Page 17 of Say My Name

The answer is simple, a fact gathered over four years of working together. I know plenty about him too. I know which scotch he orders when he’s celebrating and which one he pours when a deal has gone to hell. I know he takes off his watch when he intends to stay at the office past midnight. I know the exact way he runs his thumb along the side of his watch when he’s holding back a question.

He’s doing it now.

The easy rhythm of our conversation slows, and the space between us fills with everything we aren’t saying. The binder may be locked in my office, but neither of us has forgotten it.

“You’re going to rub a mark into that band,” I say.

His thumb stops. “What?”

“Your watch. You do that when you’re deciding whether to challenge someone.”

“You’ve studied me.”

“I’ve survived a lot of meetings with you.”

He changes lanes, quiet again.

“You can ask,” I tell him.

“I haven’t asked permission yet.”

“I’m saving us time.”

“Can I ask you about the binder?”

The directness of the request throws me.

My ex never asked once he believed he had earned access to me. My plans became subjects he could weigh in on, my schedule something to rearrange. Even my career decisions eventually required a version he found acceptable.

Dominic waits, his hands steady on the wheel.

“You can ask,” I say. “I may decide not to answer.”

“I know.”

That helps.

The valet opens my door before Dominic can continue.

Our table is set apart from the main dining room. I can hear muted conversations and low music beyond the partition, but no one is close enough to overhear us. There are no balloons, no candle waiting beside my plate, and absolutely no indication that anyone intends to sing.

Dominic takes the chair across from me. “Acceptable?”

“It depends. Have you threatened the staff?”

“I told them you would leave if anyone publicly acknowledged your birthday.”

“So you did threaten them.”

“I stated the likely consequence.”

The first course arrives, and Dominic waits until the server leaves to return to the subject.

“How many weighted categories are in your donor-selection model?”

I set down my fork. “There is no model.”

“I saw the tabs.”