Backseat Confession

So there I was, parked behind the old laundromat on Delancey, at nine on a Thursday night, cursing as if I had just lost a bet with my own car. I'm Joel, twenty-eight, and I drive rideshare nights because days at the warehouse were killing my knees. The guy before this, some finance type, thirty-something and three sheets past drunk, had puked all over my backseat right as I pulled up to his building. No tip, either. Just a muttered "my bad" and a door slam.

I had a rag in one hand and a bottle of cleaner in the other, wiping vodka and whatever else off the upholstery, when I heard a shuffle behind the dumpster.

I froze. City rules, you don't go poking around dark alleys. But the shuffle came again, and then I heard sniffing. Not animal sniffing. A person crying.

"Hello?" I called out. "You okay back there?"

Silence. Then a voice, small and wrecked. "I'm fine. Please just... ignore me. I'm being pathetic."

"That's not really an option, man. I'm standing here with a vomit rag. You've got my full attention."

A laugh came out of him, wet and surprised. Then he stepped around the edge of the dumpster, and I got my first look at Angelo.

He looked about twenty-six, maybe a little younger, and he looked like a night that had gone very wrong. His shirt was nice, the kind with actual buttons, but the mascara he had on was smeared down one cheek in black streaks. He was clutching a plastic convenience store bag against his chest like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His eyes were red. His whole posture said please don't look at me, and of course that made me look.

"Oh, buddy," I said. "Come here. You want to sit down? I've got a car. It smells like regret, but it's got air conditioning."

He hesitated, then walked over, heels clicking on the asphalt. Yes, heels. He walked in them beautifully, even while crying, which told me he'd clearly worn them before.

"I can't believe someone's being nice to me right now," he said, sliding into the passenger seat because the back was a disaster zone. "You're not gonna rob me?"

"Do I look like a robber? I look like a guy who cleans puke for a living tonight."

That got a real laugh out of him. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and smeared more mascara, then gave up on it. "I'm Angelo, by the way. My date just dumped me. In front of everyone. At Kari's."

"Kari's on Fifth? That place is loud."

"He wanted it loud. He wanted people to hear it." Angelo hugged the bag tighter. "This was the whole point of the date, sorta. I told him online I liked to dress up. I showed him pictures. He said he was into it. Then we get there and I hand him this bag to take to the car while I go to the bathroom, and when I come out he's standing there with it open and he just... started laughing. Said he was doing me a favor. Said seeing it in person made him feel sick."

"What's in the bag?" I asked, and immediately felt like an ass. "Sorry. You don't have to..."

"No, it's okay. It's just clothes." He peeked in, and I peeked too, because I'm only human. Black lace. A bralette, delicate looking, and a pair of thigh-highs with a little bow at the top. My pulse did something quick and dumb that I wasn't expecting. I looked away fast, but not fast enough to miss the note tucked in the bag, a bar napkin with writing on it.

"There's a napkin in there," I said. "Your date leave you a love letter?"

Angelo went white. "Can you hand me that? Don't read it, please, it's embarrassing."

I handed it over, careful not to look, but I'd already seen the edge of the napkin with a few words about wanting to be wanted. His handwriting was shaky. It looked like a wish somebody had written down and then hated writing down.

Angelo crumpled it into his fist. "He made me read it out loud to him. Before the laughing started. He said if I admitted how bad I wanted it, maybe he'd stay." His voice cracked. "God, why am I telling you all this? You're a stranger with a cleaning rag."

"I'm a stranger with a car and nowhere to be," I said. "Look, let me drive you home. On the house. My night's already ruined, might as well be useful."

"Really? You'd do that?"

"Really. Where do you live?"

He gave me a street out past the marina, and I was actually reaching for the keys when he stopped me.

"Wait. Um. This is going to sound insane." He was staring at the bag, thumb moving over the lace edge peeking out. "Could we... could I change first? Before you drive me?"

"Change into what, the stuff in the bag?"

"Yeah." His face was burning, I could see it even in the dim light. "I know how it sounds. It's just, I bought this for tonight. I did my face, I picked the shoes, and he took all of it away from me in like ten seconds. If I go home now it goes back in a drawer and maybe I never take it out again. That happens. That's what happens every time." He swallowed. "You don't have to. Seriously. You can just drive and I'll sit here in my sad little button shirt."

I sat with that for a second. Here's what I knew about myself at that moment: I was single by choice, I'd dated a bit at twenty-three and it ended friendly, and I had never once felt my pulse jump at a glimpse of black lace in a stranger's grocery bag until tonight. Something was happening in my chest and I didn't have a name for it yet.

"You can change in the backseat," I said. "Seat's clean-ish, I did my best. I'll keep my eyes forward. Or..." I stopped, because I wanted to say the next part right. "Honestly I don't mind if I look. But you say the word and I'm facing the windshield, done."

Angelo stared at me. "You'd look?"

"If you want me to."

"Why?" It wasn't defensive. It was genuine, like he was asking a math question. "You saw my face. I'm a mess."

"You walked across this alley in heels like it was a runway. Mess or not, that's not nothing."

He made a small sound, half laugh half sob. "Okay. Okay, yeah. I want you to look. Is that... God, I haven't said that out loud to anyone who wasn't being cruel about it."

"Then get back there before I change my mind about being brave," I said, and he scrambled over the console into the back, all elbows and nerves and one heel flying off and landing in the front footwell. I reached back and handed it to him like a good caddy, and he thanked me twice.

I reached up and adjusted the rearview, angling it so I could see him clearly, and I won't lie, my hands were a little unsteady on it. He kept the dome light off, so it was just the flickering streetlamp through the windows, shadow and orange and shadow again.

He pulled his shirt off first, slow, and I watched his bare back in the mirror. Then he