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On a whim, Claire decided that she needed to work on her image and cut out public swearing. I can tell that day one is a struggle.
“You hush now. Anyway, I kind of figured the bakery was going to tank sooner or later.”
“You always have a way with words,” I say with a roll of my eyes—despite her still not being able to see my expression.
“It was inevitable. Granted, that totally sucks. But I have enough to cover your half this month. Plus, Mommy and Daddy will be sending me a check soon. You know, guilt money, for never visiting.”
In the years we’ve attended River Valley U, I have only met her folks once. The Northern Virginia restaurant owners seem to be more interested in expanding their chain rather than visiting their only daughter. Claire moving to the West Coast was a way to start a new life away from the constant reminder that she is second best. I only moved across the state but for an equally depressing reason.
“I’ll figure something out with the money,” I promise.
“It’s fine. Really.”
“No, it’s not fine. I already owe you from summer when I came up short. I’ll be looking for a new job this week. But I figure it might take a while since most of the positions on and near campus have been filled already.”
I hear the beeping sound of the exercise bike and the gulping of water. “Come to work with me,” she says simply.
“I’m not as in shape as you. Pretty sure I’d die trying. Or be upstaged by a fifty-year-old.”
“Not at the gym,” she whispers, her tone an octave lower. “This job here is a hobby, anyway.”
I stop at the closest empty bench and sit down to rest. The bakery is four miles from our row of townhouses. “Then where, Claire?” I ask.
“My other job.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just meet me at home. I’ll explain everything.”
2
“So you live a double life?” I ask, plopping down on the magenta and pink wingback chair. If Victoria’s Secret sold obnoxious looking furniture, this would have been a signature piece. The chair definitely does not blend in with the ivory sofa and the exposed red brick walls. The townhouse was built in the seventies. Our particular unit was used several years ago for the set of an Indie rock music video. It was a selling point. While the outside of the entire row got a facelift with the urbanization revival of the Eastside, the inside has kept its unique appeal.
I slide my sandals off and curl my feet under my thighs.
“Not exactly.”
“Claire? Then what is it exactly?”
“Well, I get paid to keep filthy-rich men company.”
“Which is a euphemism for…?”
Claire gives a shrug and lays her whole body across the sofa in our living room. She fans out her dark hair over the decorative pillow. “I pretend I am their girlfriend for the evening. We go out. I act like they are king of the world. Make them feel special or wanted.”
“And…?”
“And I make crazy amounts of money in a short amount of time.”
I play with my hair as I absorb this new information. “How did I not know about this? When did this start?”
She lets out a sigh. “Angie, I wasn’t trying to keep this from you. You were busy with the whole Russell saga. Plus, you’d just had a really shitty end to last semester. You were distracted. I joined the agency at the end of May. Maybe early June? Can’t even remember.”
“Okay.”
“There are rules that help with discretion. I had to sign papers. I really shouldn’t even be sharing all of this with you. I could get fired. Or sued. Maybe both.”
“Then why are you?”
