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8) Practice sexual abstinence. This includes with other people.
"You added things," Hayden complains, heaving a massive sigh, exactly how a first grader would when forced to sit for a long period of time.
I hide a smirk. "Oh, did I?"
"Yes. Seven and eight."
"Oopsie." I twirl a loose strand of hair between my fingers. "I wrote them on a whim. Just little additions."
He taps his pen atop the table impatiently. "How is remaining romantically exclusive for a fake relationship a little addition?"
I have my answer charged and ready the moment he goes silent. "Well, you said it yourself. You've never entertained anything romantic, including a relationship, before. So, I thought it'd be easy for you."
His jaw ticks. "It would be if I didn't have to refrain from sex, as per your last little rule. Please, explain the thought process behind why we can't have sex with other people, even though this is all fake."
I shrug. "The thought of not being exclusive makes me... uncomfy." I leave it at that, not wanting to figure out if my real reasoning is more deep-rooted. A long string of curses hisses under his breath, and he looks prepared for another sparring battle, until I say sweetly, "But we can keep negotiating, if you'd like."
In two seconds flat, he scribbles his signature across the dotted line beside mine. And for the first time since Hayden walked back into my life, I feel like I've won. Bested him at something.
Maybe this whole thing will be easier than I thought. Hayden will keep his distance. He won't push boundaries, and he'll stick to the contract. Before I know it, my game will be the front of gaming news, at least for a time, gaining me exposure and players and revenue. Hell, I'll be out of this apron in no time and—
Hayden fishes something from his pocket, stopping my thought dead in its tracks. That look in his eyes... satisfaction swirls through them, as if he was the one who watched me sign the contract, somehow knowing he'd come out on the better side.
Hidden beneath his palm, he pushes something across the table, the sound of metal against metal my only clue. Until he retreats, revealing a single key. It takes me a moment to put two and two together. The key must be for his apartment. A spare key. But...
The initial J is already engraved on it.
TEN
HAYDEN
Upholding my trust fund has turned into a game of 3D chess. Too many players sit at the table, all requiring different narratives of what specific details they can and cannot know. My father and Jeremy and my friends and Juliana's friends and coworkers and her mother and on and on and onnnnnn...
Luckily, I'm a master at this sort of thing.
Rule #5: A playboy keeps his stories straight.
Which is why I have my plan on lockdown, my mind akin to one of those detective cork boards you'd see while watching Mindhunter or Zodiac, with the red strings connecting the suspects and pushpins and shit. Not quite on a genius level—because I'm no nerd—but something really, really close.
What impressive dots am I connecting, you ask? Well, let's recap.
Juliana thinks I am under my father's wing, when in fact, I am—and plan to stay—far, far away from its shadow. On the other hand, my father believes I'm pursuing my real estate license. Although, he's starting to have his doubts, which is why I invited him to lunch.
Keyword I. Not the other way around, like usual, where he'd take the opportunity to lecture me on my disgraceful lifestyle choices and bleak future. Rather, this time, I'm the one who'll do all the talking, by reciting a well-rehearsed elevator pitch. A proposition, one that'll double-down on the two unique truths I'm stretching to him and Juliana, without requiring me to sacrifice my lifestyle choices.
Because convincing my father that I've suddenly abandoned my chronic degeneracy will take more than a respectable girlfriend. That's just one piece of the puzzle. In the words of Jeremy Brooks, you'll have to be more convincing than that... And I will be, whenever this jackass decides to show up to my favorite sushi joint and hears what I have to say.
I tug at my sleeve, glancing down at my watch.
12:50
Our reservation was for 12:30. He's twenty minutes late to lunch with his own son. That's, on average, five minutes longer than I make all my first dates wait for my arrival.
The audacity of this man.
Heaving a sigh, I rest an elbow atop the sushi bar, finding comfort in the familiar atmosphere.
Metro Maki Lounge has always been my breath of fresh air, with a quaint yet luxurious ambiance. A part of me regrets inviting my father here, as if his presence alone might dull the acacia bar top or wither the faux cherry blossoms weaved in between the birch squares wrapping around the ceiling.
