We catch up on the latest with them, and then Nancy takes our drink orders before being called away to help fix the register that tends to malfunction at least once a day.
“The funding really came through?” I ask, refocusing on our previous conversation. “Are yousure? The board already announced?—”
“Check your email. It’s official, thanks to a private donation. Probably some old rich guy who realized he can’t take a fat check where he’s headed.”
I laugh. “Lola.”
“What? I didn’t sayallrich people were greedy assholes. Just the ones I’ve met. So, odds are, Levi Lincoln is one too.”
I stare at her.
Lola misinterprets my silence, reaching for her water glass with a sigh. “Being friends with you has really transformed me into a better person, you know. It was super generous, and I’m super grateful, blah, blah, blah. Let’s focus on?—”
“The donor’s name was Levi Lincoln?” I blurt out.
“Uh-huh. Do you think he’s a distant relative of Abe’s?”
Lola laughs at her own comment, then thanks the server delivering our coffees.
I manage a, “Thank you,” too, barely aware of the burn as I take a hasty sip from the steaming cup.
“The room will be under Levi Lincoln.”
“Lincoln? Like the president?”
“Like the car.”
I set my cup down and stand abruptly, grabbing my purse off the back of the chair and gripping the strap tightly enough that my knuckles protest. “Bathroom,” I tell Lola’s raised eyebrows.
“I can be trusted to look after your personal belongings, you know.”
“I know. I—that time of the month.”
“Wave your tampons in the air, then. Covert operations to the bathroom are such patriarchal bullshit.”
Social anxiety is a foreign concept to Lola. I’m not shy, per se, but I am accustomed to staying out of any spotlight. The prospect of purposefully drawing attention to me makes my chest tighten with anxiety, like a rubber band is constricting my lungs.
“I’m not being covert,” I say, grip on my purse tightening. “Just not announcing it to the entire restaurant.”
I also have no tampons in my purse because that’s not why I want a moment alone.
“Do you want to split the tofu huevos rancheros to start?” Lola asks, scanning the menu.
Unless we’re onstage, she has a short attention span.
“Sure. Sounds great,” I reply before heading for the back of the restaurant.
There’s only one restroom. By some small miracle, it’s unoccupied with no line. I slip inside, lock the door, and lean against it, forcing my erratic breathing to regulate to deep inhales and long exhales.
I feel a little dizzy. Maybe because I only ate a banana before coming here to meet Lola for our weekly brunch, but I felt fine before hearing that name.
Lev was listening last week, when I talked about the symphony’s financial woes. I feel guilty for doubting him, and I’m totally floored by the gesture. Most of all, I’m knocked off-kilter by the collision of Lev and the rest of my life. I never expected to hear Lola say that name. She, like everyone else in my life, has no clue I’ve met the same man for sex since we were teenagers. Or that it has always felt like more than a physical transaction.
I dig the phone out of my purse. Not the one covered by a pale pink case, but the black burner with only one number saved in the Contacts. I carry it with me everywhere, even though it only receives messages every few months. Scroll through the text history of addresses, dates, and times—that’s the extent of our communication.
I’ve never messaged first. I’ve always followed Lev’s lead. I’m nervous to break that pattern, but sending nothing doesn’t feel right either.
He could have donated anonymously or under a different alias.
