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CASSIE

“Aaaaand here we are! Have a great rest of your day, and if you can please give me a good ra—”

My back door swung open with a loud screech; I didn't need to turn around to recognize the sound of someone hurling the entire contents of their stomach. My face scrunched up with disgust before reaching above my head to gather a handful of napkins from the dispenser clipped onto my sun visor. I always kept extra on hand for rides like these, but lately, it’s been happening more frequently. I bent my arm backward until my hand was shoved in the poor guy's face.

From the rearview mirror Joseph— the 42-year-old tech bro sitting in my backseat was turning different shades of muted green. I had wondered why he went silent midway through the drive when he seemed so invested in our conversation about artificial intelligence. Initially, when we first met almost 25 minutes ago, he barely spoke a word to me–only mumbling away to someone on the other line of his raised phone.

I watched as he spent the first five minutes staring out the window in a dazed distance, only spitting words out every other minute. To him, anyone could have been driving, he didn't care who was behind the wheel. He just wanted to get to his destination.

His tie was loose, barely hanging around his clearly sunburnt neck and the growing shadow on the lower half of his face showed he hadn’t seen a razor in days. It was obvious he was tired and already over the day, my eyes glanced at the clock, we were just barely creeping up at 5 am.

But this wasn’t uncommon for Chicago, the city ran off the energy of early risers. The tall skyscrapers and endless buildings were filled with people just like him. Hard working corporate climbing freaks. I wasn't one of them, but I could appreciate the fact that they were the main ones who paid my bills.

I was Chicago's number one rideshare driver from 12 am to 6 am all week long.

Some days I took the city's elites from one location to the next with no break in between, while other days I drove around broke teens that were using their parents' cards without them knowing. I didn't care though, if I never got involved in their personal lives I was down for the ride.

Or really, I should say… the money.

No, it wasn't much. I was making anywhere from $7 - $15 per ride, and even that was a stretch. At first, the money was okay; I was doing around 10 rides a day and was consistently bringing home $3-$6 tips.

Over time though, things got hectic quickly, from la-e night riders refusing to leave my car to Only Fans influencers trying to film content in my backseat. Every time I had an altercation or bad interaction with someone my ratings dropped. In my first year, I went from 4.9 to a 3.5, and if I went any lower, I would be shit-out-of-luck with trying to get the higher-priced rides. Those were reserved for drivers with a 3.0 rating or higher. As of right now, I was still in the green, but that was mainly because I cut half of the city out of my driving zone.

Even with its downsides, I still love my job. I can’t complain about much, it’s the most carefree job I’ve ever had. I have the freedom to create my schedule, technically make as much money as I want, and the best part is that I’m my own boss.

There were no crazy micromanaging people peeking over my shoulder trying to nitpick my every move. I had full control. No matter what anyone said this was my car, even if I technically was four months behind on my car payments… it was my wheels—my rules.

Plus, the job had its perks, besides of course owning your own business. I got to eavesdrop and spy on strangers' lives. With almost three years of experience in the game, I was a self-proclaimed Illinois state champion at reading people. Just based on a five-minute ride, I could tell if you were a local, what tax bracket you were in, and if you were single.

That may seem pretty standard and not that impressive, but that’s how much I could figure out when the ride was silent.

Joseph was one of my favorite types of customers, the quiet, moody yet rich type. It wasn't about the money or that they tipped extremely well. Truthfully, the number of times I have picked someone up when they’ve just gotten off work at a fast-food chain, and they tipped me more than ones wearing Rolex watches was insane.

He was my favorite because he was harder to read, or maybe it was that he was trying so hard not to be read. He looked relaxed and frustrated all at the same time, cheeks glued to his phone while he typed away at another in his other hand.

Busy guy—was the first thing I thought when I picked him up from the airport. A flight this early in the morning and two phones consistently getting notifications only meant serious business.

“Yeah, the convention was in Seattle, but it ended early, it was supposed to go on another seven days.” His voice rose higher, but it was still resigned.

