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Chapter 9
“Did you ever drive anybody who, like, waited in the back of the car topless? And then when the client came out they were like, ‘Surprise!’?”
Jean chuckled. “No. That has not happened.”
“What’s the craziest thing that has happened? Are there, like, prostitutes? Escorts, I mean?” Allie opened up the bag of five-layer-dip Combos and passed them to Jean. She had left the backseat to sit next to him in the front hours ago. “You should try these, they’re delicious. What was I saying?”
“Escorts.”
“Right, so, do you drive around a lot of ladies of the night, and they’re popping open champagne bottles and standing up so they stick out of the sunroof and pour champagne all over the car?”
“You’ve seen too many videos.” Jean stuck a Combo in his mouth. “This is disgusting.”
“No, give it a minute, it’ll improve. You’re dodging my questions.”
“This car has no sunroof.”
“You only ever drive this one? I figured you get to drive the stretch Hummers sometimes.”
“No stretch Hummer. Only this car, for Mr. Chamberlain.”
“You’re his driver all the time?”
Jean nodded and reached for another Combo.
“I told you they were awesome.”
“The flavor develops.”
“Like wine, some snack foods have to breathe.”
Allie checked her phone.
“Anything?” Jean asked.
“Not yet.” She’d emailed, left voicemails, and texted at regular intervals. Her mother had gone dark, and Allie kept waiting for some brilliant next move to occur to her. Or for her to find the balls to do one of any number of things she was avoiding, like come clean with her sister. Or her dad.
“Keep the faith,” Jean said, and passed her the Combos.
Allie snacked with Jean companionably for a few minutes, letting herself enjoy people- watching from behind the security of tinted windows. The way people dressed here was fantastic. Even the young women in their boring sample-sale St. John blazers and Jimmy Choos were interesting to her because they were dressing how they wanted to look.
“Before I met Matt, I was such a nutty dresser.” She had told Jean about leaving Matt at the altar. She was finding it easier and easier to say the words, to tell it as a story, here in New York. Telling Jean was the first time she didn’t think of herself, entirely, as the bad guy. Though she still choked a little at the end, when she told him the part about how she tried to dye her wedding dress in a bathtub after canceling her wedding. That was the night she made up with her sister after a terrible fight.
She wanted that night back, if only for how close she’d felt to May.
Jean looked her over. “You were a nutty dresser?”
“This is a post-runaway-bride-era outfit. Not dissimilar to the pre-Matt era.”
“Of course.”
“Matt didn’t like how I dressed. I mean, he didn’t say so. Like, directly. He’d just…you know what I mean by ‘neg’? Like when a guy wraps an insult in a compliment?”
Jean rolled his eyes. “I was born in New York City. Washington Heights.”
“I’m being racist, probably.”
“Yes. You’re from Wisconsin, so I expect it.”
