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"Capitalism is for scum?"
He chuckles. "There's a line somewhere, yeah." He sets the bag down. "Would you buy one of those bags?"
"No. They're ugly."
"And I'm harsh?"
I laugh. "The color scheme doesn't do it for me."
"What about this?" He points to a similar bag in bright pink. Moves close enough to check the price tag. "Is this walking advertisement worth two weeks of waiting tables?"
"Not to me."
"But to someone?"
"It's a status symbol."
He raises a brow. "And that's a good thing?"
"I don't know. I'm never going to have status."
"I'm calling it now. When you write the next Hunger Games, you're going to spend your advance on hideous overpriced bags." His voice floats to that teasing tone. His dark eyes light up.
"I am not," I tease back. "But so what if I did? What's wrong with wanting people to see you as well off?"
He shakes his head. "That's what my mom was like. She needed a new car. A remodeled kitchen. The latest fashions. Even her nail polish was trendy."
"I remember." Sort of. "Is that really all she was?"
"No." His voice gets soft. "But that was too much of it. She wanted that for all of us. For me and Em too."
"Yeah?" I press my lips together. Brendon never talks about his late parents. Ever. And his expression—there's a softness to it. That's rare. I want every drop of it.
"Yeah. She wanted me to be this guy who wore Dockers and drove a BMW to high school."
"And you wanted to tattoo punk lyrics on your skin?"
"Basically." He takes a step forward. "I was never gonna be the kind of guy she wanted me to be."
"But you... you are a great guy. You know that, right?"
He says nothing. Turns back to me and looks me in the eyes. "Let's say I give you a grand to buy whatever you want."
"You will not."
"It's a hypothetical."
"I prefer actual cash."
"Don't we all." He chuckles. "Say I give you a grand. Say you have to spend it here. What will you buy?"
"One very expensive designer purse."
"Bullshit."
"Em would buy one."
"Em is Em."
