He grins and closes the suitcase. “A surprise for later.”
I don’t think I’ve ever been to dinner somewhere quite this fancy in my life. There’s a giant crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling that looks like it must weigh more than I do. Tasteful moldings adorn the walls, and silver carts pass by loaded with opulent desserts and an entire bakery’s worth of bread. There are flower arrangements stationed all around the room—it feels like someone is about to get married in here.
Mark Winterson orders appetizers for both of us, and an amuse-bouche that involves some kind of foam comes out first, followed by a caviar dish that appears to be literally topped with a thin sheet of gold.
“There’s gold in them-there caviar,” I say in an old-timey voice, waving my fork for emphasis.
Mark Winterson gives me a thin smile. Maybe he’s getting tired of me. My jokes aren’t so novel to him anymore.
Our meal progresses, and he seems tense, chewing his food and staring into the middle distance. The longer the silence stretches out, the harder it gets to shove down my rising panic.
You could search for the rest of your life and still not figure out how to free Mom! She’ll be trapped there forever!
And Mark Winterson is going to find me out and sue me! He’s going to ruin me—bury me! What the fuck am I doing here!
Goosebumps rise on my back, exposed in this dress he picked out for me to wear. (Starter kit for being Mark Winterson’s girlfriend: Invest in more than one backless bra.)
I’ve been admonishing myself to stand as straight as possible all night, and the tension is building between my shoulder blades.
“Anything to drink?” the waiter asks.
“Whiskey, please!” I say, and when it arrives, I throw the drink back as quickly as possible, then order another.
Mark Winterson raises his eyebrows. “You okay there?”
“Just stressed from work.” I point at him. “You must be so stressed! Big deal in progress. Aren’t you going to have a drink?”
He straightens his jacket. “Gotta keep my wits about me for tomorrow, unfortunately.”
I swirl the liquid in my glass, finish it off, and flag the waiter down for one more. Around the time the main course arrives, I start to feel calmer. Certainly looser.
“It was interesting meeting your parents,” I say. “Your dad…seems like a tough cookie?”
He scoffs, corner of his mouth tilting up. “Yeah. He thinks I’m too soft to make it in this business. Loves to remind me.” He pitches his voice lower.“You’ll never get anywhere if you want everyone to like you, Mark.”
I make sure to give him an appreciative laugh. “Erickson seems to think you’re getting somewhere? Having you come out here. Giving you more responsibility.”
Mark Winterson fidgets with his silverware. “He’s one of my dad’s best friends. They’re pretty similar.” He takes a long gulp of water and sets it down heavily on the table. “Except he actually believes in me.”
Oh God, what a setup. Erickson must have him wrapped around his finger.
Another fake business card flashes in my mind:
Mark Winterson
Terrible Driver
His Own Man, Definitely NOT That Celebrity
Hella Daddy Issues
That third drink is really catching up to me. Everything feels a bit funnier.He’s going to sue me! Haha!And I don’t even want to think about how much this meal costs. When the dessert cart arrives, I actually clap a hand on Mark Winterson’s shoulder and exclaim, “Shut up!”
The noise in the dining room seems to get louder, and my head starts to feel like it’s a balloon filled with helium, fixing to float away.
I take another selfie to send to my “aunt”—my eyes closed, head resting sloppily on his shoulder while he smiles stiffly, hand raised in a wave—and upload it into the haunted Slack DM.
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