Work Me Up

Grabbing a purse to match my shoes, I hurry back into the living room and unplug my phone, opening my usual rideshare app. My parents’ place is up in the Hills, usually a twenty minute ride from me on a good day—which I’m praying it will be today.

Please no traffic, please no traffic…

But as the app finishes loading, I stare at it, my stomach sinking. No available cars in your area…

Damn it. That’s worse than traffic. Biting my lower lip, I glance up at the clock. The party has already started. There’s no public transit between my place and my parents’. Think, Selena, think.

The Samsons. The idea arrives like a gasp of fresh air to a drowning woman. Of course. A couple of my parents’ oldest friends and colleagues, the Samsons, live a five minute walk down the road from me—something that made my parents feel a lot better about my choice of apartment when I told them earlier this year that I’d be moving out to live on my own, in spite of their misgivings—and a few of my own, to be honest.

They’ll be going to the party for sure. And Mrs. Samson is notoriously slow at getting ready. I’d bet anything they haven’t left yet.

I tap open their number on my phone as I step out of my apartment and lock the door behind me. “Come on, come on, pick up,” I whisper as it rings. And rings. And rings.

Shit. Just when I’m about ready to hang up and try another ride share app—or maybe even biting the bullet and try to call a cab company, though god knows how long that would take to get here—someone picks up.

“Samson residence.”

“Mrs. Samson?” My voice goes high and breathy with relief. “It’s Selena.”

“Selena, honey, how are you? Listen, I can’t talk just now because—”

“You’re going to the party, right?” I interrupt. “Any chance I could bum a ride?”

“Oh!” There’s a pause on the other end. “Oh, of course, honey, I didn’t even think of that. No problem at all. I was just about to pull out. Should I pick you up at your flat?”

The Samsons had moved out to LA from England almost thirty years ago now, but Mrs. Samson never did stop saying flat. “That would be great. Thank you so much—you’re a lifesaver!”

We disconnect, and I hurry down my apartment staircase to meet her outside the lobby entrance. Luckily, I must have actually caught them post Mrs. Samson’s getting ready, because the car pulls up in just under two minutes, with Mrs. Samson at the wheel.

“No Mr. Samson tonight?” I ask as I slide into the passenger seat, after a glance into the back. I pull the seat belt out and snap it into place, tugging twice to make sure it’s secure.

Then, as subtly as I can force myself to do it, I wrap both hands around the belt, near my chest area, and cling to it like a lifeline. The car engine starts up, and my adrenaline sparks along with it. But I try my best to breathe through it. To ignore the sensation, the fear that always kicks up in my chest in these situations.

It’s fine. You’re fine. You know Mrs. Samson. You know she’s a good driver. It will be all right.

Still, I can’t help tensing as we pull away from the curb.

“He’s already there,” Mrs. Samson is saying as she steers us off my smaller side road and onto one of the highways that leads out into the Hills where my parents live. “Most of the boys just drove up to your parents’ place straight after they finished in the office today. It’s just us girls dawdling behind.” Mrs. Samson glances over at me, and only just now seems to notice the way I’m white-knuckling the seat belt. “Everything all right, Selena?”

“Fine, totally fine, absolutely,” I manage through tightly gritted teeth, even as my brain yells at my mouth to stop after one word. My explanation only sounds weaker the longer it goes on.

As an excuse, or hopefully just a distraction, I pick up my phone and tap it open to squint at it. Another new text from Mom.

ETA?

“When should we be getting there?” I ask, and I’m proud that I manage to keep my voice mostly level this time.

Mrs. Samson side-eyes me for another minute, but at least she doesn’t pry. I do notice her lips purse for a moment, however, before she responds. “Hmm, GPS is saying in about thirty minutes. Must be a little traffic up ahead.”

“Oh. Okay. I just… my mom is texting me, that’s all.” I force a lighthearted laugh and shove my phone back into my pocket. “You know how she gets with these events, wants everything to go exactly according to the plan.”

“Mm.” Mrs. Samson bobs her head. “Well, feel free to let her know we’re on our way.”