Winston’s throat bobs with panic.Don’t tell me you’re getting attachedis exactly what he’d texted Prestly after she’d discovered his online dating profile. Sure, a bit on the nose, kind of a giveaway, but Prestly had offered to pay double my usual black-tie-wedding-breakup rate, and I’ve got sisters going to college. And maybe he’s too stupid to remember how he dumped his girlfriend of three years, anyway, since he grumbles, “That’s kind of mean,” as he goes for his ice water.
I watch, biting back a bright red smile. It isn’t that I’m heartless. If Winston were anyone else, I wouldn’t be dumping him at a wedding. But he’s him, and I’m me, and the petulant anger blossoming across his face? Ruining this billionaire’s picture-perfect night on the Upper East Side and upcomingWhite Lotusvacation? This is my job.
I’m a cat burglar.
And I steal time from horrible men.
“I can see you’re angry. I should go.” As I stand, Winston’s eyesfollow my body up, lingering on the black tulle dress fluttering down my waist. It’s from Maria Grazia Chiuri’s first ready-to-wear collection with Dior, where the designer had sent herWE SHOULD ALL BE FEMINISTST-shirt down the runway. Winston might’ve noticed the bad omen if he actually knew fashion history like he’d told me he did—I know, a ridiculous lie, but he brags about knowing every “rich person” niche, from naval history to women’s wear. He’s so misogynistic, he’s looped back around to sartorial hypervigilance.
“Happy hour isn’t over yet,” he says. “Don’t you want to stay for the ceremony?”
I arch an ice-blonde brow. Wella T18, the toner that you are. “Win, dear, the couple is two hours late and half the people in here are already smashed off their faces. I don’t think there’s going tobea wedding.”
“What about… saying goodbye in the bathroom? We never did, you know.” He leans forward suggestively, the squeak of his chair loud against the tasteful piano music. “Seal the deal.”
Wordlessly, I stare at Winston, wondering what would happen if I pointed out how entitled he is. Would his head explode? Spontaneously transform into a whale and a bowl of petunias? We haven’t even gotten close to sleeping together—I don’t ever sleep with my marks, ew—and he still booked us acouples massage. But men like Winston don’t realize they have a Madonna-Whore Complex, of course; that would require critical thinking and self-awareness.
“I think I’m okay,” I say, smiling. “Hope you have the life that you deserve, Win.”
“Hey. Seriously? No? You know you’re just an influencer, right? Anyone would want to date me! Hey, I’m talking to—”
Ignoring him, I double-check that I’ve got my clutch and head downstairs, away from the happy hour floor. Once I’m safely atthe top of a ridiculously grand marble staircase—and pretty sure Winston isn’t going to airport-run after me—I slip out my phone to text his ex. I don’t expect Prestly to see my message until later, since hello, wedding, but I like confirming when I’ve done the deed. A little present for the maid of honor.
It’s done. He tried to proposition me after I dumped him. Sorry you ever met him. Last quarter of the payment is due by midnight. xC
As soon as I hit send, her typing bubble pops up.
NOOO. EWWW.
Then—
Thank you for everything.
I usually stop replying to a client once I’ve sent their final receipt and/or apologized for their misfortune—ironically, I’m the person who can’t get attached. Nor do I want to. At the end of the day, as much as I love helping womankind, I will not be splitting margaritas and queso with a venture capitalist named Prestly. This is where our lives go in two separate directions. She goes back to funding data-torture software named afterLord of the Ringsvillains, and I go back to funneling her money into charity, my family, and good clothes.
But I am lucky. To get to do this at all. To be someone who women thank. Stop and think about it long enough, and everyoneagrees that the world is weird and nonsensical and, by all philosophical accounts, supremely fucked-up. I get to right a few wrongs while I’m still here. That’s real wealth.
Then another text from Prestly pops up on my phone screen and yes, right, here’s why I don’t stop for sentimentality.
Hey, actually, have you left the venue yet???
My internal alarms ring. There’s something foreboding about those three question marks. Also, the word “actually” in the middle of a sentence. Frowning, I head outside to find a car, as if physically walking away will keep my clutch from vibrating against my hip. I don’t know why Prestly wants to know where I am. But it isn’t like she’s triple-texting me to ditch this disaster wedding to grab a drink with her, either. I need to go.
I slip past the apathetic doormen, into an alleyway tucked around the venue’s sleek marble exterior. It’s wet and cold and safe, and I tap through my apps for a ride home. This week, “home” is a cheap short-term studio in Jersey—convenient.
I’m swiping away yet another notification from Prestly when I notice that I have company.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. My spine tingles with the sudden knowledge that I’m not alone, goose bumps followed by an interior somersault, and I’m glancing over my shoulder before my street smarts can kick in. The alleyway’s dim lighting makes the stranger register in pieces—dark, wavy hair pushed behind his tan ears. A rich black suit, only a few steps darker than his ink-brown eyes. High cheekbones. A strong nose. And his mouth. It’s full, astonishingly pink, and stuck in a frown that either saysneed more champagne to surviveorwhy did I waste Valentine’s Day on this. Clearly, he’s another wedding attendee hiding from the impending car crash.
Then he looks up from his phone, seemingly noticing me for the first time. I give him a polite smile.
He doesn’t return it.
My smile drops.
He looks at me for another half second, the glow of his phone screen shading his tanned olive face with sharp contours. I wait for him to look back down, but he doesn’t. And there is something about his eyes—something familiar. He has that same look as the perpetually bedraggled celebrities I had crushes on when I was eighteen and starry-eyed: older, smarter, and rougher despite the tuxedo, just missing a half-burnt cigarette and a dog-eared poetry chapbook.
“Are you all right?” he says, with a voice ripped straight from a Nick Cave album.Exceedinglybaritone, very sad, nebulously accented. Yup. Cue the chapbook.
