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“A tiny town in west Texas where everything reeks from the oil refinery. Free lunches at school, drunken uncles who shoot beer bottles off the fence on holidays.”
She’s silent for a moment then nods. “I never would’ve guessed.”
”Exactly.” I wonder how much more to say. I don’t want her to feel self-conscious.
“Okay, but that’s not really an answer though. About why you bought me the dress.”
I shrug. “I remembered you felt self-conscious about your outfit when we ate there together. I know what that feels like. That feeling of not fitting in. Having the clothes to fit in helps.”
“The first time we ate at Le Petit Bistro, I had chicken shit on my pants. And an actual chicken on my lap.” She makes a face of mock outrage. “Did you think I was going to bring one of my chickens?”
I chuckle at the image. “No. I just didn’t want you to have to spend money a grad student doesn’t have to buy yourself something pretty.”
“Savannah would have paid for my dress if I asked her to.”
“Sure.” I pin her with a look. “But did you ask her to?”
Her gaze darts away from mine. “Well, thank you.”
I nod in acknowledgement, even though I’m not sure she gets what I was trying to say.
“When Cookie Jar went public, my whole world flipped upside down. Not unlike the way your life has been flipped upside down with Savannah marrying Ian. If having the right clothes to attend an event will make you more comfortable, you should use that as a crutch. I know I did.”
“I’m not sure I follow. Why when Cookie Jar went public? Is that when Ian hired you?”
It takes me a beat to figure out that she hasn’t put it together yet. I don’t know why that surprises me, but it does. There are some people who google a person the moment they meet them and track down their net worth like they’re on a scavenger hunt. There’s a world of business deals and economic machinations where that’s considered socially acceptable.
I had forgotten that Trinity isn’t part of that world. She comes from the world of academia and it’s not like I have any papers published. Either that or she’s one of the rare people who doesn’t consider someone else’s net worth any of their business.
“I met Ian in college. He developed Cookie Jar without venture capital. When I did things for him like filing patents and articles of incorporation, he paid me in stock options.” When she still doesn’t seem to get it, I lay it out for her bluntly. “When he took the company public, he owned nearly 60 percent of it. I owned the other 40 percent.”
“Oh.” She sinks back in her chair and stares forward, dazed. “Oooooh.” She laughs. “For the life of me I couldn’t figure out how an intellectual property lawyer could afford a condo with that view.” Then she twists in her chair and swats my arm. “And you let me keep my chickens in your closet overnight.”
I nearly chuckle at how horrified she sounds. “You’re getting a little lost in the weeds there.”
“No. I get it. You owe everything to Ian.”
Maybe she really does get it. Still, I add, “Ian is special.”
“Yeah, I get it. Nonprofessional assessment would be: on the spectrum with possible sensory disorders. In addition to an above average IQ.”
“Do you do that with everyone you meet?”
She arches an eyebrow. “Make the assessments like that?”
I nod.
“Professional hazard. But obviously, it’s frowned upon. We’re not supposed to go around diagnosing our friends and family.
“Obviously.”
“But with someone like Ian, it’s pretty obvious.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“What?”
“Ian’s ‘diagnosis’?” I put the word in air quotes.
