Page 36 of Baxter's Right-Hand Man

“Hey, I’m not judging. I sell high-end home goods to wealthy entrepreneurs and entertainers. The more they buy, the bigger my commission. Everyone is in it for gain. Doesn’t matter what your profession is, either. Like I said, my ex dropped my ass in a New York minute to climb the ladder. Money, recognition. We all want to be noticed.” Lo picked up his wine again and tapped his fingers against the glass. “I’ve been rudely monopolizing the conversation for far too long. Your turn. Tell me about yourself.”

I pushed my bowl aside and squinted. “Uh…”

Awkward. I’d held the record for “most googled” celebrity for two years straight. Any stat the public wanted was a click away. My birthdate, hometown, family members, high school photos, theater productions, commercials, dating history…I’d been told most of it was accurate, but I hadn’t checked in years.

The point is…no one usually asked about me because they already knew about me. Or thought they did. I didn’t know how to respond.

Lorenzo seemed to understand. “Tell me something I wouldn’t find on the Internet.”

Oh, good one.

“I hate cauliflower,” I blurted.

He chuckled. “Why? It’s delish.”

“Wrong. It’s terrible. And baked beans are also very fucking gross.”

He widened his eyes playfully as he stacked our bowls. “Shoot. There goes my dessert idea.”

I grabbed a few dishes and followed him to the sink. “Don’t even joke about it. What about you? Most despised food…go.”

“Pickles.”

“Pistachios,” I countered.

“Pumpkin pie. However, I love all things pumpkin spice.”

“Of course you do,” I teased. “I can be down for pumpkin spice, and I love pumpkin pie. Get this, I was so poor my senior year of high school that I used to steal cans of crappy food I figured no one else wanted from the local market. Soup, beans, canned veggies. And yes, pumpkin pie filling.”

He smacked my biceps playfully. “That’s terrible. You were a kleptomaniac?”

“Yeah. I made it right eventually, but those were tough times. The owner caught me one day and let me tell you, I was shitting bricks. I was scared he’d call the police and I’d get thrown in jail.” I cleared the last of the dishes and leaned against the counter, my arms crossed, while Lo rinsed them off.

“That didn’t happen.”

“Nope. Mr. Manowitz called me into the break room and asked what I liked to eat. I was literally shaking in my boots, and I couldn’t think of anything. But it was Thanksgiving time and there were photos of turkeys and all the usual trimmings, so I told him I liked pumpkin pie. He filled a grocery bag with soups and stuff, and…more pumpkin pie filling than anyone should eat in a lifetime.” I rubbed my belly like a greedy kid. “I ate it all.”

Lorenzo made a gagging noise. “Nasty! What did your parents say when you came home with all those groceries?”

“I didn’t live with them that year.”

He closed the dishwasher and did a double take. “Oh. Where did you live?”

“With a friend’s family.”

“I didn’t know that. It seems like something that would have been common knowledge.”

“Some information doesn’t make the cut,” I replied cryptically.

“Figures. So…why didn’t you live at home? Was it your dad?” Lorenzo washed his hands and dried them, wrinkling his nose as he faced me. “Sorry. If that’s too personal, don’t answer.”

Actually, it was pretty personal. But I could share this with him.

“Things weren’t great with either of my parents, so I kind of invited myself to live with the Smiths, who took me in even though they were always strapped for cash and couldn’t afford to feed another teenager. The deal was an air mattress in Jeff’s room or the living room sofa in exchange for whatever I could afford to put toward utilities. I had a job at a parking garage working in the ticket booth. The pay was decent, but I couldn’t spend it all on food and rent if I wanted to get the hell out of dodge. I gave the Smiths a third, spent the minimal amount on food for myself, and saved the rest.”

“And during that time, you ate a lot of baked beans?”

“Yeah, but never cauliflower.” I did an all-over body shiver and picked up the wine bottle, draining the last few drops from it with a flourish.