- 8.
I used to be the kind of princess who wouldn’t touch takeout. For four years of college, Ethan
worked as a delivery driver after classes. His
dinner was often just the free meal provided by
the delivery company. One time, I went to see
him. He was crammed in a tiny room with other
drivers, eating rice out of a styrofoam
container. I said, “Ethan, how can you eat that?
It’s not hygienic.” His expression was strained.
“Does it matter if it’s hygienic or not?” “Come on, let’s get some steak.” I dragged him to a fancy new steakhouse, where the average meal cost over seventy dollars. He stood outside the restaurant for a long time, silently taking off his delivery uniform. After my own fall from grace, I finally understood how he felt that day. Just like today. It started to snow. The ground was slick. I fell, spilling the food. I called the customer to
<
apologize, but he just yelled at me. He said, “I
don’t want excuses. Late is late.” My scraped palms stung in the cold, but I couldn’t stop apologizing. Suddenly, Ethan appeared, righting my bike. I didn’t know how long he’d been there, watching. I instinctively hid my hands. behind my back. “Don’t hide them,” he said, his
voice hoarse, his eyes red–rimmed. “Go clean
them up.” “I need to deliver this order first.”
“Get in the car. I’ll take you.” The customer
lived on the ground floor. As I handed him the
food, he muttered, “Seriously? Dude driving a
Porsche delivering takeout?” I had another
delivery waiting. Ethan said, “Don’t.” “I have to. I
haven’t made much tonight.” “Then I’ll buy it.”
“What?” A notification pinged on my phone.
He’d placed an order, assigning it to me. “I’ll
buy your time for tonight.”
