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?”
“Nope,” I said. “No story here.”
“Oh my God!” Single gasped. For a second, I thought maybe she somehow knew who I was. Perhaps I’d worked on her house or made her some custom piece of furniture. But then I saw in the rearview mirror that she was staring down at her phone. “Speaking of married, guess who just texted me?”
“Who?”
“Kirk Browning. Be still, my heart.”
I gripped my steering wheel more tightly. I had overheard plenty of incriminating conversations from the backseat of my car and in some cases, had had things directly confessed to me. But nothing like this. Nothing that felt pertinent to me. I told myself it wasn’t. Not really.
“Ugh. Is that still going on?” Married asked.
“Nothing’s going on. We’re friends,” Single said. “He just wants to talk.”
“Yeah, right,” Married said.
“He’s going through a lot right now,” Single said. “All this stuff with Finch and the Mexican girl….Have you heard?”
I bit my lip so hard I could taste blood. Now it was pertinent to me.
“Of course I heard. Saw the photo, too. I feel so sorry for Kirk.”
“Why?” Single said, and for one second, I thought she was going to redeem herself with a bold defense of Lyla. Instead, she said, “Because his son’s in trouble? Or because he’s married to such a bitch?”
A jolt of hate passed through my body as Married laughed and said, “She really is. And so full of herself. It’s like—hey, honey, it’s not your money.”
“No shit. I heard she grew up in a trailer park.”
“Really?” Married asked.
“Yeah. Pretty sure.”
“But isn’t she Jewish?”
“She is?” Single gasped. “Well, that’s a combo you don’t see every day. Trailer park Jew.”
They laughed together. Then Single said, “So what do you think will happen?”
“With Nina? Or Finch? Because I bet they both get axed….I hear the headmaster over there’s a huge liberal.”
As I white-knuckled the steering wheel, I felt another tap on my shoulder. “Aren’t you glad you don’t have to deal with this Belle Meade drama?” Single asked.
I unclenched my jaw and said, “Oh. You’d be surprised….”
“Oh, dear. Were you listening to us?” she said, so full of herself.
I told myself to play dumb, but I just couldn’t.
“Yes,” I said, then continued in a loud, clear voice. “And for what it’s worth? I agree. I don’t think Finch will get away with what he did to that girl. Who, by the way, isn’t Mexican. Although that’s kinda beside the point.”
Silence filled the backseat.
“So you know the girl?” Married finally asked, suddenly sounding sober.
“Yeah,” I said, pausing for a satisfying beat just as I pulled up to their destination, put my car in park, and stared at them over my shoulder. “She’s my daughter. So yeah, I know her pretty damn well.”
* * *
—
THE SECOND THEY were out of my car, I called Nina, ready to give her my enraged report. But in the few seconds it took for her to answer the phone, I calmed down just enough to change my mind. As pissed off as I was at what I’d just heard (for both Lyla’s sake and Nina’s), getting involved in someone else’s marriage was never a good idea. Things were already hard enough.
“Hello?” she said. “Tom?”
“Yes. Hi,” I said, wondering how it was possible to feel both rattled and relieved to hear someone’s voice.
“Is everything okay?” she asked me.
“Yeah,” I said. “Everything’s fine. I just wanted to say thanks for today…for coming over…with Finch,” I said. Because I had to come up with something. But I also meant it.
“Of course,” she said. “Thank you. It was really amazing of you to give him that chance….”
“You’re welcome. Listen. I didn’t realize it was so late….I’m sorry about that. I hope I didn’t wake you? Or your husband?” I said, tensing up just thinking about that guy and so wishing I could meet him in a dark alley.
“No. It’s fine. You didn’t. Kirk’s actually out of town….He travels a lot….And I was just sitting here…reading a little…”
“That sounds nice,” I said, and although a quiet Saturday night reading did sound nice in theory, she sounded more lonely than anything else.
“What about you?” she asked. “What did you do tonight?”
“Oh, I just worked some.”
“On someone’s house? Or were you making furniture?”
“Neither. I drive for Uber on the side. Easy money. Flexible gig. And I’ve always liked driving. It relaxes me,” I said. Although they were all true statements, I didn’t like the insecure feeling I had in my chest as I said them.
“I know what you mean,” she said. “I like driving, too, sometimes.”
My heart started to race, as I carefully crafted my next statement. “Yeah. So funny thing…I actually drove a couple of women I think you might know.”
“Oh, really? Who?”
“One was named Jackie.”
“Jackie Allen?”
“Yeah. I think that was it,” I said, trying to remember her last name from the ride request. “Tall blonde. Big hair. Big…breasts.”
“Yep. That’s her,” she said with a laugh.
“But the other woman…I didn’t catch her name. Generic looking. Strong Southern accent. Oh. And she might be divorced?”
Nina sighed. “Unfortunately, that doesn’t narrow it down very much these days.”
“Yeah. I guess not.”
“So wait…how did you put together that I know Jackie?”
“Well, that’s actually a funny story…not ha-ha funny…shitty funny,” I babbled.
She said nothing, waiting.
“Well. Finch and Lyla came up…the incident…”
“Oh, no,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“What did they say?” she asked.
“You probably don’t want to know,” I said, wondering if she would press me, sort of hoping she would.