Trevor was actually at the bar I dropped my Vegas friends at, so it was a quick pickup and turnaround.
He was standing awkwardly on the corner, avidly staring at his phone under curly auburn hair and glasses that were a year or two overdue to be replaced. I figured he was my guy, but he wouldn’t look up and come to the car, so I finally got to the curb behind the other taxis and rides and yelled out the window for him.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought that was you, but didn’t want to say anything if it wasn’t,” he stuttered out while looking at the ground to fully establish his discomfort with me. He wasn’t the type who fit in with the notorious bachelor and college bar vibe of the bar scene, but there he was.
As we drove, I made small talk as I always do and his responses were often short, he laughed a little too loud at my jokes and stories, and he never looked at me when he talked. Regardless, he was pleasant and nice and we had a relatively quick ride to his house.
Just as I pulled up to the indicated St. Paul duplex, I said my regular “thanks and goodnight” when he paused with the door open, looked up, talked directly TO me for the first time and said “Sorry I was kind of shocked by you, I just didn’t know that pretty girls drove rideshares. Thank you for your friendship.” And then, as if realizing the fleeting moment of openness and honesty he had just exposed himself to, he whisked himself out of the car and speedwalked up to his front door.