Page 20 of I Hope This Finds You Well

“Nah, we’re good,” I say back, also without hesitation.

“You sure you’re okay walking home in the dark?”

As if on cue, the streetlamp above me flickers on, casting a creepy fluorescent sheen over the tar lot.

Cliff stretches himself over the passenger seat and opens the side door. “Come on, it’s no trouble.” He nods toward my grocery bags. “Anyone can see your spicy Cheetos; you’re going to get mugged.”

For the second time this evening, I find myself biting back a smile. I stare at the sidewalk ahead. Admittedly the neighborhood has been on the sketchier side after dark these days. But would getting mugged be as bad as him seeing where I live?

The interior light in his car clicks on, like a moth lamp beckoning me in, so I accept my fate. “Just so you know, I’ve been doing this route for eight years sans incident,” I say as I unload my bags into the passenger-side footwell. The tang of relief in my forearms is almost too much. “But thanks.”

The interior of the car smells about how you’d imagine. There’s a New Car Smell air freshener hanging on the rearview mirror that mustbe ironic, because I’m picking up old-dog vibes. Music is quietly filtering through the crackly speakers, but it’s instrumental and low and sends a soothing warmth into my chest.

“Sorry,” Cliff mutters. “I don’t have too many guests in here. But I think you should know that I realize how bad it is.”

“It’s nice,” I say. I don’t mean it to sound sarcastic. Because even though it’s obvious his dog spends many happy a moment in here, the vibe is still good.

“So, what’s on your docket now that groceries are sorted?” he asks.

“See, if you don’t want to sound like an undercover HR guy, you’re doing a terrible job.”

He chuckles, and we pull out of the lot. “Okay, now for the obtaining your address part of my covert operation, so I can bug your place and expose your secrets.”

“Is that an inappropriate joke?” I lower my lids at him accusingly.

He shrugs. “I thought it was funny.”

“It was,” I say evenly. “I live at Sixty-Fourth and Bow-West Road. My building’s called the Riviera.”

“Seriously?”

I nod and brace for his impending judgment. I’m not sure how many more knocks I can take today. “Yeah, the Riviera boasts interiors that haven’t been updated since the seventies, questionable stains throughout, and ambient views of public urination.”

“I meant ’cause that’s literally a block away from me.” He lifts one brow. “But they had to add the last brag once you moved in, didn’t they?”

This time I can’t catch it fast enough—a chuckle escapes me. “I didn’t think you had it in you to make a decent joke.”

“Hey, I’m off the clock too.”

His right arm is resting on the center console, and I swear I can feel the warmth of it radiating through the car’s interior. It feels cozy.

“You know the white-and-blue-trimmed building across the street? I’ve been there for like a year. I’m surprised I never see you around. Where do you normally hang out?” He nudges the air beside my arm playfully, and the world tilts. “Other than Supershops and the office, of course.”

“Oh, you know...” The liquor store, mostly. “Just around.”

His gaze briefly flickers from the road toward me as he cranks the stick shift. All the warmth that surrounded me has turned clammy.

“And like you said, you wouldn’t have recognized me.”

“True.” He nods and his gaze returns to the road. I take a steadying breath. “You don’t have a car? There aren’t any trains running out here; how do you get to work?”

“The lovely transit system.”

“Isn’t that, like, three bus transfers?”

I shrug. “We can’t all be blessed with fancy corporate parking spaces... or cars.”

“Yeah...” Cliff stiffens a little. I realize how that must’ve come off, like I was shaming him. Shit. This is why I shouldn’t speak.