I pull out into the road, ignoring the outraged honks that follow my maneuver.
“I… um… I wasn’t trying to imply anything,” 3.5 says, sounding sheepish. “And I wasn’t even looking at your boobs, I swear.”
I swallow, feeling suddenly embarrassed by my outburst.
Why did I start talking about my boobs to a guy I’m alone in a car with? What’s actually wrong with me?
I shrug my shoulders by way of response, and we drive on in silence for an uncomfortable couple of minutes before I realize I have no idea where I’m going. I’ve automatically started driving back to the house I share with Summer and Amy (And Invisible Ben, who I still don’t believe in) in Burbank, but I’m definitely not about to take this guy home with me, so I quickly pull over and turn to face him.
“Hey.”
Mr. 3.5 seemed pretty lucid when he got into the car, but he’s already started to dose off in the few minutes we’ve been driving, so I have to snap my fingers in front of his face to wake him.
“Oh, hey,” he says amiably, as those green eyes flutter open. “How’re you doin’? We home yet?”
“No,” I snap, exasperated by how laid-back he is about this massive favor I’m doing him. “I don’t know where ‘home’ is for you, remember?”
He looks vaguely puzzled at this, so I heave what must be my 100th deep sigh of the evening before pulling out my phone, opening up Google Maps, and handing it to him.
“Here,” I say, getting ready to pull back out into traffic again. “Put your address into that.”
It takes all of my concentration to insert my little car into a gap in the traffic (Let’s just say L.A. is a far cry from the Highlands) and I don’t dare to take my eyes off the road after that, so once we’re on our way again, I concentrate on following the soothing tones of the SatNav lady as she tells me where to go, and thank my stars that 3.5 has lapsed back into silence.
Even when he’s not talking, though, it’s hard to concentrate with his hulking presence right next to me in the small vehicle. It’s oddly intimate, somehow, being stuck in a car with someone you don’t know, and, as I drive on, I’m painfully aware of howclosehe is. Either my car is even smaller than I thought it was, or he’s taking upwaytoo much space in it.
I swallow nervously. This probably wasn’t my brightest idea, now I come to think of it. Didn’t my mother always warn me not to get into cars with strangers? And now, here I am, playing chauffeur to someone whose name I don’t even know.
Well, that’s a simple enough problem to solve.
“So, what’s your—”
“Have you really—”
We both start speaking at the same time, and there’s another awkward silence, broken only by the SatNav telling me to take the next left.
It seems to be taking me into the Hills. That can’t be right, can it?
“I was going to ask if you’ve really read Macbeth?” 3.5 says as the car starts to wind its way around the narrow bends that lead up to the Hollywood Hills. “You seemed to know it pretty well when you were quoting it to me back there?”
“Yeah, it turns out waitresses can actually read,” I say drily. “Who knew? Guess I’m not just a pretty face after all.”
“I didn’t say youwerea pretty face, Lady M,” 3.5 shoots back instantly. I allow myself to glance over at him, grudgingly impressed with the speed of the comeback. I’ve got to hand it to him, he can give as good as he gets. I have to admire that. Even though I’m deeply irritated by it.
“You’re notjusta waitress, though, are you?” he asks after another few beats of silence. “No one out here is everjusta waitress. So, what is then? Actress? Singer? Very tiny model with, er, totally normally sized boobs, not that I would know?”
His eyes widen innocently as I turn to look at him.
“Nope, nope, and nope again,” I say at last, returning my eyes to the road. “I reallyamjust a waitress. Possibly the only one in L.A., actually.”
I snap my mouth closed before I can tell him that pouring drinks and looking pretty areliterallymy only skills. And I’m not even all that great at pouring drinks, if I’m honest. When I came to California, I didn’t come to make my fortune, or get discovered, like so many of the girls I work with at the bar. No, I just came here to escape. What can I tell you, it…seemed like a good idea at the time?
“So, you’re a real waitress,” 3.5 is saying now, “But you also like reading Shakespeare in your spare time. Or is it just Macbeth?”
I hesitate, wondering how to answer this.
The truth is, reading is my secret shame. Secret, because my mum thought reading books was a waste of time (And also that I’d get premature lines on my face from frowning in concentration, which is a bad habit of mine), so I used to sneak them into the house under her radar and read them under the covers. And shame because, in High School, everyone thought I was an airhead (a pretty, popular one, but still: an airhead) and I did my best to play up to that image, so they wouldn’t realize I was secretly a geek, who read books for fun. Because whodoesthat?
I steal another quick look at 3.5, who’s waiting patiently for my answer.
