Page 3 of Selfish Suit

IVY

This is exactly what I get for dropping out of college…

I can literally envision some screenwriter in Los Angeles penning a character sheet that mirrors my life at this very moment.

Fade In—New York City traffic jam:Foolish girl sits in banged-up Honda Civic with UberEats order in passenger seat. She’s dropped out of college to start her own business, but it was far too early; now she can’t afford to return to take the final courses.

Then again, the writer would probably scratch most of that out once he realized that no character deserves to be that dumb…

I’m not even sure the money I’m making from UberEats is worth it anymore, since a huge chunk of it goes to the maintenance on my poor excuse of a car.

“Come on!” I bang on the steering wheel. “What the hell is causing the delay now?”

I look over at the perfectly wrapped bag from Olivier’s Trattoria and hope the customer will give me a tip despite my lateness.

The food inside smells absolutely amazing…

I mean, if he can afford to order from a place that lets the customer keep an insulation bag, there has to be light at the end of the tunnel for me.

As I inch forward, my phone buzzes in my lap.

Customer (D.S.)

This order was scheduled for 7:00.

Is there a reason why you’re fifteen minutes late?

Seriously?I ignore it.

All he has to do is look at my location and see that I’m in traffic.

He could also look out his window and see that the entire city is suffering under a sudden rainstorm.

Rain is pounding against the windshield in sheets, and the wipers are squeaking across the glass with weariness.

Traffic continues to crawl, and I turn on the radio, but the app buzzes again.

Customer (D.S.)

Now you’re twenty minutes late.

Thank you so much for this obvious information.

I’m adjusting your tip for every minute you’re late.

I hold back a scream.

If I didn’t need the eighteen dollars from this drive, I would eat his food and go home.

By the time I make it to the light that’s around the corner from the destination address, there are more messages from the impatient bastard.

Customer (D.S.)

What’s the point of you agreeing to deliver on time when you know it won’t happen?

Should I assume you’ve eaten my food at this point?

Ignoring him, I double-park behind a tinted Escalade, grab the tote, and sprint the block and a half to the building entrance—hood up, shoes slipping, wine bag threatening to split down the middle.

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