Page 38

"She was outside my apartment, Evie. She knew my name."

"I know. I heard. Theo's been stomping around all day looking like a Doberman that smells something. Honestly it was kind of hot." She pulls off one shoe and rubs her foot, which is weirdly the most human I've ever seen her. "Talk to me."

"What's there to talk about? Some reporter is going to write a story, and the story is going to be 'billionaire screws his waitress,' and that's me forever. That's what comes up when anyone Googles me for the rest of my life. Every job interview. Every — everything! The girl who spread her legs for the boss."

It comes out ugly. It's been sitting in my chest all day, rotting, and saying it out loud doesn't help.

Evie doesn't flinch. She works her thumb into the arch of her foot and stares at the lockers across from us.

"You know I'm running a betting pool on you two, right?"

I lift my head. "What?"

"A betting pool. On when Danny would crack and admit he's gone for you. I started it three days after you spilled the Scotch. Half the staff is in. Theo put in fifty dollars, which, from Theo, is basically a love sonnet." She says it all matter-of-fact, still rubbing her foot. "My point is, there is no secret, Anna. There was never a secret. The man banned a member over your wrist in week one. Everyone knows. Everyone has known for weeks, and you know what the staff story is? Not 'girl spreads legs for boss.' The story is 'the scariest man in Manhattan fell first and fell stupid.' We're rooting for you. There's money on it."

"Strangers won't tell it that way."

"No. They won't." She puts the shoe back on. "Strangers will tell the trash version. That's what strangers do."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"No, it's supposed to be true. Better comes after." She's quiet for a second, and something shifts in her face — the gloss coming off, something older underneath. "You know I grew up in this world, right? Park Avenue. Galas. The whole thing."

"You've mentioned it. Vaguely. Always vaguely."

"Yeah, well. My father ran a fund. The fund turned out to be a Ponzi scheme. Maybe you read about it, maybe you didn't, it was a whole — it was a thing. Three news cycles. We lost everything, which, fine, we deserved to, or he did. But my favorite part—" Her mouth twists. "My favorite part is that I'd been working at a literacy nonprofit for two years by then. Completely separate from his money. Didn't matter. The headline that ran with my photo said 'Disgraced Heiress.' I wasn't even mentioned in the article. Just the photo. Just the two words."

"Evie..."

"My point is, I have personally lived through the worst version of strangers telling your story. The actual worst version. And here's the thing nobody tells you." She turns and looks at me. "It costs them nothing and it costs you exactly as much as you pay. The headline ran. I'm still here. I have a job I'm good at, in a city I love, I have a betting pool with excellent odds, and the people who actually know me know what's true. The strangers got their two words. I got my whole life. That's the trade, Anna. They get a sentence. You get everything else."

I sit with that.

"And for the record," she adds, "if you give up the first man who's ever made you stupid because of what a stranger might type? The two words won. Without even running."

The fluorescent lights buzz. My feet hurt. Somewhere above us, the cleaning crew is moving chairs.

"He's still up there," Evie says. "Club's been closed for half an hour. He's sitting at table four in the dark like a gargoyle. It's honestly a little sad."

"He's waiting for me?"

"No, Anna, he's developed a deep emotional bond with the table." She stands, smooths her skirt. "Yes, he's waiting for you. Go. And tomorrow you owe me details, because I have a side bet on how this conversation goes and I need it to pay off before Thursday."

"You bet on this conversation?"

"I bet on everything. It's a sickness." She's at the door. "Anna."

"Yeah?"

"Scared and going anyway. That's the whole trick. There's no other trick."

She leaves.

I sit there for one more minute. Then I change out of the uniform — jeans, sweater, the Goodwill coat — and I look at myself in the little locker mirror. Pillow-creased this morning, fluorescent-lit now, somewhere in between a waitress and whatever I'm about to become.

Scared and going anyway.

Danny