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* * *

With Jonathan’s guidance, I manage to acquire the sought-after reservation and locate the missing brochures. The car must be dealt with later, on a surgery day when Hayes won’t need to leave the office.

From there, it’s a million phone calls about lips that don’t “turn out” enough and uneven skin, and it’s six by the time I leave. This whole Zoom party, suggested by my sister’s psychologist, is feeling less likely to work out by the second. You can do it late, Dr. Shriner said, so you won’t have to rush home from work. Little does she know seven PM is not late when you work for Hayes Flynn.

I drive home, cursing the traffic and Matt’s billboard, and am only ten minutes from my apartment when the work phone buzzes.

Need tux, Hayes writes. Black not navy. Bring to office.

I groan aloud. Who the fuck decides he needs a tux this late in the day? I don’t even know if he means a tux he already owns. That he potentially has tuxes in navy and black seems excessive, but minimalism isn’t exactly Hayes’s style. And surely he can’t expect me to rent one this late.

Is the tux in your closet? I ask, but obviously he can’t be bothered to reply. What skin is it off his nose if I have to waste twenty minutes driving to his house to check?

With a heavy foot on the accelerator, I race back to his house and take the stairs two at a time to get to his room, which seems oppressively cold now that it’s free of clothes on the floor and women in the bed—no photos, no papers, no books, no TV. Jonathan said Hayes is not home much, but seriously…the guy has to relax at some point, doesn’t he? Other than his daily workouts with Ben and the hours he spends drinking, he takes no time for himself at all. Why is he working so hard if he’s never going to kick back and enjoy the spoils of war?

I find the tux in the back corner of his ridiculously large walk-in closet, hanging in a garment bag next to the navy blue and two others in varying shades of black, and take my best guess which pair of shoes he wants with it.

It’s only once my task is done that I actually look around. Aside from the tuxedos and his extensive shoe collection, his wardrobe consists entirely of suits and button-downs. Not that I expected a lot of Hawaiian floral shirts or Booze Crooz 2015! tees, but I’m starting to see a theme here. If Hayes was actually a robot set on earth to do nothing but inject filler and fuck, this is pretty much what his life would look like. And I know I have places to be, and he’s a millionaire with a closet larger than my entire apartment, but I stand for a second looking at it all. And feeling the tiniest bit...sad for him.

* * *

Hayes’s office is a bit more of what I expected from his house: brilliantly modern, all gleaming ebony wood floors, white furniture, enormous windows.

And coldly imperious staff.

“Sign in,” says the girl behind the desk without looking up. “We’ll be with you shortly.”

“I’m not a patient,” I say. “I’m just dropping off Hayes’s tux. Can I leave it with you?”

She finally deigns to meet my eye and then frowns. “Wait,” she commands.

She hustles somewhere back in the office and a moment later returns with Hayes himself. In a navy dress shirt, top two buttons undone, he looks too hot to be real. Even if he were playing a doctor on a soap opera, I’d still be yelling, “No doctor is that good-looking!” at the TV.

I hand him the tux, which he accepts while his eyes flicker over me, head to foot. For once he doesn’t seem to find me lacking.

“Is that everything?” I ask.

He cocks his head. “In a rush? Certainly, you’ve got time to give us a bit of that amazing British accent of yours.”

I’d laugh if I wasn’t so anxious to get home. My glance cuts over to the dour receptionist. “That’s for your ears only.”

“No accent. No pretending you’ve disposed of my date,” he says. “I’m quite disappointed in this little exchange, Tali.” His voice is so low and seductive my stomach clenches in response. I’m growing accustomed to the unfriendly, hungover version of Hayes...but this one is a whole new ball game.

The receptionist watches him walk away with her brow furrowed, like she isn’t sure what she just saw.

I guess I’m not sure either. Hayes, briefly, didn’t seem satanic at all.

* * *

I have to call into my sister’s party from Hayes’s parking garage and am still late. My mother and Charlotte sit in an office at The Fairfield Center and Liddie’s in her living room in Minnesota. Dr. Shriner said this would help “normalize” birthdays without my father, but there’s absolutely nothing normal about seeing my pale, miserable sister and tired mother in an almost empty room while I fake good cheer from a parking garage.

“I got the gift card and the books,” Charlotte tells me. “Thanks a lot.” She’s been there for months but she’s still faking her happiness. I can tell.

“When I come home, we’ll go shopping,” I promise. “With what I’m earning at this job, it won’t even have to be on sale.”

“I still can’t believe he’s paying you that much,” Charlotte says, shaking her head. “Like, what do you even do?”

Liddie rolls her eyes. “Look at her. She’s got no body fat and a mouth made for blow jobs. I’m pretty sure we all know what he’s hoping she’ll do.”