All We Ever Wanted(58)

   “With who?” I said.

“Grace,” she said.

“Where’s the show?”

“Twelfth and Porter.”

I nodded. “How are you getting there?”

“Grace is picking me up. We’re getting ready at her house.”

“Why not get ready here?”

“She has a bigger bathroom.”

“Okay. But remember. Your curfew is eleven.”

“I know, Dad,” she said with a loud sigh.

I looked at her a long beat, then said, “All right, Lyla. Have fun….Just please don’t let me down.”



* * *



—

LATER THAT NIGHT, after Lyla was picked up by Grace, and I did a few things around the house, I decided I’d drive a little to distract myself from my feeling of doom and gloom. So I did about four uneventful trips, including a back-and-forth from the airport, all with solo passengers and no conversation, exactly how I like it.

A little before ten, I got pinged for a pickup at 404 Kitchen, a nice restaurant in the Gulch. The drop-off was for No. 308, a bar on Gallatin Avenue. I knew from experience with those locations that I was probably getting one of two rides—either a couple on a date or a girls’ night out. If the latter, they’d likely be single women or divorcées (married women typically got together on weekdays, not weekends). Either way, they’d be drunk, or well on their way, which I guess was the whole point of Uber.

Sure enough, when I pulled up to the restaurant, I saw a pair of middle-aged women who looked like they were having a big time. As they both slid ungracefully into my car, their intoxication was confirmed by all the usual hallmarks—most notably, loud, shallow, repetitive commentary. I quickly gathered that the alpha, bitchier of the two was married; the other, who happened to be prettier but perhaps a bit dimmer, was either single or divorced. To be clear, I gathered all that not because I was interested in anything they had to say but simply because it was impossible to tune them out. At the moment, they were focusing on some guy they’d just run into outside the restaurant.

   “You know who that was, right?” Married said.

“No. Who?”

“The CEO of Hedberg. He’s worth a bloody fortune. And his wife just passed away. Cancer,” she said as if announcing tomorrow’s weather forecast.

Single sighed and said, “That’s soo sad.”

“Yes. Which means he’s going to need lots of comfort.” Married let out a snort.

“Jackie! That’s awful,” Single said, but she did not sound appalled, as the two turned their attention to their phones, namely the selfies they’d just taken outside the restaurant.

Here we go, I thought. The debate about which photos to delete and which to post.

Sure enough, a very familiar and painful script ensued:

Delete!

Why don’t you like that one? It’s adorable of you!

No, my arms look so fat! Delete it now!

I can crop that.

Only if you crop my pale face, too.

I have the best app for that!

And on and on, until Married concluded, and the apparently more photogenic Single reluctantly agreed, that none were “post-worthy.” At which point they promptly began a hair and makeup session followed by another photo shoot complete with a discussion about their respective “good sides.” A second later, I was blinded by a flash.

   “Whoa,” I said under my breath.

“Aw, I’m sorry,” Single said, reaching up to tap my shoulder. “Are we bothering your driving?”

“I’m fine,” I said, aware that these kinds of women were the most likely to slap you with a one-star rating.

“He’s probably enjoying the show,” Married said, as if I couldn’t hear her. Against my better judgment, I glanced in the rearview mirror in time to see her cleavage bulging out of her bra, as excessive as the perfume one or both of them had doused themselves with.

“Sir, do you often have hot women taking selfies in the back of your car?” Single asked proudly.

Here we go, I thought again, preparing myself for full-on engagement. Because typically, it was all or nothing. They either ignored me completely or wanted to delve into a deep conversation about my life, which was really just a way to segue back to theirs.

“Not as often as I’d like,” I said, on autopilot.

The two laughed, and Married reached up and put her hand on my arm. “Wait. I didn’t catch your name?”

“Tom,” I said.

She repeated my name, turning it into a singsongy two syllables, then said, “You’re very strong. Do you get those muscles from driving Uber?”

“Jackie,” Single said under her breath. “Obviously he works out….Right, Tom?”

“Not really,” I said as Married commenced massaging my shoulder and neck.

“Jackie,” Single said. “Let him drive.”

   “But he’s so cute. You should be talking to him….Tom? Are you single?”

I said yes, aware that I was now moving into Uber pawn territory.

“Divorced or never married? What’s your story? Do you have a story?” Married pressed.

“Everyone has a story,” Single said. “Right, Tom?”