Despite my use of the magic word, this does not appear to go over well.
She laughs a bit incredulously. “Excuse me?”
“Look, I’ll reimburse you for my half—”
“Yourhalf? Why should I pay any of it?”
“Pretty sure I didn’t drink an entire bottle by myself, Eleanor.” This, she doesn’t argue. I’m not in the mood to argue either. “Look, I can reimburse you for all of it, but not until we get home. My credit card is still frozen, and the company said I have to wait for my new one to come in the mail. He won’t give me back my ID until we settle the tab.”
Eleanor’s gaze sinks back to the receipt. I fully expect her to cave at this point, because there’s no real alternative, but she taps her painted nails against the bar and shakes her head.
She doesn’t quite look me in the eye when she speaks again. “I can’t pay it.”
I’m ready for another round of the blame game, but her tone throws me off. She’s not being belligerent. And I realize: she isn’t saying she won’t pay it. She’s saying shecan’t.
“Oh.”
“I’ve been traveling a lot for work, and I haven’t submitted all my reimbursements yet,” she goes on. “So I only have about a hundred dollars in my debit account right now. And the other night when I was on Ambien, I sleep-shopped andbought like three pairs of shorts from Bergdorf’s. I returned them, obviously, because no one needs one pair of sequined hot pants, let alonethree, but they haven’t credited me for that yet either. Plus, my sister’s wedding is coming up, and I’m the maid of honor, so there have been a lot of expenses this past month, and… long story short, my credit card is maxed out.”
All of this is said with an edge of defensiveness, like Eleanor fully expects me criticize her for not turning in her expense reports on time. Or maybe she thinks I can’t relate—that because my dad is who he is, I’ve always had money. But the biggest issue Mom had with my dad postdivorce was that he was inconsistent at best when it came to paying child support. I know what it’s like to be strapped for cash.
“Can we use your debit card?” she asks.
“It’s not in my wallet.”
“I thought you said you’d only lost your ID?”
“No—I left my debit card at home. I haven’t used it in forever. I’m not sure I even remember my PIN.”
Eleanor holds a hand up. “Wait, I’m sorry. You gave me shit for not knowing my social media passwords, and you don’t even know your own PIN number?”
My jaw twitches. “It’s PIN, not PIN number.”
The look she sends me in reply is so scathing, I instinctively draw back a half step. “Point is, I only ever use it at ATMs, but I rarely need cash. Usually, I Venmo people.”
“So then Venmo me,” she grinds out.
I clear my throat. “Can’t do that either. There’s a weekly limit to how much they let you transfer, and since I pay my rent through Venmo, I’ve already hit that.…”
Eleanor’s lips are pressed so tight together, I get the sense it’s all she can do to hold in a scream. Relatable.
The bartender seems to have reached the end of his patience with us and ambles over, saving me from having to say anything at all. “You figure something out?”
“We’re still working on it,” I tell him.
“What’s your name?” Eleanor asks as she leans her forearms on the bar.
“Mark.”
“Mark,” she repeats, “maybe you could help me out.” She smiles and bites her bottom lip. Somehow she manages to make her eyes look Bambi-big. Right now there is zero evidence that she just had a panic attack. It would seem Eleanor is a master at compartmentalizing.
“My friend and I have been having the worst day,” she goes on. “You can’t even imagine.”
I look from her to the bartender, to see if any of this is working on him. He appears remarkably unswayed.
“Is there any way you could give us a discount? Or maybe you could copy down his address, so you know where to bill him?”
The bartender coughs a laugh. “Nice try.”
