Gold Digger – Story 8 – THE WORST POSSIBLE ADDRESS

Okay.

So apparently a woman can spend seven stories building a strategic life plan and still accidentally give an Uber driver the worst possible address at 12:34 in the morning.

I learned that Thursday.

Against my will.

Thursday was dinner with Richard.

Which was excellent. Second dinner, same restaurant, same car, same Richard – attentive and unhurried and saying things I hadn’t prepared responses for. He remembered I don’t drink white wine. I hadn’t told him that. I mentioned it once, three weeks ago, in a conversation about something else entirely.

He remembered.

I filed it under concerning and ate my sea bass and tried very hard to be a woman running an operation rather than a woman having dinner with someone she was starting to genuinely look forward to seeing.

I mostly succeeded.

Afterward there were drinks with Sara and Zoya at the wine bar on Clements Street. Sara had gotten a babysitter. Zoya was already there when we arrived, already on her second glass, already wanting to know everything.

I told them about Richard.

Zoya listened with her whole body, which is how Zoya listens.

Sara smiled the smile she uses when she’s pleased but trying not to influence me.

Then Zoya said: okay but are you actually starting to like him.

And I said: I’m running an operation.

And she said: that’s not what I asked.

And I said: another round?

We had another round.

Then another.

Then it was midnight and Sara had to get back and Zoya was texting the musician and I was standing on the pavement outside flagging an Uber like a woman who had her evening completely under control.

I opened the app.

I typed the address.

I got in the car.

I noticed something was wrong at the third traffic light.

Not the address – I hadn’t looked at that again. Just a feeling. The specific feeling of a route that is familiar in a way your body registers before your brain does.

I looked at the app.

I looked at the destination.

I looked at the app again.

The car pulled up outside D’s building at 12:34am.

The driver didn’t say anything. He had the energy of a man who had seen things in this job and had made peace with all of them.

I looked at the building.

The building looked back.

I got out of the car.

I told myself I was just going to stand there for a second. Get some air. Recalibrate. Then I’d order another Uber and go home and open the spreadsheet and none of this would be data I had to account for.

Then I was at his door.

I don’t remember deciding to walk there.

That’s not me being dramatic.

I genuinely don’t.

One moment I was standing on the pavement making sensible plans. The next I was halfway up the stairs carrying information about myself I had not previously authorized.

The key was in my hand before I’d decided to take it out.

It was in the lock before I’d decided to use it.

The door opened.

From the inside.

D stood there in a t-shirt and sweatpants looking at me with the expression of a man who has just found a raccoon attempting to break into his apartment.

He said one word.

“Mila.”

Not surprised enough.

Which felt unfair, considering I was currently doing all the panicking.

I still haven’t decided what to do about the fact that the door opened before I’d finished turning the key.

He was already there.

He’s always already there.

Spreadsheet status:

Richard → dinner two: excellent. he remembered the wine. filed under: dangerous.

Noah → pending. irrelevant right now.

D → [row does not exist]

I gave the driver his address. I’m not discussing how. The key was in the lock when the door opened from the inside. I’m not discussing that either. – Mila