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I look down and realize that he is right. I stuffed the vest into a trash can after bleeding on it in the restroom, and now it is visible that under my cotton dress shirt, I have breasts. My blonde hair is spilling over my shoulders.
Still, I can’t muster enough energy to care.
I return to my whiskey glass, take another sip, and fall down into a leather recliner. “Tell me something nice about space.”
“What?” He lifts an eyebrow. I caught him off guard.
“Distract me!” I roar.
“All right. Close your eyes.”
Unbelievably, I do. I need a second to breathe, even if my designated therapist right now is Satan himself.
“About three billion years ago, Mars probably looked like a tranquil resort by the ocean. There’s some interesting fossils and craters on Mars that suggest a river ran through it. This means that, possibly, there was life on Mars. Maybe not as we know it, but life nonetheless.”
“Do you believe in aliens?” I murmur, eyes still closed.
“Believe in them?” he asks, surprised. “I don’t know any, so it’s hard to say I put my faith in them. Do I believe in their existence? Certainly. The question is, Are they close enough to be discovered, and more importantly—do we want to discover them?”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “Maybe not. Humans have let us down. Why try our luck with other species?”
He laughs, and I realize that he is oddly entertained by my humor.
“I do think it’s only a matter of time before we find biology somewhere that’s not on planet Earth. It’s extremely vain to think we’re alone in a billion-galaxy space, consisting of more stars than there are grains of sand, and billions of planets.”
“I don’t want to meet them,” I say.
“I don’t think you will. Not in our lifetime, anyway.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?” he asks.
“For putting my mind off that thing I thought about when you said September thirteenth.”
There’s a brief silence between us. I’m the first to speak again.
“Paul had an apartment in Paris.”
“Come again?” Arsène takes a seat opposite to me, attentive and alive all of a sudden.
“After he died, I started taking care of the bills. He was good with numbers, so this was normally his jurisdiction. One of the outstanding bills was an overdue rent payment on an apartment on the eighth arrondissement.” I stare into the bottom of the glass.
“The Champs-Élysées area,” he supplies.
I nod. “Nice geography. I Google Mapped it.”
Arsène considers my words. I can tell he’s already digesting this information, fitting it into a puzzle in his head.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I hiss out defensively. “His parents are building a house in Provence. I thought he helped them with accommodations, what with all of the back-and-forth.”
Now that I say it out loud, it does sound like a weak excuse. Why would Paul hide such a thing from me? Not to mention, Provence isn’t even close to Paris.
“Hadn’t he told you he made reservations for a hotel in Paris?” he asks. “That time you were supposed to go with him on a romantic trip?”
“Well, yeah.” I munch on my bottom lip.
“Have you ever seen those hotel reservations?”
“Now that I think about it . . .” I take another sip. I haven’t. I’d taken Paul’s word for it.
Arsène stares at me, but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. I feel stupid enough already.
“He never intended to take me with him.” I let my head slump between my shoulders.
“It’s possible he knew you’d get the job. It was a small production, wasn’t it? He could’ve even pulled a few strings to make it happen. Silver Arrow Capital has a wide range of clients. Some of them are on off-Broadway boards.”
Leaning forward, I bury my face in my hands. My hair spills out on either side of me. Arsène doesn’t say anything. I don’t expect him to. In a way, I even prefer it. I’m tired of empty words. The amount of clichés that are hurled at me is exhausting.
It gets better, kiddo.
This too shall pass.
Have you tried therapy? It did wonders for my niece . . .
“Mr. Corbin?” I hear Cory’s voice. “I just wanted to make sure everything is to your satisfa—”
The words die in his mouth. My head snaps up. I know I’ve been caught. He can see, by my hair and slight frame, that I’m a woman. I stare Cory in the eye. Arsène stands up. He is about to say something. I don’t want to stay to find out how much trouble I’m in. And I’m definitely not spending a night in jail. I grab my messenger bag and bolt out the door, pushing Cory on my way out. His back slams against the wall.
“Sorry, sorry,” I mutter. “I’m so sorry.”
I don’t look back.
Don’t falter when I hear Arsène calling my name.
I continue running, blasting through doors, through corridors, through air, pushing guests and waiters and employees. I spill onto the street and rest my hands over my knees, the sun beating down on my back.
