Chương 9
“And if it wasn’t?”
He looked through the window at the parking lot.
“Then she made choices that existed before I met her.”
The clock above the counter reached five.
Our agreement ended without ceremony.
Miles took out his wallet and left cash beneath his cup.
“I’ll pay,” I said.
“You paid.”
“For what?”
He stood. “The blueberry pie was apparently included.”
Outside, the heat had eased. He walked me to the truck but did not open the passenger door.
“I can call a car,” I said.
“I’m driving you home.”
“The agreement ended.”
“Yes.”
“Then why?”
“Because leaving you at a diner forty miles from your apartment would be strange.”
“That sounds practical.”
“It is.”
He opened the door.
Before I climbed in, I said, “Were you serious about no more pretending?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He nodded.
Then, with one hand resting on the door, he said, “Would you have coffee with me next Saturday?”
I stared at him.
“Real coffee,” he added. “Separate cups.”
“You’re asking me on a date?”
“I’m asking you for coffee.”
“That is how people disguise dates.”
“You have experience.”
“Bad experience.”
“So does everyone.”
I looked back through the diner window. The boy had managed to balance six jelly packets on his grandfather’s hand.
“Okay,” I said.
Miles closed the door gently.
By Sunday morning, a thirty-seven-second video from my father’s party had been viewed more than two hundred thousand times.
The photographer had not posted it. A neighbor’s college-aged son had recorded the moment Miles said his name and uploaded it with the caption, WOMAN HIRES FAKE BOYFRIEND, ACCIDENTALLY BRINGS SISTER’S CEO.
By noon, strangers had identified me, Lois, my parents’ house, the museum where I worked, and the diner where Miles and I had stopped afterward.
Someone found a photograph of me at a conservation fundraiser and wrote that I had probably been hunting wealthy men for years.
Someone else called me a feminist icon.
Both interpretations felt equally unrelated to my actual life.
My supervisor, Deborah, texted at seven fifteen Sunday morning.
Please do not respond publicly until we speak.
At seven seventeen, my mother called.
At seven nineteen, Lois called.
At seven twenty-one, my father sent a message.
This has gone too far.
I turned off the phone and sat on my kitchen floor because I had dropped a jar of cumin and lacked the energy to sweep it.
The apartment was quiet except for the refrigerator motor. Through the window, someone across the courtyard shook a rug over a balcony. Dust floated briefly in the sunlight.
At eight, a knock came at my door.
I froze.
The knock came again, three precise taps.
My mother always knocked like the door had disappointed her.
I looked through the peephole.
It was Lois.
She wore sunglasses, leggings, and a sweatshirt despite the heat. I opened the door but did not move aside.
“You need to call him,” she said.
“Good morning.”
“I’m suspended.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“They emailed me last night.”
“What did the email say?”
“That I’m on paid administrative leave pending review.”
“That isn’t suspended.”
“It says I cannot access company systems or contact clients.”
“You have clients?”
Her mouth opened.
I regretted the question before she answered.
“Don’t,” she said.
“Don’t what?”
“Enjoy this.”
“I’m not.”
“You have always wanted me to fail.”
The claim was so absurd I nearly dismissed it. Then I remembered being twenty-three and hearing Lois had lost a college internship after arguing with her supervisor. I had felt relief before concern.
Not because I wanted her ruined.
Because for one afternoon, she had not been perfect.
“I have wanted you to stop using me as proof that you’re winning,” I said.
“That is not the same thing.”
“It isn’t.”
She took off the sunglasses. Her eyes were swollen.
“Call Miles.”
“No.”
“He asked for a review. He can stop it.”
“He said he recused himself.”
“Then ask him to un-recuse.”
“I barely know him.”
“You brought him to Dad’s party.”
“I hired him.”
Her face twisted. “Do you have to keep saying that?”
“It’s true.”
“So is the fact that you set this in motion.”
“No. I walked into a party with a man you thought was poor. You did the rest.”
Her cheeks reddened.
“I was told I was getting the promotion.”
“By whom?”
She looked past me into the apartment.
“Lois.”
“It was being discussed.”
“By whom?”
“My manager said there might be restructuring.”
“And you printed business cards?”
“They weren’t printed.”
“The photograph—”
“I made one online.”
I stared at her.
“It was for visualization,” she said.
“Visualization.”
“You make mood boards at the museum.”
“We do not issue imaginary titles to ourselves.”
She flinched.
I stepped into the hallway and closed the apartment door behind me. I did not want her inside. The decision felt petty and necessary.
“Did you use the title anywhere else?” I asked.
“No.”
“Think before you answer.”
She pushed her hair behind one ear. “I was introduced that way at a charity planning meeting.”
“By whom?”
“Me.”
“Anywhere else?”
“A professional women’s dinner.”
“Lois.”
“It was a biography. Nobody verifies biographies.”
“Apparently somebody does.”
She covered her mouth with one hand.
For a moment she looked younger, like the girl who used to climb into my bed during thunderstorms and then deny it in the morning.
“I needed Mom to stop asking,” she said.
“About what?”
“The house.”
I waited.
She looked toward the stairwell.
“Evan and I have been trying to refinance,” she said. “His business is down. We have debt.”
“How much?”
“That’s not your concern.”
“You came to my door before breakfast.”
She folded her arms.
“Mom said Dad might help if I could show the bank my income was increasing. I told them a promotion was likely. Then Mom told everyone I was being promoted, and I—”
“You made it real.”
“For one day.”
“You announced it to eighty people.”
“I was going to fix it later.”
May you like
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
