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“Does feel like you got set up, love.” Thomas swerves, locking out a yellow cab. The driver proves he knows how to use a horn.
“I’m not sure that matters at this point.” I check my seatbelt once more. I might try to convince CeCe I want to walk back to Little Italy or somewhere closer. I might need to go home this evening. I’ve been avoiding it or sneaking in when I know Mom will be in bed or at work. But if CeCe’s right, I need to talk to her. “You really think there’s something wrong with my mom?”
“I do, darling girl, and I worry it’s affected you over the years,” CeCe says as we make it to the Upper East Side and the stores go from over-the-top touristy to blatant shows of wealth. “Your mother might not have intended to do it, but I believe she infected you with a bit of her martyr syndrome. And her need to control the world around her.”
“I know damn well I don’t control anything,” I shoot back.
“Then why is everything your fault?” CeCe replies, her lips tugging up as though she knows she’s made her point.
“You walked right into that,” Thomas says with a sigh.
Yeah. I really had. And now I had something else to think about. I hoped Benjamin didn’t bring even worse news.
Chapter Twenty
When we enter BG, I see Benjamin is already seated at a window table, his head turned so he can look out at the sweeping views of Central Park. It’s quieter than normal, and I realize no one is seated near him. The rest of the restaurant is hopping with lunchtime shopping energy, but there’s a calm surrounding Benjamin and a basic bubble that says do not enter.
“Please tell me he didn’t buy all the tables in that section.” Sometimes it’s weird to be around truly rich people. Most of the time, really.
“Of course he didn’t. I did.” CeCe follows the hostess, and Benjamin turns our way. “If I wanted to listen to people whine about their lives I would… I never want to do that. Benjamin, darling, have you been waiting long? Thomas is off his game. It took us forever.”
It hadn’t. Thomas had pissed off every ride share driver and taxi in his path from Lower Manhattan to the Upper East Side and gotten us here in no time at all.
Then Benjamin’s standing, holding a hand out. He wears an immaculately cut suit and loafers that had probably come from the menswear department across the street. “CeCe, thanks for coming on such short notice.”
“And on so little information,” she chides, giving him two air kisses. “I had to leave Lady Buttercup with Ivy’s slightly unkempt non-boyfriend.”
“He’s not unkempt.” He is very clean. I know because I shower with him most mornings lately. Benjamin leans over and kisses my cheek.
“Does he own slacks with belt loops?” CeCe asks.
“Of course he does.” Now I see it. She’s the meddling mother I never really asked for.
“Does he wear them?”
She has a point, but she lives in a completely different world. There are two tech worlds—the one CeCe lives in and the movies fantasize about, and the real one. That’s the one where we work in basements, buy our Hot Pockets from Costco (seriously, every company gets a membership), and pray the bank that funds us doesn’t suddenly go under. “He’s a coder. He’s always going to be behind a screen. Don’t expect him to be the face of the company.”
“Which is excellent since he doesn’t like to wear pants,” Benjamin says with a shake of his head. “He needs to wear pants to business meetings. I want it in his contract.”
CeCe sits down next to Benjamin.
Ah. My business mom and dad are presenting a united front. I slump into the seat directly across from Benjamin. “He wears pants,” I assure him.
“Ivy should know since she gets into them regularly,” CeCe whispers as a martini magically appears via a bartender who had to have been waiting for her entrance. “Thank you, darling.”
Benjamin has a glass of what is likely incredibly expensive Scotch in front of him. He nods my way. “You should order something.”
So I’m going to need liquid courage. Or comfort. I still have to go back to work, and I don’t want Lydia to think I normally drink my lunch, so I settle on a glass of rosé. We order and when the server is gone, I lean in.
“What is going on? CeCe seems to think the world is ending.”
CeCe frowns. “I certainly do not.”
“Well, you definitely made it seem like an emergency. Somewhere in Little Italy a guy who should be working is currently walking an overly privileged Maltese,” I point out. Or Lydia’s feeding her my ziti, and that feels wrong on all fronts.
“How close are you to being able to announce your project?” Benjamin ignores our banter, preferring to get straight to the point.
