Page 19

Chapter Nineteen

Andrew

It’s Saturday night, and I’m watching my dinner rotate behind the microwave glass like it’s auditioning for a particularly sad episode of Food Network.

According to my experimentation, this chicken tikka masala needs exactly four minutes and thirty-seven seconds to achieve the perfect balance of hot enough to kill any potentially dangerous bacteria and not so hot the sauce separates into disturbing orange oil slicks.

I’m not sure why I’m subjecting myself to a microwave meal when I know Justin’s not even in the apartment building right now. He’s out on a date with the winning bidder from the auction.

Which, technically, is me.

I feel bad knowing he’s sitting alone, waiting for someone who will never show up. Maybe I should have hired an actress to be his mysterious date? Someone he could have wined and dined to make the whole thing more believable.

But I don’t want to think about Justin charming some beautiful woman, making her laugh like he makes me laugh.

And I don’t want to think about why I don’t want to think about it.

Shit. As I take my pitiful dinner to the table, I can’t get the thought of Justin sitting by himself out of my mind. So I quickly log in to the auction app and send a message to Maria under my fake profile saying I’ve been unavoidably detained.

There.

That soothes my conscience so I can enjoy my microwave meal without feeling guilty. Well, as much as someone can enjoy a microwave meal anyway.

I’m two bites in and puzzling over whether the crunchiness is intentional or accidental when my phone buzzes with an incoming call.

I’m expecting it to be Leo. I’ve avoided returning his last call because I don’t know what update to give him about my revenge project. I don’t know how to describe what’s happening between Justin and me at the moment.

We’re…good friends? It’s exactly what I aimed for, yet the term doesn’t quite feel right. Is the other element I sense in our friendship just because I’m concealing such a deep secret from him? Does Justin suspect this? Because sometimes I catch him watching me with an expression I can’t interpret.

I actually don’t have that much experience with proper friendship to accurately judge what’s happening. And the most messed-up thing is the reason I don’t have experience with friendship is partly because of how Justin’s bullying led to me being socially isolated.

I take a deep breath. I really should bite the bullet and stop avoiding Leo’s calls. Talking it through might help me untangle the complexity of emotions I have around Justin. I mean, the Revenge Club is supposed to be about talking things through, right?

But when I pick up my phone, it’s not Leo calling. It’s a video call from Justin Morris.

My mouth goes dry. Justin has never video-called me before.

Has he somehow linked the anonymous date who never showed up with me? Is the whole thing about to blow up in my face?

I answer with shaky fingers. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Justin’s sitting at a white-clothed table. Behind him, the floor-to-ceiling windows show the city lights dancing on the water of the Thames.

I manage to make my voice sound casual. “What’s up?”

“I was just wondering what you’re doing right now? Because my date never showed, and Maria said everything’s been prepaid and that I should invite someone, and I was just thinking…” Justin adjusts his collar, a flush creeping up his neck. “I mean, if you’re not busy… It would be a shame to waste these reservations, right? So, I thought you might want to join me? Have you eaten dinner yet?”

I push my glasses back on my face. “Um…I’m just starting to eat now.”

“Well, now’s your chance for an upgrade on your microwave meal.”

I look down, eyeing my sweatpants.

“I’m not sure the TīNG will cope with my Star Wars track pants,” I say. “It’ll take me a while to get dressed appropriately and get to you.”

In the video, Justin’s perfect forehead furrows. “How did you know I’m at the TīNG?”

Shit.

My heart starts to race and my face feels hot.

“Ah… You must have mentioned you were having dinner at the TīNG? Or maybe someone at the auction mentioned where the date was happening.”

Justin’s face clears of all suspicion. “Tell you what, you get ready as fast as you can. I’ll send you a photo of the menu, you can decide what you want to eat, and I’ll order it for you. Deal?”

“Deal,” I say, my voice wobbly.

I end the call and get to my feet.

It would be strange if I declined his offer, right? I mean, Justin and I are friends, and I’ve spent lots of time at London tourist attractions with him, plus eaten many meals together. Combining the two in what was originally meant as a date isn’t weird, is it?

I set a land speed record for how fast someone can get ready, pulling on the suit I wore for the shelter fundraiser.

It’s not until I’m in the Uber that my phone pings with a photo of the menu and a message.

I had to Google a whole lot of things to work out what everything was, so I can explain anything you want interpreted, but I’m figuring you’re not going to go past the beetroot salad for your appetizer and the salmon for your main course, right?

I look at the menu.

And he’s right. That’s exactly what I want to order. Justin apparently clocked how much I enjoyed the beetroot in the hot vegetable salad he made last week. And when we ate together after visiting Hampton Court, he’d teased me as I’d practically inhaled the hot-smoked salmon, telling me it was a “borderline inappropriate display of fish appreciation.”

