“You’re right,” I say as we pull up to the curb. “If you wanted to drive, I should have let you drive here.”

“It’s okay,” she says.

Months later, I’m still feeling bad about bullying her, and we’re having dinner with friends, relating the story, when Jessica announces she has a confession.

“There’s something I didn’t tell you,” Jessica says, looking guilty.

“What?” I say, joking. “You were meeting your boyfriend?”

She’s silent.

I’m nervous.

“I went to the wrong airport,” she says, finally.

“You what?”

“My flight left from National,” she says.

We had gone to Dulles.

“They changed my flight so I could leave from Dulles,” she continues. “If I had driven, I might have tried to make it to National, and there is no way I would have. Or I would have flown from Dulles but returned into National — and the car would have been at Dulles.”

“So,” I declare. “You’re saying that it’s a good thing I drove you to the airport.”

She doesn’t reply right away.

“Take your time,” I say. “Gives me a chance to rethink everything.”