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Cookie Jar?
I have that app on my phone. Everyone I know has that app on their phone.
Well, probably not everyone I know. Everyone of my generation, at least.
It’s a combination banking, investing, and financial literacy app. I’ve used it for nearly a decade.
I reread the first line of the article that mentions his birthday. He’s a couple of years older than me, but he still must’ve started the company when he was barely out of college. Or even before.
I skim the rest of the article, but see nothing that hints at why he’s so secretive. Or why he’s living out here all by himself. Why he never leaves the house.
I click back to the page of results. There’s a profile on the Washington Post. Several things from Forbes magazine. An article in the Wall Street Journal about the sale of the company. A couple of articles about women he’s dated. Beautiful, semi-famous women.
Not an out of work chef among them. No surprise there.
None of the articles are from the past couple of months.
Occasionally, I glance up to see him still standing there, stirring. He says nothing, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. The stiffness in his posture.
Something about the way he’s standing now reminds me of how I used to feel when I cooked for my father. The way my stomach would clinch nervously as I waited for him to taste the food I prepared. Waited for him to judge my talent. My skills. Me.
Waited to hear whether he would deem me worthy of his approval and affection.
I clear my throat. “Thank you. For trusting me with this.”
He carefully sets the wooden spoon down and then turns back to look at me. His expression is cautious and shuttered. Like he’s waiting to hear my verdict.
He’s clearly expecting…
What? what does he think I read in here that would make me judge him?
I know more about him than I did before, but somehow I got the answers to none of my questions.
I still don’t know why he’s isolating himself. Why he lives alone. Why he didn’t want me to know who he is.
“Is it because of the money?”
“What?”
I put the phone down on the island between us and nudge it back in his direction.
“You’re clearly rich.” According to the article in Forbes, very rich. Insanely rich. “Is that why you didn’t want me to know who you were? Because you’re wealthy and you’re afraid people will ask something of you?”
He makes a noise that’s something between a huff of indignation and a scoff of disdain.
“Did you watch the interview with Ava Grayson?”
“No.” I merely glanced through the article that mentioned they dated. And I didn’t watch any videos at all. Other than the quiet bubbling of the sauce and the occasional thud of the spoon against the side of the pan, the kitchen has been completely silent.
“You should watch it.”
“If you can hand me my earbuds…” I nod toward my phone and earbuds that are sitting beside the stove.
“Just play it.” His tone is harsh again. Bitter. “Start just after the three-minute mark.”
Immediately, I click on the video. I automatically turn the volume down and it still feels unnaturally loud in the silence of the kitchen. I move the video along, stopping at just before the three-minute mark.
“We’ll get back to your new movie in a minute,” the interviewer is saying. “But first I want to ask you about your love life.”