My fingers tremble as I type the message back.

Yup, those sound great, thanks. Your psychic food powers are amazing.

After I’ve sent the message, my head falls back, clunking against the backseat of the Uber, as I clench my eyes closed.

I should find the fact that Justin knows exactly what I would order disturbing, right?

Or maybe it’s just a sign of how well I’m managing to carry off this revenge plan. Justin knows me well enough to predict my eating habits. It’s the ultimate sign of friendship.

But I can’t stop my stomach from churning, nausea surging inside me.

When I arrive at the restaurant on the thirty-fifth floor, I follow the hostess through what feels like an obstacle course of wealthy diners, trying not to knock over expensive wine bottles with my elbows.

Justin’s at a corner table, his jacket draped over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms.

He’s scrolling through his phone, and when he glances up and sees me, his smile transforms his whole face.

It’s not his polished sales-guy smile. It’s his happy grin, the one I’ve only seen when he’s at home with his cats or when we’re debating the merits of different M&M colors.

He gets out of his chair as I approach, and for a moment, we just stare at each other, the city lights twinkling outside the window like we’re in some romantic movie.

I push my glasses up my nose, suddenly hyperaware of the way his shirt pulls slightly across his shoulders as he reaches to pull out my chair, how the soft lighting catches the angles of his face.

“You came,” he says.

“It appears I did,” I reply.

“You’ve got perfect timing because the food just arrived,” he says.

His words give me an excuse to tear my gaze away from him and check out my beetroot salad, which is arranged neatly on a pristine white plate.

I sit awkwardly.

“This looks great,” I say as I unfold my napkin. “Definitely better than what I had lined up for dinner anyway.”

“I’m really glad you could come,” Justin says as he settles back in his chair. “Although I feel bad for the mystery bidder who didn’t show and has nothing to show for all that money.”

“I’m fairly sure that helping the charity was their primary motivation rather than going on a date with you,” I say.

“Gee, thanks.” His eyes crinkle in a smile.

“No offense intended.”

“None taken. I was actually very worried about how I could make it a date worth seventy-five thousand pounds,” he says.

“Are you disappointed they didn’t show?” I take a bite of the salad, keeping my eyes on my plate.

“A little,” Justin says. “I was nervous, but I was actually looking forward to meeting them. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who can throw around that kind of money, so I was interested in how they would be different from me.”

There’s a weird feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with the quality of the beetroot salad I’m eating.

“Different, like whether they have a diamond-encrusted phone case? Or maybe they only drink water that’s been blessed by Tibetan monks?”

Justin cuts into his perfectly seared scallop. “No, not different in that way. I don’t know… I guess I just wonder if having that much money means you stop seeing price tags altogether. Like, does the world become this place where everything is just…available? Where you never have to choose or make trade-offs?”

“Money can’t buy happiness,” I say.

I know this only too well. When I made my first million, I kept refreshing my banking app like it was a social media feed, addicted to watching the numbers climb. Each new milestone felt like leveling up in a game where the score was kept in zeros.

Then, every transaction started to feel surreal. It was almost comical, casually paying for coffee with a card linked to an account that could buy the entire coffee shop chain.

For an insane second, I want to tell Justin. I want to explain how I deceived myself into thinking that somehow those numbers could rewrite history, could retroactively make teenage Drew’s life easier.

How it didn’t actually work.

Yet my money sometimes still feels like armor. The ultimate protection against ever feeling powerless again.

But I can’t share that with Justin.

The churning feeling has returned.

“Yeah, I know money can’t buy happiness. But it gives you more choices, right?” Justin asks.

Like the choice to get revenge on your high school bully when he doesn’t recognize you?

He’s right that money gives you choices, but from my experience, sometimes it gives you too many, making it impossible to pick the right path.

I try to focus on Justin, who continues to speak. “I’d love more money so I could help my mom more. I’d love to buy her a house so she can settle in one place and not have to worry about the landlord raising the rent.”

“How’s your mom doing? Is she enjoying her new car?” I seize the chance to try to steer this conversation in a different direction.

Justin leans back in his chair, toying with his napkin on his lap. “Good. I think she likes driving it. And because it’s so much more reliable, she could get a job at a craft store farther away from her apartment, which she seems to enjoy more than the diner she was working at before.”

“Oh, that’s good.”

“That’s the thing, right? We say money doesn’t buy happiness, but it does help get you out of bad situations. In fact, sometimes it’s the only way out.”

He glances up at me, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen his eyes a more vivid blue-green as he stares at me.

