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It was windy near the East River, and the buildings of the Financial District twinkled like a distant dream across the black water. I started to feel that last drink, the warmth concentrating in my cheeks, and decided to order an Uber. The estimated price for a ride home to the East Village, with a convenient surge for the pool option, no less, was thirty-one dollars, equivalent to an entrée and margarita, excluding tip, at a dive Mexican place in Union Square that Etta and I liked. I made my selection and sat on the curb, staring at my phone, willing Pyotr to arrive faster so I could fold myself into the backseat of his red Toyota Camry, suffocated by the artificial smell of a pine-scented air freshener, and drive off into the night with three other passengers desperate enough to share a car with complete strangers.

From behind, a door opened and shut. "Where are you?" a voice asked. It was Archer. "Okay, yeah, yeah, I see you. Thanks," he said into his phone.

The app claimed Pyotr was four minutes away, but he wasn't moving. The car looked like it was spinning in circles. It was after midnight and there was definitely no traffic, so what was taking so long? I tried calling, but his words were warbled by static, drowned out by a thumping bass.

"Hello?" I said, pressing the phone to my ear and marching down the block. "Hello? Hey, hi? Hi? Are you there?" A click, then nothing. The line went dead. "Dammit."

"Where are you headed?" I heard Archer ask.

I kept walking, holding my hair back against the breeze, willing the car icon on my screen to move.

"Where are you headed?" Archer repeated, closer now.

I spun around. He was speaking to me. "Um, the East Village."

"Hmm." He diverted his eyes to a black town car across the street. "Well, my driver is over there," he said, pointing toward it. "Want a ride?"

I recognized the town car, driven by Paul, their family driver; it made sense, then, why Etta had not asked him to take us to Brooklyn earlier. He had been reporting to Archer for the evening.

On the app, a notification appeared: Pyotr and his caravan of strangers were a minute away, but Archer had offered me a lift to Manhattan for free.

I hesitated. "Are you sure?"

"I mean, I'm offering."

"It's not out of your way or anything?"

"Positive," he said. "I'm already going to Chelsea." I glanced at my phone again, and then up at Archer. "Now or never," he said.

"Okay," I said, "thank you," and canceled the Uber. The five-dollar cancellation fee was nothing in comparison to the full price.

I followed Archer to the car, where he opened the back door, gesturing for me to go first before dipping in after me. He said hello to Paul, who eyed us in the rearview mirror. In all the years he'd chauffeured me and Etta, I'd never once heard him speak.

It was silent as we pulsed over the cobblestone and turned onto a main street. Archer asked Paul if he could put on the radio, and moments later, Van Morrison's voice murmured through the speakers. Archer drummed his fingers on the windowsill, humming along.

We crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and I was holding my breath now, when Archer asked, "So where do I know you from again?"

Before I could think about it too much, I said, "Why? You regret giving a ride to a perfect stranger?"

He laughed. "You're not a perfect stranger."

"Etta and I went to NYU together." He was still squinting, though, as if struggling to identify a mysterious artifact. "I was actually at one of your shows."

 

"I've had a lot of shows," he said, and I felt my face flush.

"Right. Well, this was like, a few years ago, I want to say." In fact, it was exactly three years ago, but I didn't need him to think I knew this. "Out in, I think it was East Hampton?"

He shut his eyes and snapped his fingers. "That's it," he said. "I knew you looked familiar. You're Etta's sidekick."

"Guilty," I said.

"You were at the party after, at the house."

I nodded, practically beaming, then tried to act as if the resurgence of these memories was entirely insignificant to me. Sure, he had probably forgotten the other times, but they were minor run-ins. The most we'd ever interacted, up until now, was at that party, when I'd congratulated him on the show and he asked, "Are you having fun?" and I told him I was, because what other answer could I have offered? People didn't ask if you were having fun if they anticipated you might say something like, "No, I'm bored," or "Not anymore." Being friends with Etta, I'd gathered that sometimes, lying could be an expression of gratitude.