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“This is our world,” Henry pushes the salt forward, “this is where normal people live. And this,” he pushes the pepper far away, “is where Sullivan exists. He has different rules. Hemakesthe rules. Why would someone who makes the rules want something difficult?”
“You’re calling me ‘difficult’?”
“I’m saying he has toworkfor you and that guy has probably never worked hard for a single thing in his life. Why would he start now? Why would he start foryou?Think about it. Don’t let his money blind you. Think about why he would be doing this.”
I’m caught off guard when Henry adds, “Did you know someone was following us today?”
My eyes widen.
“Who else could it be but your new boyfriend?” Henry examines me, looking for a reaction. “That guy has people watching you, reporting your every move, making sure his ‘purchase’ doesn’t act up.”
I direct my gaze to the window and then back to Henry. Throat tightening, I squeeze my fingers around the coffee cup.
“You’re a challenge, but that’s it. You don’t mean anything to him. Not seriously. The moment you give him something to exploit, he’ll exploit it. And then he’ll be gone. That’s how the rich work.”
“I’m going to pay him back.” Henry signs with resolution in his eyes. “Every damn cent. You won’t have to suffer for long, but until then…” He leans forward. “Remember that none of it is real. You’re not a person to him. You’re his property. A rental. A toy.”
Each description is a slap to the face.
A toy?
“I don’t want to see you get caught up with a jerk like him. I don’t want to see you hurt the way I was hurt.” Henry’s sullen expression makes my heart thud. “Because I know what that’s like. Thinking someone was actually interested in you when all they had was curiosity.”
An itch starts in my throat. It feels so much like tears.
Butwhy?
Why is the thought of Richard Sullivan only seeing me as a challenge so painful?
My brain is grappling for a distraction and, as if Fate is on my side, I notice a disturbance at the counter. A woman is holding up the front of the line. Even from behind, she looks terrified. The barista’s billowing nostrils and dark scowl probably isn’t easing her fear.
I notice something in the customer’s ears.
Hearing aids.
Immediately, a surge of protectiveness wells inside me. I pop out of my seat and run over before I’ve truly decided what I want to do.
The barista is throwing her arms around and making a scene. She’s pointing to the back of the line.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Chest burning like a thousand fire ants are crawling under my skin, I stop in front of the counter. Grabbing my phone out of my purse like it’s a police badge, I type in all caps:
ENOUGH
The barista looks at me with big, stunned eyes.
Turning to the woman with the hearing aids, I wave to get her attention, “Are you okay?”
Her entire demeanor shifts. A pretty smile tugs her lips upward and she nods enthusiastically.
“I was trying to order,” she signs. Her jerky movements and the sweat on her upper lip betray her nerves. “But I guess my handwriting wasn’t clear enough.”
A sense of camaraderie forms between us. I have my own memories of holding up a line at a coffee shop. It’s why I write my orders down to the detail whenever I go out to eat. Baristas tend to assume everyone is hearing, and they’ll come back with clarifying questions for an order they don’t understand. It can be extremely stressful, especially when you’re in a hurry.
“Tell me what you want,” I sign.
I help my new friend with her order, type it down in detail and hand it to the barista—who gives me the stink eye of all stinky eyes.