“My mom was trapped for a long time in a really bad relationship with my stepfather. And a big reason she didn’t leave was because of money.”

I don’t know what to say. Suddenly, my cliché “money doesn’t buy happiness” seems hollow and na?ve.

Justin’s shoulders hunch as he continues to speak. “That’s the thing about controlling people.” His voice is raw, like it’s been scraped across something painful. “They make you believe you can’t survive without them. My stepfather… He’d tell my mom she was worthless and no one else would want her. And because she couldn’t afford to leave, she started believing him.”

My throat feels tight, like someone’s wrapped their hands around it and squeezed.

“That must have been hard to watch,” I manage to get out.

Justin runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, it was. I’d lie awake at night listening to him berate her, making all these plans about how I’d help her once I was old enough.” His voice goes quiet. “The day I got my first real paycheck, I opened a secret bank account for her. I was living in corporate housing with other guys in Houston so she couldn’t come to live with me, but every commission, every bonus went straight into that bank account. Bobby Ray never knew.”

Oh my god.

“How long did it take to save enough money?”

“Eight months. Eight months of overtime and networking events I hated and saying yes to every client who wanted to schedule meetings at seven a.m.” His smile holds a sharp edge like it’s not really a smile. “But seeing her face when I showed her the account balance… she cried when she realized she finally had a choice.” Justin swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “She said it was the first time she’d felt hope in years.”

The mixture of pain and pride on Justin’s face makes me want to reach over the table to comfort him. My fingers twitch with the need to touch him. I have to restrain myself.

“And she got away from him okay?”

“Yeah, I mean, it wasn’t the easiest because he tried to stop her. Threatened to ruin her credit, said he’d make sure she’d never be able to rent anywhere decent. But I had enough saved by then to help her find somewhere new. It isn’t much, just a tiny apartment above a laundromat, but it’s hers.”

My mouth feels dry.

Justin had mentioned at St Paul’s how he and his mom lived with his stepfather when he was in high school. A stepfather Justin then did everything he could to help his mother escape from.

My chest aches as the pieces start clicking into place. Justin’s careful kindness with Amos, his protectiveness of his cats, the way he always seems to notice when someone needs help. All of it born from him spending years watching someone he loved being torn down.

The Justin paradox I’ve been struggling with, the difference between the high school version of Justin and who he is now, is suddenly becoming clearer.

He was obviously dealing with a lot more than I realized back then.

What did the research say? People who feel powerless often become bullies themselves.

I try to wrench my mind away from that thought to continue the conversation with Justin.

“Did your mother leave your stepfather before or after you came to London?”

“She left him about two years before I came over here. DTL Enterprises offered me a job in London for way more money, and I knew I’d be able to help her more. She walked away without a single cent from Bobby Ray, so she has no retirement savings, pension, or assets. She basically had to start from scratch at fifty. I tried to get her to come with me, but she didn’t want to leave her friends in Texas.”

“What about you? Did you find it hard to leave Texas?”

Justin’s jaw clenches. “No. I didn’t find it hard. I was pretty much done with Texas when I got the transfer offer.”

The server comes to clear the plates then, and the clink of expensive china being whisked away seems to snap us out of the intensity of the moment. We both lean back.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to unload all that on you.” He runs his hand through his hair again, rumpling it at the back.

“It’s okay,” I say automatically.

“I’ve actually never told anyone all of that.”

I blink at him. The idea that I’m the first person Justin has told about his mother and stepfather sends unexpected warmth through me, followed immediately by guilt.

What right do I have to be his confidant?

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” I say softly.

“Yeah, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?”

His words echo in my brain.

Aren’t those the exact words I said to Leo when I was talking about my high school experience?

The parallel leaves me breathless.

But before I have a chance to process, another server arrives with our next course. He sets our plates down with a practiced flair, and the aromas of lemongrass and coconut provide a welcome distraction.

“So,” Justin says, a grin returning to his face as he surveys his plate, “want to place bets on whether this pork belly is worth more than my coffee maker?”

I know his smile is forced because I now know the difference between Justin’s smooth, charming smile and his real smile. The corners of his mouth lift, but his eyes remain fixed, missing that subtle crinkle that appears when he’s genuinely amused.

But I understand what he’s doing. He’s trying to reset the tone of the evening, trying to wrap his confession in the comfort of our usual banter, using humor as emotional bubble wrap.

And I’m happy to oblige him if that’s what he needs.

“Considering your coffee maker sounds like it’s summoning ancient demons every time you make a cup, that’s a pretty low bar to clear.”

His laugh echoes across the table. “Hey, those are sophisticated brewing noises. Some people pay extra for that kind of ambiance.”

