Night Drives
The memorial was on a numbered street nobody in their right mind ever went to unless they were buying counterfeit sunglasses, trying to find parking court, or making one specific kind of mistake.
Penelope found parking immediately.
That was the first bad sign.
The building itself looked like nothing. Iron door. Wood facade. Early-gentrification bones. The iron door was caught on the latch — not open exactly, just yielded a little when she pushed, enough to let you know you were in the right place if you were the kind of person who had been texted look for the weird metal door, don’t panic by Abby at eleven-thirty the night before.
Jack rolled up beside her, both hands on the wheels, dark shirt, hair neat in that way that always made her think he’d put exactly the right amount of effort into looking like he hadn’t.
“This feels encouraging,” he said.
“It feels like a kidnapping venue.”
“Abby did book it.”
“That’s true.”
Penelope pushed the door all the way open.
And then the whole place shut her up.
The courtyard was all light and green and ruinously beautiful, wisteria hanging in pale unruly drifts overhead, vines gone full fever dream around old brick, wood tables pushed back for rows of chairs facing a projector screen. No steps. Not one. Just this lush hidden garden in the middle of the city like somebody had opened the wrong door and found spring behind it.
Penelope stood there for a beat.
Then, because there was no other honest response, “Fucking Abby.”
Jack looked around, then at her. “Yeah.”
