Page 31 of Her Sloth

My mouth drops open as she maneuvers the Eleanor through the tight spot and squeezes herself through the smallest possible window between the sidewalk and the crossing truck without a single fucking scratch and drives off.

It takes me too long to get past a truck, and she reaches the third traffic light long before me.

She beat me again, by doing the impossible.

She waits for me at the red light.

“You’re fucking insane,” I say and laugh.

She grins.

“Comes as a default setting,” she says cheerfully.

“Apparently,” I say. Somewhere in the distance, sirens draw closer. “Let’s get lost,” I say as the light turns green and we launch off. I use my NOS on purpose, so I get in front of her.

The entire way back to Red Hook, we play a game of overturning each other. We race across the Brooklyn Bridge, and when we’re back in Red Hook, we both drift around several corners. I try to copy what she does, but even though I try, her move is so exceptional that I can’t get my girl to do it.

She comes to a halt at the empty lot at Ferris Street.

I stop next to her, get out, and open the gate. We drive inside and park the cars close to the water.

“You gotta tell me how you do it,” I say when I get out. “That corner thing.”

She laughs.

“Prepare to crash fifty cars into house walls before you will be able to make that heavy girl do it.”

“She is not that heavy,” I say definitely.

“Oh, she is,” she says and slaps my girl’s quarter panel. “But we love a heavy girl here.”

I can’t stop the grin cracking onto my face.

“So since when do you drive?” I ask.

“Since forever,” she says. “When I got to L.A., it kind of saved me from myself. Luke and Tommy, who you kindly called,” she adds with a strange emphasis while she sits down on the Eleanor’s hood. “They took me under their wings.”

“You worked for them?”

“Worked,” she says with a light scoff. “I made them the most money. The green snake Tommy still drives? That was me.”

“Why even bother becoming famous then?”

She scoffs even heavier and looks away, staring into the illuminated night above the water.

“You must know who he was,” she says. “His way and nothing else. The famous actress was just about okay to him; otherwise, he would have never allowed me to leave.”

My stomach turns slightly as she mentions the man who abused the love of my life in ways I can’t even think about without getting sick.

I don’t know what to say. I am not someone of big words. I act and think later. I don’t talk feelings. Or things. And I don’t know how to talk to someone who just tried to end her life.

“She never said much,” I say. “I only knew when she—“ I break off. Talking about a dead sister with someone who is already emotionally imploding is fucking stupid.

“Me too,” she says silently. “If I knew—“ she stops herself, twitches slightly with her head. “She was always his princess, I never thought he’d—he hated me. I was never good enough⁠—“

I swallow so hard it hurts in my throat.

“Did he ever—?” I begin to ask but let it trail off. Who am I to ask her anything like this?