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“No!” Marissa scowls, clutching the little purse clamped against her elbow closer.
“Marissa,” I repeat sternly. “I’ll give them to the Uber driver. You can come back for your car tomorrow.”
“Fine,” she spits, digging through her purse before thrusting a jingling key ring at me.
I pluck them from her hand and pocket them for now.
“I’ll wait with you until they arrive. Looks like they’re three minutes away.”
“Whatever,” she huffs, folding her bare arms around her shoulders with a little shiver. I’d offer my jacket if I hadn’t left it upstairs. After a sullen mumble, Marissa asks, “Why are you being so nice to me?” A suspicious look darts my way. She’s speaking more clearly, at least; the cold air seems to be helping to clear her head, even if she’s still not in her right mind. “I’m not gonna drop the suit just ’cause you called me a ride.”
“That’s not what this is about.”
I’m not entirely sure what it’s about myself, if I’m being honest.
Besides the fact that I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I sent her off drunk and then saw her name in the news the following morning, victim of a tragic accident.
“Just be safe, Miss Sullivan. Go home and sober up. I’ll see you for the meeting on Monday.” I arch a brow. “Don’t cancel this time.”
I can’t read the look Marissa gives me. At once hostile and oddly broken. Vulnerable.
Like a little girl who’s been hurt so deeply she can’t comprehend it, and she hates it and wants to beg the person who did it to take it back.
I don’t think that look is entirely for me.
But I wonder who she’s thinking of right now—whoever it is, she seems like she might shatter.
I’m not surprised when she draws defensive armor around herself, shrugging and turning her back to me again.
“Go to hell, you prick.”
I don’t respond.
There’s no point fencing words with someone in this condition when she won’t even remember this in the morning.
There’s little time for anything else, anyway.
The brand-new, sleek white Acura depicted in the app pulls up to the curb. I cross to the passenger window and lean in, offering Marissa’s keys and giving the driver strict instructions.
The driver seems used to picking up drunk riders.
Once I’ve explained the situation and noted she’ll provide her address, I lean back with a murmur of gratitude and open the rear door for Marissa in pointed silence.
She ignores me a second longer, but apparently she still has the sense not to embarrass herself in front of a stranger. After she’s made her point, she steps over to the car, nearly misses the curb in her heels, grabs the car door with a squeal, and shoots me a look that reminds me of a cat telling me I didn’t just see that.
“Asshole,” she clips, like I’m the one who tripped her, before tucking herself into the back seat.
“You’re welcome.” I shut the door and wave them off.
The last I see of Marissa is a petulant glare as she flings herself against the car door and curls up in a surprisingly small, girlish bundle for someone so drunkenly pissed.
Fuck this.
Why am I so worried about her when she’s half the reason I’ve had to turn my life and Elle’s upside down?
I tilt my head back, looking up at the distinctive shape the Space Needle makes against Seattle’s cloud-lit night sky.
Elle’s still up there, waiting for me.
