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He ignores me. The couple regards us curiously.
“This is my girlfriend, Vivian Steele.”
The guy blinks at me. “Nice to meet you. Rocco. This is my girlfriend, Bev.”
After a pair of awkward handshakes and a “nice to meet you” from all parties, Nate whisks me away.
“What was that about?” I ask him. “And did you call me your girlfriend?” That detail hits me a little late.
“They didn’t hate you.”
“They’re babies. They don’t know who Walter Steele was.”
His mouth tips in consideration. He walks us over to a pair of guys. The same intro follows. “Hi. This is my girlfriend, Vivian Steele. She’s the daughter of Walter Steele, the rich asshole who robbed a lot of innocent people of their life savings.”
“Shit,” one guy says, thick eyebrows rising over the rim of his black glasses. “Seriously?”
I give him a sickly smile. I feel like dying.
“Jamal.” He offers a hand and I stare at it in shock. He wants to shake my hand? He grips my fingers and holds them for a beat. “That sucks, Vivian. Least you know what not to do with your life.”
His friend introduces himself next. Pablo. We part with well wishes.
Not done yet, Nate approaches a pair of forty-something ladies next. They are leaning over the bar, their raucous laughter suggesting the martinis aren’t their first. I shoot daggers at Nate as I nod to the drinks. Guess they do serve martinis.
He ignores my silent complaint and recites his introduction, but this time when he mentions my father he says, “Do you think Vivian can escape Walter Steele’s shadow?”
“Aw, of course, hon.” The blond woman squeezes my arm. “We’re not our parents. You can make better decisions. You already have judging by your boyfriend.” She sizes up Nate a tad lecherously. “A good man is hard to find.”
“I thought a hard man was good to find,” crows her friend with a hooting laugh. She then winks at me. “Take it from me, girl. You walk away from your sketchy father and become your own woman. His weakness is your power.”
“Thank you.” That was unexpected. And strangely poignant.
Nate thanks them too, and starts off toward another couple. I stop walking, my hand in his. He comes back to me when I give his arm a tug.
“I get it,” I say. “Not everyone knows who I am, and once they do, they don’t care.”
“Hate to break it to you, kid. You are not the center of the universe. Also, you owe me a thousand dollars.”
I punch him in the arm. He deserves it. He chuckles, but sobers quickly.
“No one is after you.” He wraps his arms around my waist. “Not anymore. Walter Steele is dead and his story died with him. It’s up to you, and Walt, to be better than him. Mission accomplished. By both of you.”
The emotion hits me out of nowhere, similar to the evening I crumpled to the floor at Nate’s house and he scooped me up. Luckily, it’s not grief or despair gripping my heart. It’s gratitude. So much of it, I can hardly stand under its weight.
I cup his neck and pull his mouth to mine. I taste beer on his tongue. Never the shy one, he deepens our kiss and we receive wolf-whistles for our PDA.
The band returns to take the stage, making it far too loud to converse any longer. I finish my beer. I dance. I order another.
I bask in the glow of being anonymous. Ordinary. Overlooked.
