“She done you dirty?” Piotr watches me in the rearview mirror. He’s in his early thirties, with white skin, deep brown eyes, and the precise, sculpted skin-fade a person can only get from a big-city suburban barbershop. And damn, he’s pretty cute, but I don’t need that right now.
“He,” I correct, holding my breath while I discover how awkward the next hour and ten minutes will be.
Eventually, Piotr smiles. “Okay. So . . . we’re going to Hepton? Where is that, Wiltshire?”
“Actually, I want the village just before Hepton. It’s called Mudford-upon-Hooke, but it’s literally on the way to Hepton.”
I only put Hepton into the ride app so Jordan wouldn’t find out where I lived. Not that it would be difficult for him to uncover my actual address if he wanted to. Though they never do. I’m doing them a favour by ditching them discreetly once they’ve had theirs.
“Okay,” Piotr says again. “I understand.” I get the feeling he does.
“Hey, Piotr?”
“Hmm?”
“How would you feel about stopping for snacks? My treat.” Helpfully, my stomach chooses this exact moment to growl.
“I know a great place on the way. Best kebabs and pizza in Bristol,” he says. “But there’s no food in the car, so we’ll have to eat it on the street.”
Piotr seems familiar with the guy at the kebab shop. He’s greeted with a warm hug and an enthusiastic, “Brother!” and I’m given some sort of discount on the food. It’s too late and I’m too tired to work out what the percentage is, though. I order a chicken donner and a can of Fanta for myself, and a twelve-inch margherita with “so many olives you can’t see any yellow” for my driver. I slap two twenties on the counter and wave away the change.
We eat our food leaning against the bonnet of Piotr’s car. It’s definitely midnight blue—a gorgeous colour—and the bright fluorescents from the kebab shop signs gleam in the bodywork. He offers me a slice of pizza.
“Thanks, but I’ll shit myself all over your leather seats if I have dairy.”
He hesitates as though working out whether I’m joking, then laughs. “Yeah, no thank you. Don’t want that happening again. My sister is lactose intolerant. Fartiest person you’ll ever meet.”
“I love cheese, not gonna lie, but I need to make sure I’m home for the night before I eat it.”
We both laugh, but it’s short-lived. I stare at the warped reflection of the takeaway shop in Piotr’s bodywork and blow out a sigh. I don’t even realise I’m doing it until he speaks.
“You know, I’m a great listener. Comes with the job description.” He pauses. “If you . . . wanted to talk about anything.” He jerks his thumb in the direction we drove from, and I realise he’s referring to Jordan.
I shake my head. This guy, a stranger, doesn’t need to hear about some other stranger. I don’t even know Jordan beyond the things he’d WhatsApped me. He’d only ever told me superficial details, like his job, his hometown, his hobbies—running and drinking. I’d guessed that he was married to a woman and had kids, but in all honesty, I’d likely chosen him for that specific reason.
Where’s the challenge in hooking up with men who are single? No, give me the unattainable and closeted guys, the “I’m just doing this once to get it out of my system” guys, the “I don’t normally do this but I feel we have a connection” guys. It’s fun. I have to work a little harder, and they’re less likely to develop an attachment.
I’mless likely to develop an attachment.
I don’t need to explain any of this to Piotr, but I find my mouth moving of its own volition, words falling out unbidden. “He’s married. Jordan’s married, that is. With kids. Cute ones too.”
“Oh,” he says. “And you just found out?”
“I had suspicions.” I don’t elaborate. Why am I like this? Why must I always go for the unavailable guys? If three years of therapy haven’t brought me any closer to the answer, I doubt a quick chat with a hot cab driver is going to make much difference.
I’m standing outside Kebab Station somewhere near central Bristol next to a human GPS system, and I’ve never felt more lost.
I scrunch up my paper donner wrapper and walk the six or seven steps to the closest bin. Piotr mirrors my actions with his pizza box. He’s left the crusts, and I smile knowing I would have done the same. Bread without cheese is like life without air.
“Ready to leave? Need the toilet before we go? I can ask R—”
“Nah, I’m okay. Alright if I sit in the front?”
“’Course.”
We climb into our seats. The stark white of the map screen steals my attention for at least five or six streets, and occasionally I feel Piotr’s gaze sweep over me, but he’s quiet, reading my mood.
“I just don’t want to be the homewrecker any more. You know?” The words flop from my mouth without instruction from my brain.
