I chuckle. “What camp are you in?”
“I’m in a camp all by myself. I think you’re a smart girl who got in over her head, but still somehow thinks she stands a chance at winning. And that makes me curious about what cards you’ve got close to your chest but aren’t willing to play yet.”
“You know what they say about curiosity,” I say.
“That it killed the cat?”
“Would you consider yourself more of a cat person or a dog person?”
“Can’t say I know anymore. You?”
I shrug, missing Prince Fluffington, but not wanting to dwell on another missing loved one. “I’m just banking on the ‘satisfaction brought it back,’ part of the rhyme.”
This gets another laugh from the man, and we finish our run in companionable silence.
Trips’ father has a small table set up in his office within view of the rose garden, the drizzle bringing night early, streaks of rain against the panes beside us like a never-ending stream of tears.
“Youasked for a meeting.” He lifts the tumbler of amber liquid and sniffs it, his focus purely on the scotch, my presence obviously superfluous.
The last thing I want to do is charm the man opposite me. Everything he is, everything he’s done, clings to him like the mud that’s still coating my tennis shoes from earlier. “Yes,” I say, still uncertain what tack to take now that my cover as a sweet, simple girl has been blown wide.
“If it’s about my son, I’ve decided to release him later tonight. So, if that’s why you’re here, you can save your breath.”
Relief courses through me. “Thank you,” I say, knowing that the courtesy is the bare minimum effort I have to put in if I want him thoroughly distracted from our plans. I’ll need to do more. Even if it makes me sick. “I’m glad you’ve decided we’ve paid our dues.”
His breath comes hard out through his nostrils. “Don’t bother sucking up. I know it’s fake.”
“True. But I’m still grateful that you’re letting him out.”
He looks over at me, taking in my fussy blouse and my attempt to contain my hair in a French braid. I’d debated straightening it, like I used to do back when I let Bryce’s ‘suggestions’ become standards I had to meet, but I just can’t do it. I’ve always been a bit unruly, working extra hard to look and act perfect to make sure no one knew how deep my ambition went.
It went deep enough for me to end up here, and if the rest of me still has to squeeze into a picture of perfection, I’m holding onto the one part of me that has never cooperated.
“Why don’t you know how to play chess?” he asks, a question that has to lead somewhere, even if I can’t see the destination right now.
“It’s not commonly taught where I’m from.”
“Whatistaught there, then?”
I think back to the kinds of lessons I’d learned growing up, knowing honesty will go a long way with this monster of a man. “I learned that most people are just trying to make it through the day. Very few people give a damn about you, and when you find the ones that do, you should hold on to them tight. I learned that there are very few paths out of there, but that it’s not as impossible as it can feel. Although a single misstep can fuck you over for years, so every move you make has to be carefully calibrated.”
“Those are just good life skills. Work hard, trust few, be better than average, and don’t tolerate mistakes.”
A shiver runs under my skin, but I keep it from showing. “You seem disappointed with my answer. What sorts of things did you think I learned?”
He runs the tumbler against his bottom lip, setting it back down and taking a bite of his salad, his nostrils flared like the romaine is a personal affront. He washes it down with water. “Not that you’d tell me, but maybe you ran drugs for a boyfriend, or conned other kids out of their lunch money.”
“Did you do those things growing up?”
“Of course not. My father raised me right.”
“So did mine. Yet here we sit.”
I take a few bites of my dinner, wondering where to go from here, realizing that my silence is probably the best course, at least until I figure out if I should distract him with flash orsubterfuge. So the rest of dinner passes without conversation, the mutter of the rain accompanying the scrape of forks and knives against the plates.
The dishes are whisked away, and I sit there, at a loss with my attempts to read this monster the way I figured I’d be able to. He seems to want my honesty, which I can give, to a point, but I don’t see how it will be enough of a distraction for everything I need to happen over the middling amount of time I have left. I risk a question, feeling him out further. “I was wondering if I could ask about the wedding party.”
“You want your little pink-haired friend there? I’ll have you know, giving me her name will guarantee that she’ll find out what happens to people who practice medicine without a license.”
