Chương 3
I picked up the receipt.
“Miles what?”
“Saturday,” he said, standing, “you can call me Miles.”
He put on the wet shirt, grimaced when the coffee-soaked fabric touched his back, and buttoned it anyway.
“Wait,” I said. “How do I know that’s your real number?”
“You don’t.”
He left the café with his cup in one hand and the repaired collar dark against his neck.
At nine that night, after searching his phone number and finding nothing except a discontinued hardware store listing in Ohio, I sent him the address, the schedule, and a family tree stripped of adjectives.
He replied twelve minutes later.
I’ll be there at 12:45. Donate the money. Wear shoes you can leave quickly in.
I looked down at the cream-colored heels beside my bed.
Then I ordered flats.
On Saturday, Miles arrived at my apartment at twelve thirty-eight in the same dark pickup I had seen being towed from the coffee shop.
The truck made a tired metallic sound when he shut it off. He wore a charcoal long-sleeved shirt, faded jeans, a plain leather belt, and work boots. His hair was still slightly damp. The beard remained.
I opened the passenger door and stared at him.
“What?” he asked.
“You look like you’re going to repair their septic system.”
“Do they have one?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then I may be useful.”
“I told you the dress code was summer elegant.”
“This is my summer elegant.”
I looked at the oil shadow near his thumbnail.
He lifted both hands. “Washed twice.”
“That was not what I was looking at.”
“It was.”
I climbed in.
The cab smelled faintly of cedar, coffee, and hot metal. A hard hat sat behind the driver’s seat beside a rolled set of plans. There were no fast-food wrappers, no loose receipts, and no decorative signs announcing opinions about trucks.
Miles started the engine. “Do we touch?”
“What?”
“Couples touch.”
“Oh.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m regretting every decision since Thursday.”
“That’s different.”
I fastened my seat belt. “Hand on my back when we walk in. Maybe hold hands if my mother is watching.”
“Your mother will be watching.”
“Yes.”
“What do you call me?”
“Miles.”
“Good.”
“What do you call me?”
“Serena.”
“I meant affectionate names.”
“No.”
“Agreed.”
He pulled away from the curb.
For the first ten minutes, we discussed the invented relationship. We had met at the museum during an event about industrial design. He had asked a question about a nineteenth-century printing press. I had corrected him. We had been seeing each other for nine weeks.
“What was my wrong question?” he asked.
“You thought the press was American.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“It was British.”
“I already dislike this relationship.”
“We took our first date at a restaurant in New Haven.”
“Which one?”
I named a place with exposed brick, expensive oysters, and lighting dim enough to forgive nearly anyone.
“I’ve been there,” he said.
“With whom?”
He glanced at me. “Are we jealous already?”
“For continuity.”
“A supplier.”
“What kind?”
“Industrial.”
“That’s vague.”
“It’s accurate.”
I looked through the windshield. The highway shimmered in the heat. “What do you actually do?”
“I told you. Operational problems.”
“That isn’t a job.”
“It is when enough people create them.”
“Management consultant?”
“Sometimes.”
“Engineer?”
“On generous days.”
“Construction?”
“Also sometimes.”
“You really don’t like nouns.”
“They lead to follow-up questions.”
“So does being evasive.”
“True.”
He drove with one wrist resting loosely on the steering wheel. His phone remained in the cup holder and did not light up once. Mine had vibrated six times before we reached Fairfield.
“Your family?” he asked.
“Group chat.”
“You going to read it?”
“No.”
It vibrated again.
He waited.
I picked it up.
MOTHER: Remember to arrive through the front. Staff entrance is around back.
I read it twice.
Miles said, “She thinks I’m staff?”
“She hasn’t seen you.”
“Then why mention the staff entrance?”
“Because I told her I was bringing someone.”
“That seems optimistic.”
I put the phone away. “She assumes I might arrive with a caterer?”
“She sounds prepared for every outcome except happiness.”
I turned toward the window before he could see the laugh.
The house sat beyond black iron gates and a driveway long enough for uncertainty to become dread.
My parents had bought the property when I was seventeen, after my father sold his share of a regional insurance brokerage. The original house had been white Georgian brick, dignified and slightly severe. My mother added columns, a sunroom, a pool pavilion, and a circular fountain that sprayed water higher on weekends.
Cars lined both sides of the drive. Valets in gray polos waved us toward the gravel overflow.
Miles passed them.
“You missed the turn,” I said.
“Your mother said front entrance.”
“She meant me.”
“She should have specified.”
He continued to the circular drive and stopped behind a silver Bentley.
My mother was standing at the top of the front steps.
Even from inside the truck, I saw her smile falter.
Miles got out, walked around, and opened my door. When I stepped down, he placed his hand at the center of my back. It was warm and steady.
My mother descended two steps, pearls bright at her throat.
“Serena,” she said, looking past me to the truck. “You came.”
“You invited me.”
“And this is—”
“Miles.”
He offered his hand. “Mrs. Ellison.”
She looked at the grease-darkened crease near his thumb before taking it.
“Lois said you worked at the museum.”
“No,” I said. “We met there.”
“Of course.”
My mother’s smile returned, thinner. “We’re all around back. You can leave your truck with the valets.”
“It’s not leaking anymore,” Miles said.
She looked at me.
I said, “He’s joking.”
“I wasn’t,” he said.
My mother turned toward the house. “Your father is already overwhelmed. Let’s not add anything.”
May you like
Miles’s hand remained against my back.
Inside, the entry hall smelled of lilies and lemon polish. A caterer carried a tray through the dining room. My mother paused long enough to straighten the shoulder of my dress.
