Page 8 of Somewhere in the Sunset

I abruptly lift my head and angrily narrow my eyes at him before saying, very matter-of-factly, “The love of my life left me.”

Weston’s gaze remains firmly locked on mine. He allows a beat of silence to fill the air before he says, “So did mine.”

“Well then, how about some sympathy?”

He laughs harshly and shakes his head. “I don’t want to bond with you over your boyfriend dumping you, okay? That sucks for you, and I get it, but I just want to go home. How far is your apartment?”

The Uber driver catches my eye in the rearview mirror. “You guys don’t know each other?”

“No,” I say, crossing my arms and glaring sideways at Weston. Zero consolation from him. What was it his friend said to make him so pissed? Something about not treating his girlfriend right? If this is his attitude, grumpy and uncaring, then I don’t blame her for leaving him.

“Do you feel safe right now?” the driver asks me.

Weston scoffs. “What do you mean,does she feel safe?We are going home to separate apartments. I amnota predator, like you’re insinuating. I’m a police officer.”

I tilt my head at him. “The Golden State Killer was also a police officer.”

“That’s true,” the driver agrees with rapid nodding.

“She hopped intomyUber!” Weston protests, then points an accusing finger at me. “Maybe you’re the predator.”

“Unlikely,” the driver says, and Weston snaps, “Do you want me to tip you or not?”

The driver focuses back on the road, I resume my emotional breakdown, and Weston seethes with unrelenting anger. As far as Uber rides go, this is the weirdest one I’ve ever had. When we pull up outside my apartment building, I wipe my tears and step out of the car. My complex, although incredibly safe, feels strangely intimidating in the dark. I’ve never returned home this late by myself before and my anxiety spikes at the thought of walking through those doors alone without Luca waiting for me on the other side.

I poke my head back into the car. “Are you really a police officer?” I ask Weston gently.

“Yes,” he says.

“You promise?”

Weston sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I promise I am a sworn-in police officer of the San Francisco Police Department. Now what do you need?”

“Would you .?.?. Would you mind walking me to my door?” My cheeks blaze red in embarrassment as soon as I ask the question. My mind is such a jumbled mess. Life just seems so terrifying all of a sudden.

“I already feel dizzy in this car and I just want to get home. You can walk inside your own building, surely?” Weston meets my saddened gaze and, as the seconds tick by, his expression gradually softens and something changes in his dark eyes. “Okay.”

He slides over the backseat and steps out of the car, asking the Uber driver to hold on five minutes, and then walks with me to the entrance of the building. We don’t say another word to each other as I unlock the doors and he follows me to the elevator. As it climbs to the fourth floor, I realize how stupid this is.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to walk me all the way to my door. I can take it from here,” I tell him, trying both to catch his eye and avoid it at the same time. Even with my heels on, he’s so much taller than me, but so is the majority of the population.

Weston presses his lips together and leans back against the handrail. “My cop instincts are kicking in now. It’s no problem for me to walk you to your door.”

“Thank you.”

There’s a pause in the air as the elevator passes the third floor, and Weston tucks his chin to his chest, eyes locked on the ground. His shirt is still damp from all the spilled drinks.

“Sorry for being a douche in the Uber back there. And for getting you kicked out of the club,” he mumbles without looking up, and although he may be drunk, his speech is clear and concise. “I swear I’m usually much nicer. I’m just having a rough night, and I don’t mean to take it out on you. Especially when it’s your birthday.”

The elevator doors open, but neither of us moves. Our eyes meet now; mine blurred from my tears, his bloodshot from however many beers he’s consumed tonight. The corner of his mouth twitches with an attempt at an apologetic smile.

“I’ll take your word for that,” I say, my arm accidentally brushing against him as I walk out of the elevator. “That you’re usually much nicer.”

Weston laughs as he follows several steps behind me down the hallway to my apartment door. He observes me closely as I jab my keys into the lock and push open the door to reveal the darkness of my apartment. I flick on a light switch, and mine and Luca’s home lies bare before me. All of our framed photographs of us together and in love. The couch he always hated, because I wanted fabric, he wanted leather, and so we of course got the fabric. The coffee machine in the kitchen is his. I imagine he’ll take it with him when he officially moves out.

I’m never going to return home to him waiting for me anymore.

As I stand frozen by the door, Weston clears his throat.

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