I glance at the bookshelves around me. They’re all modern books, lots of paperbacks. Nothing leather-bound just for show.
“You don’t seem impressed,” he says.
I shrug. “I know the type.”
My fag has burned down to the filter. I look around for somewhere to stub it out. He lifts a bronze dish off the desk; it’s some sort of award. “Here.”
“I’m disrespectful,” I say, “but I’m not rude.”
He laughs. He’s a bit good-looking when he laughs. “It’s okay. It’s mine.”
I stub out my cigarette. “This isyourhouse?”
“Uh-huh. Does that impress you?”
“Morgana, no. What does someone your age need a golf course for?”
“I like golf,” he says. “And I like having a big house. For weekends like this.”
“It takes all kinds, I suppose.”
“You can be cynical if you want.”
“I am.”
“But cynicism doesn’t accomplish anything.”
“Untrue,” I say. “Cynicism saves lives.”
“Never.”
“There are so many things that will never kill me because I wouldn’t be caught dead doing them.”
“Like what?”
I brush ash off my dress. “Mountain climbing.”
“Is that cynicism or cowardice?”
“Honestly—” I pause. “What’s your name?”
“Braden.”
“Of course it is…” I mumble, taking him in. “Honestly, Braden, I’m too cynical to care.”
He takes a step closer. “I’d like to change your mind.”
“Thanks, but I’ve just got out of a cult. I’m not looking for a rebound cult.”
He smiles. He’s flirting with me now. “We aren’t a cult.”
“You are, I think.” I’m notquiteflirting back.
“Is the Catholic Church a cult?”
“Yes. Are you actually comparing yourself to Catholicism?”
He pulls his head back. “Wait, you think the Church is acult?”
