“The girl who was with her, her producer, showed me a video of her doing one of her hot takes. She said it was just a test of how she would look on YouTube, and trust me…” He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “You donotwant her putting that up on YouTube. It was brutal.”
My eyes narrow, and I snatch the card from his fingers. “Got an address? I’ll make it a personal delivery.”
“I’ve already sent it to your email.”
“Thanks, Dev.” I return to my locker, stopping long enough to put the card in my wallet and grab a towel.
* * *
Standingin front of the small house on a little side street off St. Charles Avenue, my eyes travel around the exterior as I think about what I plan to say to her.
The wood siding is painted a dark forest green with white trim, and the two sets of French doors across the front are ancient cypress painted dark brown. It’s a pretty standard, Uptown duplex.
A silver water bowl is on the front porch between two chairs. I assume it’s for the neighborhood cats.Noted. She’s kind to the animals, but not to complete strangers.
I lift my hand, preparing to knock, preparing to get some answers. A question passes quickly through my mind: Would it be better if she were just doing it for the ratings, or would it be better if she has a real beef with me?
The latter would give me more respect for her. If she’s really pissed about something, maybe we can talk it out, find a solution, get her to get off me.
If it’s for ratings, I’m sunk.
I knock firmly on the ancient wood and wait. At least these doors don’t have full-sized windows. It’s possible she might take one look and run.
Instead, the door opens swiftly, and a beautiful girl appears in front of me. Golden-brown hair is piled on top of her head, and she’s fresh-faced and smiling.
She’s dressed in white terrycloth shorts and a long-sleeved faded pink tee with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. On the front it readsI’m a Delight.It’s funny. But I don’t want to like her.
She looks away, over her shoulder, talking to someone in the house. I stand in her doorway, filling it almost entirely, and when she turns her head to face me, her lips part. Her bright blue eyes go round as saucers, and her jaw drops. She blinks several times, not speaking.
Taking that as my cue, I hold up the credit card. “I think this belongs to you.”
Her eyes flicker to the plastic then back to mine. “How…” She turns her entire body to look behind her into the house before facing me again. “I don’t understand.”
In that simple movement, a memory flashes through my brain. It’s in the shape of her jaw, the movement of her head, the tenor of her voice. My eyes scan her face again, and it’s like trying to remember a forgotten dream.
“Have we met before?” The credit card is momentarily forgotten. “You seem… familiar.”
Her eyes drop to her feet, which I notice are bare. Red toenails, and she answers in a low voice. “I gave you a ride to the airport.”
The airport?I shake my head. That’s not right. If we’d dated… if we’dslepttogether, I’d remember. This girl is too pretty for me to forget.
“Was it after a game?” I do my best to ask in a way that doesn’t sound like I’ve forgotten something I should remember.
“It was after the playoffs. You were at a Marriott going to the airport, and I?—”
“Fuck…” I whisper, recognition punching me. “You’re the Uber driver.”
Was she this pretty when she drove an Uber? Why thefuck is a pretty girl like her driving an Uber? Isn’t that dangerous?
“Yeah.” Her voice is quiet, like she’s waiting for me to connect the dots.
I connect them. It was the ride from hell, and I kind of lost my shit that night. It was right on the heels of losing that game, and a bunch of friends invited me to join them at the beach. I couldn’t get out of town fast enough.
“I’m sorry.” My tone gentles. “My flight ended up being delayed because of the storm. I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.” Her head tilts, and she frowns up at me. “I’ve always wondered… Why didn’t you use your car service? Why would you, of all people, call an Uber?”
“It was a last-minute thing.” I clear my throat, unsure of how exactly to say this. “Is that why… I have a feeling you’re still angry with me, and you’re taking it out on me on your show.”
