She nods. “Mark—the owner—knows his vintages. He sends me recommendations when I ask.”
“I don’t know how you choked down the swill I fed you back then.” I snap my fingers. “Oh, wait. You were underage! So you probably didn’t know any better.”
She drains her glass, tilting her head away so I can’t see her expression. “I wanted to tell you everything. I just couldn’t find the right moment.”
“I’m sure plotting with my aunt took up most of your time and energy.”
She lets out a frustrated breath, the pleasant façade cracking. “I’d never met your aunt until five years ago.”
Her gaze is so direct and open, I start to nod, buying into her alternative reality before I catch myself. God. She must’ve taken tons of acting classes.
This explains why I never stood a chance back then. How could I? I’ve never met anybody who can lie this convincingly. I didn’t know it was possible to lie this convincingly.
Elizabeth will never accept the truth about our past. It’s time to move the conversation to something more productive.
“Why the letter?”
She blinks, but regroups almost immediately. “You seem very eager to donate. And contrary to what you said, your money is just as good as anybody else’s as far as the foundation’s concerned.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“The fund is specifically for children who are so poor they can’t afford to go to school. There are communities in Africa and parts of Asia where families rely on their children’s labor to survive. And those kids grow up and live in the same poverty that their parents did. It’s a vicious cycle.”
Her tone is firm with conviction. What she’s doing is so damn noble and admirable. She isn’t helping people who can directly benefit her one day. She’s helping those who need it the most and who’ll experience big, measurable improvements in their lives from the assistance provided.
Although my head admires what she’s trying to accomplish, my heart hates her for it.
How dare she play the good guy? How dare she do things that cause others to call her an angel? It should be someone else doing the work—someone who’s actually worthy of accolades and praise—not her.
“So you never wanted to be an artist or an interpreter for UN,” I say, barely managing to keep my voice from sounding bitter.
She pales a little, and her lips twist. “Things…didn’t work out the way I wanted.”
“No. They didn’t, thank God.”
If they had, I would’ve rotted behind bars, then been labeled a sex offender and shunned. No matter how far from schools I lived, I would’ve been driven away by angry parents and disgusted neighbors…businesses would’ve avoided hiring me…and decent people wouldn’t have wanted me around them.
Hurt pinches her face, causing me to feel like scum. Jesus. This has to be another manipulative play.
The server brings our first course. It’s some kind of white fish cooked in a light green sauce. It’s probably delicious, but I can’t taste anything anymore, all my senses hyper-focused on Elizabeth.
And the rest of the dinner passes in the same fashion. The quiet is expected. We don’t have much to talk about. Even if Elizabeth were to say something, I wouldn’t believe her, so silence is preferable to meaningless chatter.
Still, a small and foolish part of me remembers how we used to be able to talk about anything and enjoy each other’s company, touching and kissing and holding each other. Did she know how she affected me, watching me with shining eyes full of faith and trust as I talked about my dreams?
It’s sad we have nothing to say to each other during the long dinner…and we do our best not to touch each other, not even accidentally brush our legs under the table…
No, I decide forcefully, my jaw tightening. It’s not sad. It’s better this way.
When the server brings out dessert, I quit eating. I’m not consuming empty calories when I can’t taste anything.
“You spent the last ten years making sure we never crossed paths,” I begin. “Now you want my money. You don’t mind having dinner with me in public. What’s next? PDAs?”
She gives me a measuring look. “Is that what you want?”
“I’m curious about your motives. You know mine. It’s only fair you share yours.”
“If I do, will you believe me?”