Page 18

Dinner with Friends

Abi

“Well, you already know that I work at Benny’s and for Masterkleen,” I said, swallowing my food before picking up my wineglass while wondering what it would hurt to share a little. “I’m also in grad school—final year, thank God—getting my MFA.”

His eyebrows knitted together like he was confused. “Wait, what? You’re getting your master’s?”

“That is the goal of graduate school, yes,” I said slowly, cutting another piece of steak.

I wasn’t sure I’d ever had a better piece of meat.

“ Not in finance?” he clarified, then took a bite of his pesto penne with prosciutto (which looked very good, by the way).

Now it made sense, the confusion. He’d obviously googled me and knew I had a degree in finance, and for someone like him, it probably made zero sense why I’d want to do anything other than make the absolute most money I possibly could.

I cut another piece and said, “Not in finance. I’m studying fiction writing. ”

I don’t know what I saw pass over his face, judgment or mockery perhaps, but he recovered and said, “Explain how you went from finance to fiction.”

“Well,” I said, shrugging and deciding to be honest about this part of my life. I wasn’t sure if it was the wine— probably was —but I kind of felt like opening up to him a little.

I knew he assumed I was just a grocery clerk with a crappy apartment, but I felt compelled to show him that wasn’t all.

I said, “I graduated from college and got a job in finance, wherein I quickly discovered that I hated it. Like, hated it so much I could barely get out of bed every day. I decided to go back to school out of desperation, wanting to find literally anything else I could do with my life that would pay a decent salary but not steal my soul. I took a fiction writing class in the summer, fell madly in love, then discovered I could jump right into the MFA program with my existing bachelor’s. ”

“Really,” he said, looking intrigued.

“Every single writing class I’ve ever taken has been, like, pure serotonin for me,” I said. “And my MFA advisor, Anna Vaccaro, is this accomplished lit-fic writer who is everything I want to be.”

“So you want to write books?” he asked.

“No, I mean, maybe,” I corrected, dipping my fork into the face-size baked potato.

“But writing doesn’t come with guarantees, like a salary and benefits sort of thing; it’s a constant hustle.

Which I’m fine with on the side, but I just couldn’t live with that lack of security.

No, I want to be a writing professor. I want to spend my days workshopping with students, rolling around in stories and characterization until I have tenure.

Then I can write on the side and see what happens. ”

“Is there a lot of money in that?” he asked. “In being a writing professor?”

I shook my head, knowing this was the part of the story he wouldn’t be able to understand. “No. But there is enough. If I can earn a decent paycheck doing what I love, that’s all I need.”

“Interesting,” he said, and I felt like he meant it. He probably meant it in a that’s-interesting-that-people-don’t-always-care-about-money way, but he still looked like he was interested in what I was saying.

“So tell me, Declan, what do you like about your job? Is it just that you’re good at making lots of money, or are there other things about it that you enjoy?”

Was that insulting? I hadn’t meant to sound insulting, but maybe it’d been insulting.

“What do I like about my job?” he repeated. “Other than the money?”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “For example, do you love that you get to make PowerPoint slides, or do you work with a super-fun bunch of wild-ass execs, or is it all about the joy you get in composing memorandums? What is your favorite part of the vice presidency?”

He tilted his head. “No one ever asks me that.”

“About the memorandums?”

“No, about my favorite part.”

“Well they should, and I’m dying to know.”

He furrowed his brow and looked into space for a moment before saying, “I like exploring the potential of an idea, I guess you could say. I like combing through data and drilling into possibilities for new directions. There is nothing quite like the buzz of coming up with a new strategy and seeing it come to fruition.”

“If it does , right?”

He smiled. “Right.”

“Did you always want to be a businessman?” I asked.

“Definitely,” he said. “My great-grandmother started the business, and I grew up watching my grandmother expand all of her work. She was always looking for new and better ways to grow CrashPad’s footprint and I guess I’m the same way with Hathaway.”

“I can’t imagine having a family business,” I said, but really thinking that I couldn’t imagine having a real family at all. It’d always just been me and my mother; that was it. “I bet you’re so proud of it.”

“I am,” he said. “I mean, technically it isn’t the family business anymore; it’s a Hathaway company. But it still feels like ours because we’ve stuck to the same core principles.”

It was confusing to my brain, listening to him talk about his job, because it seemed nice.

I respected the way he seemed to be super committed to his family’s company and now the company they’d merged with; it felt loyal and it was obvious he worked his ass off.

I mean, when he wasn’t schmoozing with other Hathaway people, he was constantly on his phone.

And the man wasn’t checking his Instagram or playing Candy Crush.

No, he was always engaging with his email.

But as impressive as it was that he was a hard worker, I still couldn’t write off the fact that he lived in a multimillion-dollar apartment and drove a luxury car that he’d had created specifically for him.

His work ethic might be admirable, but he was still a man who was okay with spending millions of dollars on stuff.

And I needed to remember that.

“So did you grow up here?” he asked. “How many siblings? Give me your origin story, Mariano.”

I looked down at my food and tried to come up with a way to make it sound more interesting than it was.

Tried and failed. I said, “I did. I grew up in Omaha, am an only child, graduated from Millard South.”

“Do your parents still live here?”

I took a bite of potato, and after I swallowed, I said, “My mom does, but my dad died when I was in grade school. So my family pretty much just consists of my mother and me.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, getting a crinkle between his perfect dark eyebrows. He looked genuinely sad for me, and I imagined that for someone like him, it was the most pathetic origin story he’d ever heard. “I mean, I know a lot of time has passed, but it still has to be hard.”

“It’s fine,” I said awkwardly, then took a gulp of wine.

Was it weird that I was a functioning adult who still didn’t know how to respond to someone when they expressed their condolences about my dad who died a very long time ago?

Yes.

“I know CrashPad started here,” I said to change the subject. “So I’m assuming you grew up in Omaha, too?”

“I did,” he said, nodding as he scooped up another bite of pasta. “Born and raised here, graduated from Creighton Prep, went to college on the East Coast but came back to settle down and work.”

“Where on the East Coast?” I asked.

I’d always been obsessed with that part of the country. I’d never been farther east than Florida, and there was just something about places like Boston, Manhattan, and Philadelphia that called to me.

“Cambridge. Massachusetts,” he said.

“So you went to Harvard.” Something about the fact that he didn’t say he went to Harvard irritated me. It felt like he was trying to get something past me; maybe I was just paranoid.

“I did,” he said, giving a nod and setting his fork on his now empty plate.

“It’s an okay school,” I said, “if you’re into that kind of education.”

His lips slid into a smirk that was hot in the way it was playful. “What kind would that be?”

“Excellent, I guess you might say,” I said. “If not slightly overpriced.”

I cut another piece of steak, fully aware that he was finished with his meal. Dexxie might be done, but I wasn’t walking away from this filet until my plate was clean.

“Yes, I guess you could say I was into an excellent-yet-slightly-overpriced education.”

I nodded. “I can see that about you.”

“Is there anything that makes you less of a smartass?” he asked, his eyes all over my face.

“Shots of tequila, but that doesn’t seem like a good move on jewelry night.”

He was quiet for a second before asking, “How do you hold your liquor, Mariano?”

“Very well, Powell.”

“Then let’s do a shot and try to sweeten you up before the event.”

I raised an eyebrow. “If you’re shooting for sweet, you better make it two.”