The Uber Driver's Secret

Every Friday at 11 PM, my phone pings.

Same pickup location: Brixton Road, outside the estate where nothing good ever happens. Same passenger: Nasra, a twenty-six-year-old Somali woman with sad eyes and a phone full of ignored calls from someone named "DON'T ANSWER."

I've been her driver for three months.

She never tells me what happens before she gets in the car. I never ask. But she's always been crying—mascara running, hands shaking, smelling faintly of alcohol she probably drank to get through whatever dinner or event she just escaped.

Tonight is different.

Tonight, she gets in the car and doesn't cry.

She just says: "Don't take me home. Just drive."

I'm not supposed to do this.

Uber has rules. Destinations. Time limits. But it's past eleven on a Friday night, I've already made enough to cover rent, and this woman—this beautiful, broken woman—has something in her voice I can't ignore.

"Where do you want to go?"

"Anywhere." She stares out the window. "Just away."

I drive.

Through Brixton, past the clubs spilling drunk people onto the streets. Through Clapham, where the nice houses make everything feel quieter. Down toward the river, where the lights of the city shimmer on the water.

She doesn't speak. Neither do I.

But I watch her in the rearview mirror. The way her jaw tightens. The way she keeps checking her phone, then putting it away like she's afraid of what she'll see.

"Who's DON'T ANSWER?" I ask finally.

She laughs—bitter, hollow. "My husband."

"You're married?"

"For two years." She meets my eyes in the mirror. "Arranged. His family knew my family. Everyone said it was perfect."

"It's not?"

"He hits me." She says it casually, like she's commenting on the weather. "Not often. Just when he's stressed. When I talk back. When dinner's late. When I look at him wrong." She shrugs. "The usual."

I pull the car over.

We're in a car park by the Thames, empty except for us. The city glitters across the water. Inside the car, everything feels small and close and impossible.

"Why do you stay?"

"Where would I go?" She finally looks at me—really looks, not just at the driver, but at the man. "My family would disown me. His family would destroy mine. In our community, divorced women are—" She waves a hand. "You know."

I do know. I grew up in the same community—Tower Hamlets, not Brixton, but the rules are the same. Family honor. Community reputation. The things women sacrifice to maintain both.

"You could run."

"To where?"

"Anywhere." I turn in my seat to face her. "You have money. You have a phone. You could disappear and he'd never find you."

"He'd find me." She laughs again, that same bitter sound. "He always finds me. That's why I take Uber instead of the tube. That's why I request you specifically—"

"You request me?"

"Every Friday." She blushes, which seems strange after everything else she's admitted. "You're the only driver who doesn't ask questions. Who doesn't judge. Who just—drives."

"Nasra—"

"I'm sorry." She reaches for the door handle. "I shouldn't have told you any of this. You're just trying to make a living and I'm—"

I reach back and catch her hand.

She freezes.

"I'm not just anything," I say. "I'm Abdi. I'm thirty-two. I drive Uber because the engineering degree I got in Mogadishu doesn't count here. I live in a bedsit in Tottenham. And for three months, I've looked forward to Friday nights because it means I get to see you."

Her eyes widen.

"You—"

"I never asked questions because I figured you'd tell me when you were ready. I never pushed because you looked like you were holding yourself together with string and prayer." I squeeze her hand. "But you're ready now. You're telling me. So tell me what you want me to do."

She climbs into the front seat.

It's awkward—she's wearing a tight dress, and the gear shift is in the way—but suddenly she's next to me, close enough that I can smell her perfume and see the freckles on her nose that the darkness usually hides.

"I want you to make me forget," she says. "Just for one night. I want to feel like someone wants me—not because of family arrangements or duty or honor, but because they actually want me."

"Nasra—"

"Please." Her hand finds my thigh. "Please, Abdi."

I should say no. She's married. She's vulnerable. This is every kind of wrong.

But she's also looking at me like I'm the only real thing in her world.

And I want her. God help me, I've wanted her since the first Friday she got in my car.

I kiss her.

She gasps against my mouth, then kisses back—hungry, desperate, her hands grabbing my shirt like she's afraid I'll disappear. I pull her closer, cursing the gear shift, the steering wheel, everything keeping us apart.

"Back seat," she breathes.

We scramble over the console like teenagers. Undignified. Desperate. I land on the back seat and she lands on top of me, her dress riding up, her thighs straddling my lap.

"I haven't—" She fumbles with my belt. "He doesn't—we haven't in months—"

"Shh." I help her, free myself, feel her hand wrap around me. "Let me take care of you."

I push her underwear aside and slide my fingers inside her. She's wet—soaking—and she moans as I fill her.

"Abdi—"

"I've got you."

I work her slowly, finding the spots that make her gasp, watching her face in the dim light. She's beautiful like this—not the sad woman in my back seat, but someone alive, someone burning, someone finally free.

"Please—I need—"

I know what she needs.

I lift her, position her over me, and let her sink down.

She takes me slow.

Inch by inch, her tight heat swallowing me while she braces herself on my shoulders. Her eyes are closed, her mouth open, her breath coming in short gasps.

"So full—"

"You okay?"

"Perfect." She opens her eyes, looks at me with something like wonder. "You feel perfect."

She starts to move.

Slow at first, then faster, her hips rolling against mine. The car rocks with her rhythm. Outside, the Thames glitters, oblivious to what's happening behind fogged windows.

"Yes—yes—finally—"

I grab her hips, help her move, thrust up into her as she comes down. She cries out—too loud for a parked car—and I swallow her sounds with my mouth.

"I'm close—" she gasps against my lips.

"Come for me."

"Abdi—"

"Come for me, Nasra. Let go. I've got you."

She shatters.

Her body clamps around me, her nails dig into my shoulders, and she screams into my neck as the orgasm tears through her. I follow seconds later, spilling inside her, filling her with everything I have.

We stay like that.

Connected. Panting. The windows completely fogged now, hiding us from the world.

Afterward, she cries.

Not the sad crying from before—this is different. Relief. Release. Like she's been holding her breath for years and finally remembered how to exhale.

"I can't go back to him."

"Then don't."

"It's not that simple."

"It can be." I tilt her face up, make her look at me. "I have a bedsit. It's small and shit, but it's safe. You can stay there while you figure things out."

"You'd do that? For me?"

"I've been in love with you for three months, Nasra. I'd do anything for you."

She doesn't go back.

That night, she comes to my bedsit with nothing but her phone and the dress on her back. Her husband calls forty-seven times. She doesn't answer.

In the morning, I help her find a lawyer. A Somali woman in Stratford who specializes in cases like hers. The lawyer says it won't be easy, but it's possible.

Her family disowns her. His family makes threats. The community whispers.

We don't care.

She gets her divorce. Gets a job at a charity in Hackney. Gets a flat two streets from mine.

And every Friday night, I pick her up from work.

Not as her Uber driver anymore.

Just as the man who loves her.

Just as the man who helped her remember she deserved more.

A year later, she climbs into the front seat of my car.

"Where to, madam?"

"Surprise me."

I drive to the same car park by the Thames. The same spot where everything changed.

"Abdi—"

I pull out a ring.

"I know it's not traditional. I know your family won't approve. I know we're supposed to have arrangements and negotiations and all of that." I open the box. "But I'm asking anyway. Will you marry me?"

She kisses me.

"Yes," she says against my mouth. "A thousand times yes."

The ring goes on her finger.

And we steam up the windows again—one more time, for old times' sake.

Some rides never end.