I stare at it for a second, then pull back upon recognition. The fifty dollars that I left him. It waves like a flag of shame between his fingers. “Yeah. What about it?”
“What’s the meaning of this? I thought you could do math better.”
The shield that never fails to go up every time somebody questions my competence snaps into position. “Of course. I studied math in college.”
He looks at me up and down. “Where? Five-dollar-diploma-dot-com?”
“The University of Chicago,” I say between clenched teeth. Then, very deliberately, I relax my jaw. He probably jumped to the wrong conclusion. The amount is inexplicable and weird. “I didn’t mean to leave you only fifty bucks, okay? That’s all I had at that time. I went back to the room to add to it.”
Propping his elbow on the headrest, he leans closer. “How much?”
I purse my lips with annoyance. Does he think I’m that ignorant? I know how much a suite like where we stayed costs. “About five hundred.”
He considers. “That’s not bad, although I think an orgasm from me is worth at least a hundred bucks.”
“What? You charge by the orgasm?” Is he, like, a hooker? “Did you get into trouble with your pimp?”
I thought hookers were mostly women, but that’s probably sexist. There’s nothing that says men can’t do it, although it would be such a waste if Court was a gigolo. He’s too handsome and nice… Actually, being good-looking and great in bed probably makes him very good at his job. A high earner for sure.
And why does that bother me so damn much?
“My pimp? Did you think I was trolling for”—he has trouble finding the right word—“a client at the club?”
“Well. Not at the time.”
“Then why did you leave me the money?”
He’s upset about that? “I was trying to pay for my portion of the room.”
“But I already took care of it. Didn’t you see me give them my credit card?”
“So? I pay my own way. We both used the room, so why should you pay for everything?”
He stares at me like I just spoke some more Klingon. Maybe I should have, since he doesn’t seem to comprehend anything anyway.
“Are you rich?” he asks.
Maybe he fell out of the bed and cracked his skull after our one-night stand. “I don’t understand what that has to do with anything, but no, I’m not rich. I do, however, have a job, and I do make my own money.”
He runs a hand over his face, then stares at me like an English major facing a multivariable calculus problem. “It’s just that…I never met a woman who insisted on splitting the bill when there was no, you know, obligation.”
My head is hurting, and I don’t have the energy to explain, but I plow on. Somehow it’s very important that he understand. “I think it’s smart to pay your
own way. That way, there aren’t any weird expectations.”
“You mean like wanting to have brunch the next morning and possibly exchanging phone numbers?”
“Look, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I had to leave because I was scheduled to meet Curie to help her with the wedding stuff.”
“Okay.”
“And I don’t know why you came all the way to track me down. Most people would just try email or something,” I say, my exasperation growing. “What would you have done if I were really getting married?”
Court runs his long fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. Ask what the hell you were doing with me?”
He isn’t quite meeting my eyes. The reddish tint on his face is from more than the sun. I start to speak, but his attention shifts. I look over my shoulder and see Dad standing there, staring at the two of us.
The sun glints off the silver streaking his otherwise brown hair, and his eyes are narrowed. Anxiety knots in my throat.