Page 8 of East

I give Dodo a pat on the head and head out the front door, locking it behind me.

I drop my jaw as my ride pulls up. It’s a Mercury Cyclone—a muscle car from the seventies. Black with a long hood, pointed nose with hidden headlights, and aggressive fastback styling.

My father’s dream car. One of the few things I remember about him. He was saving up for it before he got sick. Then all his life savings went to his medical bills.

“A big fat waste of money,” Emmy said. “He died anyway.”

Yeah, fuck her. If that money bought my father even a few minutes more of time on this earth, it was worth it.

But the Cyclone is a good sign. That much I know.

I’m going to meet the love of my life tonight.

I wave and flash a smile to the driver. A woman, thank God. Late forties or early fifties with short hair. I don’t know her name—the app doesn’t say. She gestures me to take a seat in the back.

“Thank you for picking me up,” I say as I shimmy inside.

“You Thea?” the driver asks.

“I am.”

“For Twistr?”

“Right again.”

“Great.” She swipes on her phone that rests in a hands-free device on her dash. “Looks like we’ll be there in twenty-eight minutes.”

“Perfect. I’m meeting my date at eight.”

She nods curtly, and then we drive.

I squint as I try to look at the map on her phone’s tiny screen. “Can I ask where we’re going?”

She shrugs. “No idea. Twistr just gives me coordinates.”

“Great.”

My heartrate spikes slightly. I figured I’d know where we were going once I got in the car, that I could look up a menu or whatever if it’s a restaurant or bar. I didn’t know if I should eat before I came here, so I threw a protein bar in my purse. It won’t matter. The butterflies escaping their cocoons in my stomach have killed any appetite.

I pull out my phone and noodle on it for a bit as the driver—I still don’t know her name—drives downtown. We’re heading toward the Loop, which makes sense. Lots of stuff to do there. No traffic, as rush hour is pretty much over. Even if it weren’t, it would be going the other way. We’re driving south from my neighborhood on the north side of town, just below Evanston.

The silence in the car is deafening.

Normally I love a quiet rideshare, but right now I need to talk. It’ll ease my nerves a bit.

“How long have you been driving for Twistr?” I ask.

The driver draws in a long breath. “A few months. Ever since the app went live.”

It’s early March now, so it must have gone live in December. Maybe November. Probably to coincide with the holidays.

“How’s it been?” I ask.

Another long breath followed by a shrug of the driver’s shoulders. “People seem to like it. Guess they want to try new things. Most people I pick up are young like you.”

“Thank you,” I respond. I don’t know what else to say.

She lets out a short wheezy laugh. “Wasn’t a compliment. Wasn’t an insult either.”