I give an exaggerated sigh, which is purely for his benefit.
“You’re outside Joe’s,” I tell him. “The bar you got blind drunk in? Remember?”
“Yeah, yeah. I remember being at Joe’s,” he says. He’s getting slowly to his feet now, one hand still leaning on the wall for support. I’m fully expecting him to fall flat on his face again, but although he sways slightly, he somehow remains upright.
Well, that’s a start.
“So, what happened when you left it?” I ask, curious in spite of myself. “How’d you end up sleeping in the gutter?”
Mr. 3.5 rubs his forehead as if he’s trying to extract a memory from it.
“I was waiting for my ride,” he says at last, speaking with what sounds like considerable effort. “But then I decided to take a leak.” He nods towards the dingy little alley that leads off this street, and I wrinkle my nose in distaste. “And when I got back here…”
He trails off, shrugging.
“You passed out drunk,” I finish helpfully. “And now you have no way to get home, am I right?”
“Nope,” says 3.5, showing a flash of implausibly white teeth as he grins at me from under his beard. “You’re wrong. Idohave a way to get home.” He points at the car key in my hand, which I’m carrying like a weapon, the way women do when they have to walk somewhere alone at night.
“Youhave a car,” he says, sounding utterly delighted by this revelation. “Youcan be my ride.”
Chapter 3
Ihave absolutely no idea why I agreed to do it. I mean, I could easily have just put him in an Uber and sent him on his way, couldn’t I? And I know he stood up for me against Drunk Guy at the bar, but it’s not like he saved mylife, is it? It wasn’t like he was Jack Dawson or something, dying so Rose could live. I don’t owe him anything.
Or do I?
For some reason, after a lifetime of near-silence, that pesky conscience of mine decides that now is the perfect time to get chatty. And really quite sassy, too, now you come to mention it.
Not now, conscience. Not now…
The thing is, it’s not often someone takes my side on something. It’s notever, really. Even when I’m in the right, I’m usually wrong, somehow, which makes it hard for people to want to defend me. Mr. 3.5did, though; and I would never admit it, but I was quite touched by it. It made me almost like him.Almost. And in a strictly platonic kind of way, obviously, because, well,lookat him.
For a few brief moments back in that bar, though, someone was on my side. We were a team: me and the bearded guy in pool slides, whose name I didn’t catch. And, okay, it wasn’t a big deal, in the great scheme of things. It’s not like one day I’ll be telling my grand kids how I met the love of my life in Joe’s bar, and then he threw up on my shoes. But, even as I’m standing here, on this rain-slicked street in the dark, I can still feel the warmth on my back when he stood behind me. And he might not have saved my life, but it was nice not to feel like I was on my own for once.
Hmmm.
Maybe this is another part of my penance? Maybe this is the kind of thing I need to do, on my path to becoming a Good Person? And thatiswhat I’m trying to do right now, isn’t it? I want to be good (Nottoogood, though. Like, I don’t want to becomeboringor anything like that. Just good enough to be able to go home again, with my head held high. That would be enough for me.), and maybe this is how I’ll do it.
I will not, however, do it with good grace. I’m not a saint, after all, so, instead of agreeing immediately, I make a bit of a show of considering it; tapping my feet and wrinkling my brow, before finally huffing with annoyance and tightening my grip on my car key/weapon.
Then I turn on my heel and start walking in the direction of my car.
“Well, come on then,” I say over my shoulder as I go. “If you want a lift, you better hurry up.”
“A Lyft?” says 3.5, frowning as he stumbles after me. “No, I wantedyouto drive me. I don’t have any cash on me for a Lyft. And I think my phone’s broken.”
“A ride,” I say impatiently. “I’m giving you aride, stupid.”
I will never get used to this country and its ways. Like how they call a lift a “ride”and no one seems to own an electric kettle. Weird.
3.5 has caught up with me now, and I feel suddenly awkward as we reach my beat up little Honda, which was the only thing I could afford when I moved over here. Buying it totally wiped out the small amount of savings I had, but I couldn’t do without it — no one walks anywhere here — so me and the car are now friends for life. Or for as long as it takes me to save up to buy something better. Which, to be fair, probablywilltake the rest of my life, given how little I make at the bar, and how much I seem to spend.
“This is your car? Wow, it’s tiny. Like you.”
Mr. 3.5 doesn’t mince his words as he pulls open the passenger door and drops inside, completely missing the glare of outrage I give him.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m short, I get it,” I reply tetchily, getting in beside him and inserting the key into the ignition. “I’ve heard it all from my mother, don’t worry. I’m too short for runway modeling, and my boobs aren’t big enough for glamour, so I’m just a crushing disappointment all round, really.”
