“Just my mom. She needs me to come over. It’s probably nothing—it almost always is—but I should check on her.”
Bastian’s already moving back toward the car. “Get in.”
“What? No. Bastian, you don’t have to?—”
“Get in the car, Eliana.” He holds the passenger door open for me.
“This is kidnapping,” I protest. But I reluctantly let him help me into the seat.
He gets behind the wheel. “Where does she live?”
“Bastian, you really don’t have to?—”
“Address, Eliana.”
There’s something in his voice that makes me stop arguing. I give him the address—way out in Humboldt Park, a solid thirty-minute drive from here. He puts it in his GPS without comment and pulls away from my building.
We drive in silence for a few minutes. The city slides by outside, transitioning from trendy River North to grittier neighborhoods. I sink lower in my seat with each passing block as I watch my two worlds collide in real time.
Then “Baby Got Back” comes on the radio.
We both freeze as Sir Mix-a-Lot enthusiastically declares his appreciation for substantial posteriors. The contrast between the serious moment and the absolutely ridiculous song is so jarring that I snort. Bastian’s mouth twitches. By the time we hit“My anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns, hun,”we’re both laughing—real, helpless, tears-in-your-eyes laughter.
“If you want, we can?—”
“No!” I slap his hand away before he can change the station. “We have to commit now. It’s the law. No skips, ever.”
So we sit there, two adults in a luxury car, while Sir Mix-a-Lot waxes poetic about the female form. Bastian even drums his fingers on the steering wheel during“L.A. face with an Oakland booty,”which might be the most surreal thing I’ve witnessed in my entire life.
When the song ends, we’re both still grinning like idiots. But reality creeps back in as the neighborhoods continue to get rougher, the streetlights fewer and farther between.
“You don’t have to see this,” I say. “My life isn’t… It’s not oyster bars and Michelin stars.”
He flexes his fingers on the wheel. “I didn’t ask for a curated version.”
“I know, but?—”
“But nothing. Unless you want me to drop you off and leave?—”
“No.” That’s a little too fast and a lot too vulnerable, but I say it anyway. “I just… Don’t judge me for where I come from, okay?”
He glances at me sidelong. “We all come from somewhere, Eliana.”
We pull up to Mom’s building, a three-story walk-up that’s seen better decades. The security door doesn’t even close properly, perpetually propped open with a brick. Graffiti covers most of the mailboxes. At least half a dozen windows are boarded up.
“Wait here,” I tell him.
“Eliana—”
“Please. Just give me five minutes.”
He nods, but I can see he’s not happy about it. I hurry inside before he can change his mind.
The stairwell smells like it always does—mildew and old cooking and something vaguely chemical and upsetting that I’ve never been able to identify. Mom’s on the second floor, apartment 2B. When I get there, the door is cracked open.
My heart rate spikes. “Mom?”
I push inside to find her on the couch, surrounded by open wine bottles and tear-stained tissues. She’s wearing the same ratty bathrobe she’s had since I was twelve, and her face is blotchy from crying.