I could hear someone mumbling on the other line, but I couldn't make out any words. Quickly, my eyes glanced at my speaker that was starting to play the intro of Shake it Off . I cringed as I reached to turn it down but hesitated when I realized how obvious it would be. I had already turned it down low and switched to the radio, as soon as he stepped in my car and didn’t seem too fond of hearing Chappell Roan blaring through my speakers. Especially not when the sun was just barely peeking through the clouds.

“Okay. Well, I’ll let you know what the Misses thinks about it, and we can do some type of get together with the kids.”

My brows grew tight. His profile picture was blurry, but I remember it being a family photo.

There was a sudden silence when he finally ended the call. You could hear Taylor Swift’s voice more clearly and it only added to the awkwardness.

“Soo—”

There it is. The start of every never-ending one-sided conversation with a male. They could spend hours ignoring your existence but as soon as they want to talk, women had to be ready and willing to listen with their lips glued shut.

Oh, the tale is as old as time.

“—Are you some kind of nail artist or something?” He questioned me with raised brows.

My eyes squinted. I wanted to scoff at just how quickly he tried to read me based on my looks. Yes, I know I was currently doing the same exact thing, judging his appearance and guessing who he could be. But the difference was apparent, I didn't have the audacity to say it to his face. Maybe it was the difference in morals that money couldn't buy.

My eyes trailed downward before landing on my eclectic set of watercolor nails. They were junky with 3d beads and charms of different styles and prints but they all ended up looking like one cohesive set. I never said he was wrong, but I dabbled in all forms of art, from pottery to poetry. Nails were just one of my many hobbies.

“Nope but thank you for thinking that,” I replied in a more chipper tone than usual, but that was how I killed men with kindness. I never let them see me falter, if I did, I would be giving them every ounce of satisfaction they were seeking.

If there was ever an awkward or rough conversation that I was a part of, then just know it was never because of me. If there was one thing I knew how to do, it was how to hold a conversation.

Growing up, my parents never had to worry about me making friends or becoming shy. I was always the loudest in the room. On the contrary they feared how many times I was called in for disrupting the class.

When I didn't give him the opening he craved to diminish my self-worth, he pivoted to mansplaining his own career. Forcing me to play dumb as he began breaking down what the future of AI meant for people “ like me.”

Which brings us all the way back to now, his bright red hands gripping the door frame of my old Subaru Forester, as his head jerked forward pushing him into his second round of throwing up.

It wasn't my fault I knew a quicker route to his destination, that just so happened to take you through the worst part of construction in Chicago. Potholes sent my already barely running car rocking back and forth. I sped and swerved avoiding the ones that I could, only making my wheels lift off the ground as we tried to gain our balance.

Don’t ask me how I knew that most tech geeks had the weakest stomachs, and that motion sickness was their biggest enemy. But it was just another one of my special talents.

“You’re fucking psycho, you know that?” His face raised to finally look at me, but I stayed stoic, staring out my window as I felt the small smirk grow on my face.

When I didn’t respond, his scratchy voice raised as he continued, “You can't just drive however you want!”

Something in my washed-out two-toned bleached head made me turn around with one hand still on the steering wheel. This time though, I was full-on smiling, not even trying to hide the twinkle in my eyes.

“Yeah, and you probably shouldn't be getting home to your wife at almost 5 am, seven days after your work convention ended right?”

His once pale green face turned ghostly white.

“Yeah, we wouldn’t want her finding out about that tan you got in…. Seattle...?”

Both of our brows raised, his in pure shock and disgust while mine shot up in absolute satisfaction. I hadn't had a win like this since I called out a customer for their passively racist comments, and that was almost a year ago.

Without another word I watched him gather his belongings within seconds before slamming my door shut and proceeding to walk down the cobblestone driveway towards his Tuscany style home.

For what it’s worth, my assumptions were all correct. The almost artificially colored bright green grass sparkled under the sunlight, calling me broke before I could even get my beat-up half-filled tires off their pavement.

My car was a joke compared to their home, but at least it wasn't as broken as the family that lived in it.

A familiar voice echoed through my phone that was mounted onto my AC vent.

“This is probably why your rates keep dropping Cass.” Oliver’s voice drags into a small fit of laughter, no matter how serious he was trying to be he completely failed.

