Taking an Uber home

You open the text thread with Darcy's number and type quickly, thumbs moving across the screen with the practiced ease of someone who's sent a thousand polite rejection emails—just never from this side of the equation.

Hi Darcy! So sorry for the delayed response—I've been out and about today. I really appreciate your interest, but another opportunity has come up that I've decided to pursue. Thank you so much for reaching out, and I wish you the best finding someone for the position!

You read it back. Professional. Warm. Not too apologetic. You hit send.

That felt weirdly like breaking up with someone. Breaking up with a coffee shop.

The reply comes in under a minute.

No worries at all Riley! Glad you found something. If things change, door's always open. Good luck! ☕

You close the thread with a small exhale. One door closed, another cracked open. The book sits on the table in front of you, chapter six on color theory still waiting, and you feel a quiet certainty settling in your chest. Friday. Nine AM. Petal & Thread.

You'll have a job by the time the credit card bill comes due. You will.

Now you just need to get home. Your feet have recovered somewhat in the library's air-conditioned comfort, but the prospect of another fifty-minute heel march back to the estate makes your stomach clench. You open the Uber app.

The loading screen spins. And spins. The map of Larkspur Hollow appears—a sparse grid of roads, the estate marked as a pin far outside the town center. Your pickup location shows as the library. The nearest available driver is...

Twenty-two minutes away. Estimated fare: $18.40.

Eighteen dollars. Out of forty-three in the bank. That's almost half.

You wince but tap REQUEST. The app confirms—a driver named Priya is en route in a silver Honda Civic. You gather your things, sliding Margot's book back into the handbag, and stand. Your feet protest immediately, the pumps feeling like instruments of torture after two hours of blessed relief.

You limp toward the exit, heels clicking on the library tile, and push through the glass door into the afternoon warmth. The sidewalk is busier now—a few more people moving between shops, the lunch rush still lingering. You find a bench near the library entrance and sit, crossing your ankles, checking the app. Priya is seventeen minutes out.

Your phone buzzes. A text from Chloe.

OMG riley guess what we found the CUTEST vintage shop in barcelona. mom bought me the most insane dress. like. INSANE. also hows the house?? are you bored to death yet lol

You stare at the message, the cursor blinking in the reply field. Behind you, through the library window, you can see your reflection—sleek chignon, crimson lips, pencil skirt, the whole production. Chloe has no idea. None.

The house is great. Really quiet. Lots of time to read and stuff.

You send it before you can overthink it. Vague enough to be true.

The Honda pulls up eleven minutes later. The driver—a woman in her thirties with dark hair pulled back, a phone mount on her dashboard—leans across the passenger seat.

"Riley?"

"That's me."

She nods, and you slide into the back seat, the pencil skirt riding up as you tuck yourself in. The leather seat is cool against your stockinged thighs. You buckle up, handbag in your lap, and watch Main Street recede through the window as Priya pulls away.

"The Ellison place, right?" she asks, glancing in the rearview. "Beautiful house. I did a delivery there once—pool chemicals, I think."

"Yeah, it's... something."

The ride is quiet. You watch the countryside slide past—oaks, fencing, the road you walked this morning now passing in comfortable reverse. Your calves thank you silently. The fare ticks up on the app: $18.40.

When Priya drops you at the estate gate, you tip her two dollars from your remaining cash—$5 left in your wallet now—and step out onto the gravel. The mansion rises before you, gleaming white in the afternoon sun. HAVEN senses your approach and the gate swings open.

"Welcome home, Chloe. Your afternoon is clear. Shall I prepare tea?"

You walk up the drive, heels finding gravel with less confidence than asphalt, and realize you're exhausted. Not just physically—though your feet are wrecked—but in that particular way that comes from spending an entire day performing a role you're still learning to inhabit.

But you have a book to read. A trial shift on Friday. And somewhere in Barcelona, your cousin is buying dresses she'd approve of you wearing.