Except that’s only half true, and worse because of it.
I shouldn’t have gotten close. Falling for Ash ruins my neat little stereotype and makes it impossible to tell myself it’s all his fault. I broke my rule. I let someone matter. I should’ve run sooner. That’s what my mom did. But I thought this time,this one time, I could stay.
“But it isa littlehis fault,” Jamal says.
“A lot his fault.”
I take a swallow of rum and Coke, extra heavy on the rum. It tastes familiar, the old buzz wrapped around my latest disaster.
Jamal’s Tendernob apartment is a chaotic explosion of color. It’s not nice, but it is stuffed with Beanie Babies. That bandwagon left decades ago, but Jamal caught it and never let go, big-eyed creatures distracting from the stained ceiling and old floors he’s covered with hand-me-down throws.
This is the kind of apartment I deserve. Not even. I couldn’t afford this without Alistair or Ash propping me up.
“I mean, what kind of monster throws a surprise gallery for their artist boyfriend?” Jamal pauses, and I give him thedon’t you darelook. “So manipulative.”
I launch an inchworm Beanie off the couch at his head. It sails over him, smacks the TV, and drops into one of his little plush shrines.
“You’re supposed to be on my side,” I say.
“I am on your side. I’m just saying, there’s two sides.” He shifts up to sit. “Like Ash’s big, beautiful biceps?—”
Jamal actually loses his train of thought, staring dreamily at a shelf.
“Hello?” I wave my glass. “You were making a point?”
“I’m saying there’s two,” he repeats.
“Thanks. Ash has two arms. That clears everything up.” I sink deeper into the worn couch, its rough fabric scratching my skin. “No Alistair. No Ash. No rent money.”
A purple bear hits me in the face and almost drops into my drink.
“Tell me that’s not the main thing you’re upset about,” Jamal says.
“A little!” I protest. “This is a real problem.”
“You sold paintings,” Jamal says. “You’re talented. You’re funny. You have excellent taste in friends. Ash will come around.”
“Not if he loses his job,” I say. “Would I come around if Ash did something that meant I couldn’t paint anymore?”
“It’s not the same,” he says.
“It is to him. He cares more about money than anything.”
“Not more than you.” Jamal slurps rum through a Minnie Mouse twisty straw.
“Uh, that theory has just been proven false,” I mutter.
“Fine. Then play me the recording.”
He shifts onto his knees and scoots closer, holding out his hand. The recording is the only part of my plan that worked and proves that I didn’t just roll over. I pull out my phone.
“He didn’t even care,” I say. “This could literally save Ash’s job. If Alistair does something stupid, we can blackmail him with this.”
“Play. The. Recording.” Jamal claps with each word.
I open the recorder app. Nausea smears the whole night into one murky streak as I scroll, half expecting there to be nothing at all.
But there it is, at the top of the list: a twenty-two minute conversation between me and a billionaire.
