30. Michael in jail

"Have to keep gas in the car if you want it to drive, baby girl," Michael admonished as I clambered into his ride when he came to get me.

I laughed, feeling stupid. "I said I'm sorry, okay? I've been so busy—"

"No worries. I'll come get it tomorrow. Right now, there’s somewhere I need to be and I'm late as shit."

Michael all but stomped on the gas pedal, weaving through the heavy traffic. It was that time of the evening when everyone was wearily leaving their jobs and impatient to get home. The air thick with carbon dioxide emanating from mufflers, car horns honking inharmoniously, people jaywalking, bikers squeezing through tight spaces, justifying the name for this time of the evening: rush hour.

I wisely buckled up, because if Michael was in a hurry, he was about to navigate his way out of this chaos by hook or by crook. "You could’ve told me you were busy, you know,” I said, bracing back in the seat. “I could've called Julia."

"Cause you're like my little sister. Can't say no to y