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I want that someone to be me.

I keep looking at the doors like he is about to come through them. I try and convince myself he is still upstairs and most importantly, that he is okay. I tell myself he has not come down yet. But the reality of the situation is that I still want him to be here.

My phone is face down in the cupholder. I called him once already. I almost pick it up again to see if he rang back but leave it. If I keep checking, I will look like I have been sitting here waiting for him.

But I have been sitting here waiting for him, I don’t need a damn screen to tell me that.

I should go but instead I stay.

Sitting starts to feel like hiding, so I get out. The air hits my face. My hair is still tied up. The scar at my mouth feels tight in the cold. I walk the row of parked cars because I cannot stay still. I try a handle here and there. I lock the ones that are open. My boots are the only sound for a while. Then they are not. I stop between two cars and wait for the sound I hear to be him.

It’s not.

I tell myself it’s the building, then go back to the car, get in, and lock it again.

The phone lights up the cupholder. I turn it just enough to see the name.

Rhys.

I put it back face down. I already called the guy and left a message. I am not going to answer his call. If he needs me or the car, he can come down here and tell me to my face. I have driven him home for far too many nights, and tonight, I am sick and tired of being his chauffeur. I don’t want to be his driver anymore, I just want to be his and I want him to be mine. All mine. Tonight, I want him in the bay, not on the screen.

The screen goes dark. I keep my eyes on the doors. Time moves and nothing comes through them. After a while I tip the phone just enough to see the clock. It is after three. I have been in this bay since twenty to three, when he rang and I let it die. If he was coming down from the building, he would be here by now.

I think about his door, waiting until he is inside it, here, next to me, every single day, then push it shut and hear it catch. Every late night. The whole job in one sound. He never looks at me when I do it. I look at him, though, all the time. And the guy doesn’t even fucking notice. I have looked at him enough that I could find his mouth in the dark.

I hate that I am thinking about his mouth in a car park full of police tape.

The phone lights again, longer this time. Missed calls stacked against the plastic. I still do not turn it over.

A cop walks the far end and does not look at me. I am only the driver. I don’t work upstairs, and I guess tonight that’s enough for the law not to question me.

I put my head back and look at the lights in the concrete and think about the square again. The tape. The message. The silence. If he has already gone, I am sitting here for nothing like a pathetic idiot. If he’s still here, and I leave, he walks out into an empty bay after the worst night of his life and I am not the one who opened the door.

So I stay. Twenty past three now, or close to it. The building is still lit. He still has not come through those doors.

Something at the end of the row catches my attention.

It’s not the cop. The cop is gone. This is further back. Something … grey looking. It could be a coat. It could be a shadow off a pillar. I watch it until my eyes water. It starts to move forward but does not wave. It does not call my name. It does not move like someone coming to ask if I have seen Mr. Preswood.

I want it to be him.

I want whoever it is to be Rhys. The hood is up because it is cold. As it approaches, I see the outfit, coveralls and a mask, perhaps a Halloween costume or a practical joke. Rhys has a dark sense of humor when he is tired. I have heard it from the front seat and never been allowed to answer it.

Whatever it is comes between the cars. Soft. No hard shoes. I sit forward and my hand finds the lock on its own. I do not open it yet.

“Rhys?” I say, inside the glass, too quiet for anyone to hear.

The figure keeps coming. Slate-grey. Hood still up. Black gloves. They do not appear to be in a hurry, and that is what gets me. A cop would hurry. A stranger would slow down. This walks like it knows which car is mine.

It has to be Rhys.

I should start the engine, just in case. I should turn the phone over. I do neither. What I do instead, is watch the passenger window.

The figure stops at the pillar two cars over. For a second I think it is only a coat hanging there, or something else. Then it steps out, whoever it is, heading closer toward me. The hood hides the face. I still don’t have a clue who it is.

My heart is in my throat. I am fucking hard from the thought of wanting it to be him and I hate that, too. This is a bay. There is tape. None of that stops my body, though. My body has always been stupid for him.

The figure comes along the passenger side.