“You heard all of that?” I chuckled lightly, I forgot that I had him on speaker, he’s gotten so good at acting like he's not there that I don't even have to mute him anymore.

“I heard you read him to filth, was his face as ridiculous as I’m picturing it to be?”

My brakes screeched as I approached a red light, for a second, I tossed my head back letting out a deep breath, as satisfying as that was, I knew the repercussions would be following soon.

The light changed to green just as my phone pinged with a notification, verifying that my suspicions were true.

I was now at exactly 3 stars.

“Shit.”

This was the customer's way of silently retaliating. I knew that and understood it, because If I were in their position I’d do the same. If a stranger told me something about myself that not even my wife knew, I’d leave silently while I still could. But I wasn't in his shoes, I was in my favorite pair of iridescent cowboy boots and if I let my score drop any lower, they’d have to be one of the first things I sell to try and make rent. I was already walking on the tightrope with 3.5 stars but 3? I might as well throw the whole app away.

I mean, I guess I deserved it. I crossed the line. At the end of the day, this was still a job, and I could easily lose it all with just one wrong move.

Clearly, I’ve made one too many wrong moves, because I was at the end of my rope, and I’ve hardly ever heard of drivers gaining stars. It was almost like the customers held onto them like a prize we didn't deserve. I may not be the best example for all of us rideshare drivers but some of us worked hard, and we deserved to be rewarded and celebrated.

I always thought you had to be pretty bold to leave someone a bad rating, it's not like we didn't just drop you off at home, or your friend's house, or your mistress’.

Wherever it was we had your address across the screen of our phones for the entire ride. You couldn't screenshot or try to save anyone’s address, but what if I was crazy enough to burn the image in my memory?

I wasn’t. I’m just saying that even for someone as extroverted as I was, I didn’t have the guts to give someone less than 4 stars on just a food delivery. Especially not here, Chicago wasn’t the place for starting up problems you had no intention of finishing. Everyone here had the desire to follow through, I always said if you sparked the match, prepare for a fire.

“Cassie? Are you there?”

Oliver's concerned voice crept in, and I knew I had been quiet for too long.

“Yeah, I’m here. I guess that cheating dickwad couldn't take getting called out.”

I made a sharp turn right heading straight down the back alleyway of my apartment building. Oliver’s laughter was the only thing that made me drop the frown from my face.

His laugh was addicting, it could soothe the hardest of days and at this moment, I needed it.

It was a bellyaching, cramp-inducing laugh. I could imagine his dark brown curls bouncing around as we spoke. His eyes were probably squeezed tight, already starting to glisten with tears, because he cried at the drop of a hat.

When I finally parked the car, I immediately fell back into my seat, collapsing against my bubblegum pink seat covers. My eyes followed the beams of rainbow light that reflected across the roof of my car as my mini disco ball dangled from my rearview mirror.

This was how I coped; I didn't need to rush inside to feel relief, this right here was pure bliss.

My car was my safe space, and I decorated it in a way that showed that. For some, it was a sensory overload being in my car. When I was 21, I painted the entire dashboard green to look like grass, and when I was 23, I hand sculpted miniature mushrooms to permanently glue to it as well.

My steering wheel was covered in a furry leopard print fabric that I picked out to match my everyday fur coat perfectly. Turf lined the bottom of my cup holders. This masterpiece wasn’t done overnight, it took years to create a space as unique as mine. Yes, that sounded conceded, but I earned the right to be, the interior of my car felt like a peek into someone’s scrapbook.

It was personal, expressive, and way more vulnerable than what most people were comfortable with. That’s probably why most men hated my car while women spent the entire ride admiring it.

But living for the gaze of a male never sparked any interest in me. Since I was young when women complimented me, I could feel butterflies fill the pit of my stomach like a fifth grader getting their first Valentine. It was a heartwarming moment that always made my day, and secretly I stored those memories away for when I needed a pick-me-up.

When men even tried to speak to me, my facial expression made them turn away faster than if I’d just said “no.” It wasn’t purposeful, I just always found that when they opened their mouths it sounded like rehearsed lines coming straight from a movie.

It was as if they only had three features–to be corny, sexist, or just blatantly rude.