I watch as he cuts into his pork belly with surgical precision. The way his forearms flex as he handles his knife and fork shouldn’t be this distracting.

The salmon practically dissolves on my tongue. I can’t help the appreciative noise that escapes as I take another bite.

Justin seems equally impressed with his own dish.

“You have to try this,” he says, carefully constructing the perfect bite with a piece of crackling balanced on top and extending it toward me. “It’s like they’ve discovered a whole new dimension of crunchiness.”

I stare at the fork for a few seconds before I lean forward to take what he’s offering.

Is it my imagination, or does Justin’s gaze linger on my lips as I chew and swallow?

The combination of textures, with the crispy exterior giving way to tender meat, sends my taste buds into sensory overload.

“You’re right. That’s some extreme crunchiness,” I say. “But why do I feel like sharing it with me was a ploy to get your mouth on my salmon?”

Justin’s eyes twinkle. “Are you saying you’re not planning to share with me?”

I glance down at my plate. “Maybe I’m civilized and don’t believe in food communism.”

Justin raises an eyebrow. “Food communism? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“If the collectively-owned fork fits…”

He snorts with laughter, almost choking on his wine. “You know, I don’t think other people have problems sharing their food. Most people would be trying to impress their date with their dish-picking skills.”

The word “date” hangs between us before he hastily adds, “I mean, not that this is… You know, since you’re just filling in…”

“Right,” I say quickly. “Though we’ve established my diet mainly consists of microwave cuisine and whatever food you feed me in sympathy, so I’m not sure if food is my area to impress with.”

“How is your relationship with the M&S macaroni and cheese progressing?”

“We’re taking some time apart actually. I caught it seeing other microwaves behind my back.”

Justin’s laugh makes the couple at the next table turn to look at us, but I can’t bring myself to care.

Not when he’s looking at me like that, his eyes bright with amusement and something softer.

Instead, I carefully portion off a bite of my salmon and hold it out to him. “Here. Consider this reparation for impugning your culinary sharing ethics.”

Justin eyes my fork like it might be booby-trapped. “Are you sure you want to do this? Sharing food is a slippery slope. Next thing you know, you’ll be letting people borrow your phone charger.”

“I’m willing to risk it,” I say, trying to ignore how the light catches the hints of gold in his hair. “Though I draw the line at Netflix passwords.”

“The sacred hierarchy of sharing: food, chargers, streaming services. At least I know where I stand,” he says.

He accepts the bite with a flourish that shouldn’t be as charming as it is.

“That is really good,” he says after he swallows.

“Not as good as your chili though,” I say.

“Just wait until you try my experimental recipes,” Justin says, his eyes twinkling. “I’m thinking of combining Yorkshire pudding with Tex-Mex.”

“That sounds like a cultural incident waiting to happen,” I say. “We might need UN intervention.”

“Cultural fusion, Drew. It’s called cultural fusion.”

“I think fusion implies some level of harmony,” I say. “What you’re proposing sounds more like a hostile takeover.”

Justin laughs, and I get caught up in how his whole face transforms when he’s genuinely amused, making my stomach do increasingly complicated acrobatics.

As the server clears our plates, Justin surveys the restaurant.

“I think this is the fanciest place I’ve ever eaten at. I can’t believe we get to experience it for free.”

Actually, Justin, I paid seventy-five thousand pounds for this experience.

“It is pretty incredible,” I say instead.

“Do you think you’ll have room for dessert?”

“I’m sure I can be persuaded.”

After the server brings the dessert menus, Justin starts an animated analysis of which dessert to choose. But I’m finding it difficult to concentrate on something as mundane as dessert.

The way the city lights frame him through the window behind our table isn’t helping my concentration. Neither is the way he keeps leaning forward when he talks, like he’s sharing secrets meant just for me.

My stomach twists.

Oh, holy hell.

I’ve suddenly realized exactly what my stomach aerobics around Justin actually mean.

They’re not only because he’s so gorgeous.

I’m developing feelings for Justin Morris. Not friendship feelings, not revenge-plot feelings, but actual heart-racing, palm-sweating, completely inappropriate romantic feelings.

When Leo was talking about creating rules for Revenge Club, we didn’t get around to establishing them all, but I’m fairly sure Don’t develop a crush on the straight guy you’re getting revenge on will be high on the list.

I’m going to have to end this before I fall deeper into my crush. But do I end it by telling Justin the truth? Or do I simply walk away?

The thought of changing the way Justin looks at me makes my chest hurt.

But then, so does the thought of walking away.

I push all those thoughts out of my mind.

Because right now, I’m going to stop analyzing everything and just enjoy being in the moment.

There will be plenty of time for regrets tomorrow.