Getting a ride home

"Actually, yeah—that'd be great. Does your mom's car have a bike rack?"

Janelle's face brightens. "Oh! Yeah, it does. She got one last summer because she was convinced she was going to start cycling. She went twice." She fishes her keys from her mustard sweater pocket, jangling them. "It's in the lot behind the shop."

Priya gives you a quick hug—brief but genuine, her blazer scratchy against your cardigan. "Tomorrow. One PM. Don't let her talk you into mustard." She jabs a finger at Janelle, then turns and heads off down Main Street, laptop bag bouncing against her hip.

Janelle leads you around the side of the building to a small parking lot. The car is a silver Honda CR-V, practical and slightly dented on the rear bumper. And there, bolted to the back—a trunk-mounted bike rack with rubberized clamps.

"See? Told you." Janelle pops the trunk first, rummaging through a gym bag and two reusable grocery totes before finding the rack's strap mechanism. "Okay, I've never actually used this. My mom showed me once but I was on my phone."

You crouch beside the Bianchi, unchaining it from the rack. "I think you hook these over the top bar and then—"

"Let me try." Janelle grabs one of the rubberized arms and positions it against the bike frame, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. The strap slips. She tries again. It slips again.

"Here—" You reach over, adjusting the angle. Your fingers brush hers on the metal arm, and she pulls back quickly, cheeks rounding with a suppressed smile.

"Sorry. Clumsy."

"You're fine. Hold that steady and I'll do the strap."

Together you manage it—Janelle holding the frame in place while you thread the strap through the buckle and cinch it tight. The Bianchi sits securely, wheels slightly off the ground, handlebars angled upward like a ship's prow.

"There," you say, stepping back. "Good as new."

Janelle opens the passenger door for you with a little flourish. "Your chariot, madam."

You slide into the seat—leather, warm from the day's sun trapped in the cabin. The interior smells faintly of vanilla air freshener and something savory, like the car has recently transported takeout. A rosary hangs from the rearview mirror, and a stack of CDs sits in the center console—mostly gospel compilations with a few pop albums slipped in between.

Janelle climbs in the driver's side, adjusts the mirror, and pulls out of the lot. The streets of Larkspur Hollow are quiet at this hour—most shops dark, a few restaurants still glowing. She drives with both hands on the wheel, ten and two, like she's still in driver's ed.

"So," she says as you turn onto the country road, streetlights giving way to darkness and fireflies. "You really biked here in a miniskirt and heels. That's, like... I couldn't do that."

"The skirt actually works better than shorts," you say, surprising yourself with how matter-of-fact it sounds. "Less compression."

Janelle glances at you sideways, then back at the road. "See, that's the kind of practical knowledge I need. I would have worn jeans and then been unable to bend my knees."

The darkness outside thickens as you leave town behind. Trees press close to the road, their canopies blocking the last of the twilight. Janelle's headlights carve a tunnel through the black.

"Your aunt's place is pretty far out, huh?" she says after a comfortable silence. "Must be kind of isolated."

"It is. But I've got the bike now, so it's less of a trek."

"That's good." She drums her fingers on the steering wheel. "I mean—if you ever need a ride, you can always text me. I'm usually free in the evenings. My mom works late most nights at the salon."

The offer hangs there, casual but deliberate. You catch the slight tension in her jaw, the way she's trying to make it sound like nothing.

The Ellison Estate gates appear in the headlights. Janelle slows, pulling up to the entrance.

"Wow," she breathes. "I knew it was big but I've never actually seen it up close. It's like a movie."

She pulls onto the gravel drive, headlights sweeping across manicured hedges. You guide her around to the side where the shed is, and she parks near the garden path.

"Here—let me help with the bike."

You unstrap the Bianchi together, the same easy coordination as before. She holds the frame while you lift it free, and when you wheel it toward the shed, she follows, peering curiously at the estate's exterior.

"You live here alone?" she asks, and there's something in her voice—not concern exactly, but a kind of protective awareness.

"Just me and the house AI," you say with a laugh. "Which sounds weirder than it is."

"A house AI? Like... a robot?"

"Like a really persistent butler who lives in the walls."

Janelle laughs, the sound warm and round. She lingers by her car, keys in hand, not quite ready to leave. The porch light clicks on automatically—HAVEN recognizing your approach—and casts a golden rectangle across the gravel.

"So tomorrow," she says. "One PM. My place. Bring your professional opinions." She grins. "And maybe wear something cute. Wren's taking before photos and I want to at least look like I tried."

"I'll see what I can do."

She waves from the driver's window as she reverses down the drive, headlights sweeping across the hedges. You stand in the porch light, the evening air cool against your bare arms, and watch until the taillights disappear around the bend.

That was nice. That was really, genuinely nice.

You wheel the Bianchi into the shed, chain it, and walk back toward the house. The block heels click on the stone path. HAVEN's voice greets you as you approach the door: "Welcome home, Miss Chloe. The evening temperature has dropped to fifty-eight degrees. Shall I prepare a warming protocol?"

"No, thank you, HAVEN."

The mansion is quiet and waiting. Your phone buzzes—a text from Priya: "janelle is texting me rn about how cool you are. you're welcome."