Although, luckily for me that didn’t happen often, I dressed too much like a woman with her own opinions to be approached often. I scared men off like how my cat scared off rats—only adding to my endless list of talents.

At least I didn’t have to worry about men wanting to follow me back home or approach me at a bar. I was my own man repellent and that thought alone helped me sleep at night.

When I finally approached my 126 square foot apartment, I still whipped my head around left and right ensuring the hallway was empty before finally slipping my key in and rushing to close the door shut behind me.

I had three locks. One was the original lock the apartment came with, but when I first moved in, I noticed the pieces of metal that held it together were not only bent up but it was also scratched as if someone was fighting for their life to get in.

I tried to silence those disturbing thoughts by ordering an attachable lock from Amazon, which helped for almost a week. That was until my neighbor Dara—a small Southeast Asian woman who's lived here for years—came running out screaming, after she’d just come home from grocery shopping and noticed her place had been ransacked. In a matter of hours, I had found a locksmith online to come replace and give us both additional locks. Ever since then, I haven’t experienced anything too out of the ordinary for our area.

*Click*

*Click*

*Click*

“You made it in?” Oliver spoke up after hearing the sound of the last lock shut.

“Yup,” I said through an exasperated breath, my fur coat was sitting at my elbows as the bottom half dragged against my wooden floors.

As I reached down to yank off my boots a small paw came from In between my legs and caught onto the sleeve of my fur coat.

“Oh, Leooo! What are you doing down there?”

All I could see was a pile of black fur, but I reached into the abyss before pulling him into my arms.

He was little but feisty, that's how he got his name, besides the fact that he is a Leo. He is the epitome of being the king of the castle. When I first recused him, he was shy and scared and his little meow was so low and squeaky you had to whisper to hear it. Today though, he spoke like he owned the place, standing tall and letting you know how he felt no matter the time of day.

“Hey, Leo!” Oliver yelled, and of course, Leo let out a long stretched-out meow in response.

“What have you been up to all day handsome bo—” As I turned around my eyes caught sight of the pile of mail that used to be stacked in the corner of my room, now spread across my floor in a huge mess.

But the immediate idea of someone breaking in was instantly erased when I saw that the parts of my wooden floor peaked through in the shape of a cat. Leo had been rolling around trying to make mail angels.

“Well, someone’s been busy.” I crouched down until my hands grabbed the first piece of mail in front of me, I must’ve missed it because of the bright red strip across it that said “urgent.”

Slowly, I placed Leo over my shoulder to free my hands so I could open and unfold the letter with ease.

My eyes scanned the page in silence, only speeding up as each word started registering one after another.

“What the fuck?” I muttered; I was at a loss for words.

I could hear Oliver rustling around as my eyes grew into the size of saucers.

“What? What is it?” He always spoke low and rushed when he was panicking.

“I-It’s from the court; I think I’m being sued for that car accident.” My voice cracks, nerves already building up at just mentioning the accident.

“I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

He heard what I had said, he was just appalled that the words were falling from my lips. Still, I repeated myself, and the silence that fell after was almost deafening.

“Cassie, you realize you shouldn’t even be alive after that accident.”

His tone was firm and adamant as if we’d never discussed it before.

“I know—”

“No, it's been three months, and now all of a sudden they want to take you to court?”

A deep sigh escapes my lungs as I drop my face into the palms of my hands. I could hear the paper crinkling between my fingers.

“I mean, that’s kind of how that works Oli, they probably waited until I was out of the hospital before sending me the paperwork.”

Raising my head, I glanced down at the words again, just hoping they’d just suddenly disappear.

“Yeah, but that's bullshit, Cassie. I mean, how could they even prove it was your fault? There weren't even any cameras on the high—”

“Oliver, I don't know! I’m not a lawyer; I don't work in the courthouse. All I know is that this letter states that I need to be there fifteen minutes early for my arraignment hearing to inform me of the charges that are being held against me. It says verbatim that it will take place at 6:30 am on…”

My voice was cut short, the breath getting caught in my throat.

“On what?”

Oliver continued, not understanding why I stopped.

A few more moments of silence passed before a deep inhale could be heard through my speaker.

“When do you need to be there, Cassie?”