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“Yes, Angela, always.”
“What happens if what you want can’t be taken?”
“Everyone has a price,” he claims smugly.
“Don’t you mean, everything has a price?” I clarify.
“Semantics.”
I pick at the chocolate towers as a way to keep my mind and eyes off him. I can feel his stare piercing me the more I try to avoid him. I make conscious effort not to choke on my caffeinated beverage with every sip—as I hold tightly onto my faux-sophisticated aura to keep it from unraveling like a ball of yarn.
“What are you even doing in this line of work, Angie? Isn’t there some work-study program you could be applying for?”
“Are you that far removed from reality that you expect some entry-level job to pay for years of schooling and my growing stack of bills? Surely, you cannot be that naive—even with your six-figure salary—to think that the thoughts of being debt-free would not be appealing to the average girl.”
“It’s seven.”
“Excuse me?”
He rubs at his chin. “I make a seven-figure salary.”
I resist scoffing. “Do you want a prize?”
“Depends what it entails.”
“Cute,” I mumble.
“You are not prepared for the ugliness that this world can bring to your feet.”
Tears well in my eyes as I think about just how familiar I am with the ugliness of the world in general. How ugly it was to watch my mom die of cancer. How ugly it was to bury my twin brother. How ugly it is to have an estranged relationship with my dad. I know ugly.
I force my eyes to dry and refuse to make eye contact with Graham. But he sees. He knows that his words have affected me.
“Ready to go?” he asks softly.
“Doesn’t someone need to pay? I want to contribute for my part.” I think about how much money I have stuffed into my clutch and realize that it wouldn’t even be enough to pay for half.
“They know me. I have a credit card on file here.” He slides from the booth and stands expectantly at my side. He glares at me when I try to open my bag. “And you will never pay when we are together. Ready to go, now?” he presses.
I clear my throat, realizing that I haven’t said anything for an indeterminate period of time. My voice is scratchy, despite my efforts to keep it hydrated. “I am”—I take a breath—“going to have a drink with Claire at the bar downstairs.” I watch the tick form in Graham’s jaw. “Whenever she is done with her symphony date.”
Graham’s brows scrunch together to form a V as he listens to my words. “I think you’ve had enough to drink, but if you want more, I can order you something else,” he offers, sliding back down into the booth.
“It’s for social reasons as well. You can leave me here, and I can get a taxi home with her.” His expression shows that he is not on board with what I am suggesting.
“You two are roommates. Can’t you be social at home?”
“Graham…”
“Angie, I would feel better if I was the one to get you home. You do have class tomorrow, don’t you?”
Why does he know so much about me? Did Claire share information with him during their brief quarrel in the office? “Yes. I do,” I answer, tilting my chin up in defiance. I keep myself from adding “so” at the end.
“Well, then, it is settled.”
I never agreed. Nothing is settled.
Graham gets up, grasping my hand and pulling me up from the cushioned seat. He places his hand on the small of my back and leads me to the exit of the restaurant, passing by several tables of dinner guests sharing a meal over candlelight and expensive vintage wine. I allow him to guide me for the sole reason of not making a scene.
