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“Ugh,” says Marissa. “I’m gonna regret this, but. Cancel your ride.”
“What ride?” Maia shoots back. She isn’t lying. (For once.) She really is waiting until Marissa’s car is a dot on the horizon before she even dares to order a consolation car for herself.
“For fuck’s sake, Maia. I don’t bite. Usually.” Marissa turns away, steps out into the rain, flicks one wrist in a c’mon gesture. “If your Uber rating is anything like it was back in Chicago, I know you’re gonna be waiting for a while.”
(Or: five years after that kiss goodbye, Marissa and Maia are now in the same place at the same time again, both armed with more ulterior motives than they can count.)
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