Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “I sent her home in an Uber,” I say, keeping my voice flat. “This is more important.”
She turns to the window, arms folded. “You shouldn’t have approached me,” she says. “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
I don’t answer right away. I just watch her, the line of her jaw and the way the city lights flicker over her skin as we pass under each sodium lamp. Her reflection in the glass is distorted, doubled; one girl with two faces, neither of them sure what the other is doing.
She holds my gaze for a full five seconds, then looks away again. I pull out of the lot without another word, ease the Lambo into the empty night, and steer us toward nowhere in particular. The roads are shimmering under the amber streetlights, and the only sound is the liquid murmur of the engine and the hiss of the tires. In the rearview, the city is black glass, every window a blank stare.
I shift gears, thumb the wheel, focus on the lines of the road. She’s still staring out the window, but her hands are twisting the strap of her bag, tighter and tighter, until her knuckles blanch.
“You looked good in there,” I say. The words land between us like a lit cigarette. “You looked like you were in control.”
She scoffs. “You must need glasses. I was in control of exactly nothing.” There’s a pause. “Except maybe the napkin count.”
I smile, just barely, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. The silence that grows is like a second cabin, built inside the first: airtight, pressurized, impossible to escape. I drive us through the city with both hands on the wheel, sometimes glancing over just to watch her profile in the passing light. She doesn’t notice, or pretends not to.
After a mile, she says, “Where are we going?”
I think about it. “Someplace where we can talk.”
She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t object either. I can tell she’s weighing the odds of escape, but in the end she relaxes back into the seat and lets her eyes drift closed for a moment. I watch her chest rise and fall. She’s breathing like she’s just run up the stairs, but her face is almost serene.
The city is deserted at this hour. The streets all look the same: empty bus stops, dead traffic lights, the odd headlights of a taxi or a cop car. The city has a different texture at night—softer, but also crueler. Each block is its own little island, and everything in between is nothingness.
At a red light, I turn to her. “Are you hungry?”
She opens her eyes. “Not really.” But then, after a second: “I could use coffee.”
I nod, and she lets it hang there. When the light goes green, I take us out of downtown, up into the neighborhoods where the only open businesses are 24-hour diners and the occasional gas station. I know a place that’s always empty at this hour—an old haunt from my early days, before I could afford to even look at cars like this.
I take a left, then another, winding us through streets that grow narrower and more residential. The Lamborghini is so out of place here it’s almost a joke: black and low and sharp as a knife, prowling past parked minivans and sensible sedans. I pull up in front of The Copper Rail, a squat brick building with a neon coffee cup flickering in the window. The parking lot is all potholes and broken glass. I kill the engine and listen to the silence grow.
She doesn’t move. I get out, circle around, and open her door. She hesitates, then steps out, bag clutched to her side. For a second, in the dim light, Andie looks like a girl I’ve never seen before: softer, more exhausted, but also more herself than I’ve ever known her to be.
We go inside, and she walks ahead of me, finding an empty booth at the far end of the room. I follow, watching the way she drops her bag onto the seat, then slides in after it, tucking her feet under the table. I sit across from her, and for a moment, we just breathe.
The waitress comes over with two mugs of coffee before we even ask. “You want menus?” she says.
I shake my head. “Just coffee.”
She glances at Andie, who nods, eyes still on the mug.
When the waitress leaves, I wrap both hands around my cup and stare at her over the rim. “You can say whatever you want to me,” I say, keeping my voice low. “But you have to say something.”
She shrugs, her eyes fixed on a dark spot in the Formica. “You don’t need my words,” she says. “You’ve already made up your mind about me.”