'd aged five years. He barely acknowledged us. He went straight to the car, crouched down and inspected the puddle.

After about a minute, he stood up.

"Condensation."

"What?"

"From the air conditioning."

Nothing was wrong with the car.

Rachel completely lost it.

Danny finally looked at her.

"Hi. I'm Danny."

She shook his hand.

"The actual owner?"

"The actual owner."

I wanted the parking lot to swallow me.

We ended up sitting on the curb eating melted ice cream while Danny inspected his perfectly healthy McLaren for another ten minutes. At some point, Rachel looked at me.

"Can I tell you something?"

"Please don't."

"I would've gone out with you in the Honda."

That hurt more than anything Danny had said all night.

We went out three more times. It never became anything serious, but she never let me forget that first date. Every time we saw an exotic car, she'd point at it and ask, "Whose friend owns that one?"

Years later, I finally bought myself a nice car.

Not a McLaren.

The first time Danny saw it, he walked around it, looked through the window and nodded.

Then he asked:

"You gonna tell girls this one's mine?"