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What am I going to do about it?

Then circle back to see what I’ve missed.

So what could she be doing with her life outside of waitressing and journalism? Gossip or news? I can’t see her doing either, quite honestly.

Lacing my fingers together, I push them out in front of me, giving them a sharp flex. Then type:

Scenario 1: She came to fuck my shit up.

That she woke yesterday morning and thought to herself, You know whose life I haven’t ruined lately? Troy Templeton’s.

A smile tugs at my mouth. That would be a little random, but still.

I begin to type again.

Scenario 2: She wants something from me.

But what? I sit back in my chair.

My body?

Well, she sure shook. But not with excitement. Until we kissed. I’m not going down that line of thinking.

My cash?

She didn’t ask for anything. She didn’t bat her eyelashes, flatter me, or stick out her tits. And the Clara I knew and . . . whatever, she was never much into subtlety.

My influence?

She didn’t pitch me anything or tell me about her fabulous idea for a new product line, which happens more often these days than I’d like. Plus, she seemed happy for me, happy for where I am with my life. Also, her family has more money than God. So . . .

What else could she want from me?

Maybe my ass on her wall like a hunting trophy.

I huff out a laugh. That should probably be the other way around.

Moving on.

Scenario 3: Pure performance.

This one still hits. Kind of. The glasses. The getup. The humility cosplay. But can I believe she’d be that tasteless? Not intentionally. She never played into the rich-stuck-up-bitch archetype. She was always kind. To doormen, to waitstaff, and she fucking loved my mother. Obviously not enough.

Also, what good is a performance for an audience of one? She didn’t play to the room or cause a scene, not that I gave her much opportunity, and I’ve seen her cause a few of those. Now that I think of it, she avoided looking at me until she could do nothing else. Because I loomed over her like a fucking tool.

Performance. I run my index finger across my lips. Maybe. I’m not ruling it out, even if I can’t fathom a reason right now.

I’ll circle back to this one.

Scenario 4: She’s actually broke.

I watch the cursor blink before the night begins to play out in my mind like a reel of security footage.

She worked that tray like she knew what she was doing. And she looked tired. Pale. Her uniform was clean but cheaply made. Her right cuff was stained, and her shoes were worn. They were also as ugly as fuck, and that thought irritates me more than it should. If last night was indeed cosplay, Clara was fully committed, because the girl I knew would rather die than be seen in anything but cute shoes or boots. She was always stylish. Pulled together. Fucking edible.

But the coat. If I frown any deeper, I’ll give myself a headache.

How could she need money? The earth will probably implode before her family runs out of the readies.