sour | ocean's 8

brutal

"Are your friends going to like me?" I whisper, voicing the anxiety that's been brewing inside me for our entire drive.

My hands grip the steering wheel until my knuckles go white. I only just got my drivers license last week, which is why Debbie insisted that I drive. She wants me to practice. I like driving, but the NYC streets are overwhelming.

I'm a midwest girl; I'm used to suburban neighborhoods and long roads with barely any other cars. I came to New York to visit my long-distance girlfriend—well, ex-girlfriend now—when Debbie rescued me from the streets and recruited me to her team. All of this happened in the past 24 hours. I'm still processing.

"Park here, Y/N," Debbie commands, ignoring my worries.

I slam on the brake and look to my right, past Debbie in the passenger seat. Out the window, I see a small opening where a car could hypothetically parallel park.

"Nope. I can't parallel park." I say, ready to step on the gas again.

I'm holding up a row of cars behind me. The car immediately behind me honks loudly three times.

Debbie rolls down her window and leans her upper body out. "Go around, assholes! New driver here!"

She sticks up her middle finger at the row of cars before sliding back into her seat.

"I can't parallel park," I repeat. My foot remains firmly on the brake.

"Go forward a little bit, good, good," Debbie intructs, reaching across for the steering wheel. "Now, reverse slowly."

I do exactly as Debbie says. We spend the next ten minutes in a tense battle as Debbie barks orders at me on how to maneuver the car into the spot.

"I am never doing that again," I shudder.

The amount of cars that honked at me will haunt me in my sleep tonight. I unbuckle my seatbelt, but notice that Debbie isn't doing the same.

"Are you getting out of the car?" I ask.

She pulls her sunglasses up into her hair and stares at me, a slight smirk on her lips.

"Oh, I don't live here, Y/N. This was just for practice."

Are you fucking kidding me?!

"Nope, that's bullshit," I shake my head. My hand grabs the door handle. I'm about to open my door and get out but Debbie locks the doors from her side. I unlock them. She locks them again. I slam my hand down on the center console.

"Can you please stop acting like a child?" I exhale.

She pulls down the sun visor in front of my seat and points to the mirror. "Look in the mirror, Y/N. Who's the one acting like a child?"

"Still you," I huff, settling back down into my seat and buckling my seatbelt. "So if you don't live on this street, where do you live?"

We arrive at Debbie's place about 25 minutes later, no more parallel parking required.

As soon as I put the car in park, I get out and slam the door shut behind me. Debbie chuckles as she elegantly steps out of the vehicle.

"You've got a fire burning inside you, Y/N."

That's because I hate myself.

And right now, I hate you too.

I follow Debbie through a side entrance. The size of her current residence amazes me.

"Wow." I look around, awe-stuck at the vast space and open floor plan.

"It'll do for now," Debbie shrugs.