can see how much I want something. If I want something, he can withhold it. If I have something, he can take it.
“Denise?”
I clear my throat and rattle off the burner number I’d memorized that morning. When he swipes the screen on his phone I recognize the same sunset background I’d chosen for myself.
God.
He would like sunsets.
I close my eyes and lean back until I feel my hair snag on the old wooden boards that line the wall, something I remember doing as a kid, even as my dad admonished me to sit up straight.
“You look different,” Chris comments.
I crack open an eye. He’s putting away his phone but glances over, as though he can sense my movement.
“How so?”
“More...” He drums his fingers on his knee thoughtfully. “Alive.”
My other eye pops open. “Alive?”
“Yeah. Less dead.” He smiles and touches his cheek. “You’ve got some color.”
I put on blush this morning. “It’s cold outside.”
“You look pretty.”
“Okay. Shut up.”
“You’re supposed to say something nice in return.”
“Oh. You smell good.”
“Do I?” He sniffs his pit and I laugh.
“You’re the one who wanted a compliment.”
“You’re as good at compliments as you are at arranging dates.”
“Would you have rather gone bowling?”
He considers it. “Sure. Bowling’s multipurpose. I can judge your hand-eye coordination. Determine if you’re a poor loser. Check out your ass.”
“You’ve seen my ass.”
“Not in a week.”
“That’s your fault.”
“I’m trying to be a gentleman. You make it so fucking hard.”
Now I laugh, loud enough the kids turn around until I stifle the sound in the crook of my arm. “I don’t want you to be a gentleman,” I say finally.
“No?” Chris looks amused, watching me like an art film he doesn’t understand and is not sure he should like. “What do you want me to be?”
There are too many answers to that question, and I refuse to even let them start circling in my brain. So I take the lame way out. “Quiet,” I say, pressing a finger to my lips like a librarian. The lights dim on the stage and the curtains part to reveal a rather impressive puppet scene. It’s an elaborate toy castle, side-sectioned so we can see several rooms inside. A dragon paces back and forth in the stone kitchen, his tiny arms wrapped around his middle.
“I’m so cold,” he moans, glancing out at the children in the front row. “There’s no power and my castle has lost its heat. What should I do?”
“Fire!” a shrill chorus of voices cries. “Make a fire!”
“Well, obviously,” Chris mutters.
THIRTY MINUTES OF DRAGON-friendly power-saving lessons later, we return to the lobby alongside twenty elementary-aged learners. Compared to the dark of the theater, the dimness in here feels too bright.
“How was that?” I ask, watching the kids race around, invigorated and newly inspired to save energy.
“Oh, wonderful,” Chris replies.
“Do you want to watch another show?” I nod at the easel in the lobby. “The admission is good for the whole afternoon.”
“Do you?”
“Not especially.”
“Thank God. Let’s go.”
“I knew you were afraid of puppets.”
We step outside, the air fresh and cool after the dusty haze of the theater. The rain has stopped and the sky is doing its best to turn blue.
“I’m not afraid of anything,” Chris says, lifting a hand to call one of the taxis idling on the far side of the road.
I study him thoughtfully. “All right. Let’s see.”
“See what?”
“Just wait.”
“I don’t think I like your surprises.”
“I know.”
We climb in the back seat, and I deliberately give the driver a street address instead of the more familiar building name. He nods with a notable lack of enthusiasm and steers us back toward the city center. The absence of rain and a hint of sunshine have made people braver, and the sidewalks have resumed their regular bustle.
Downtown Holden is the predictable slew of gleaming metal towers, mirrored façades reflecting each other’s success. The bulk of the buildings are banks and investment companies, but there are high-end shops and restaurants designed to dress and feed the city’s richest. Three years ago, I was known at all of them. Now I’m pretty sure I couldn’t get in the door.
The cab stops in front of the Carone Building, the tallest and most prestigious of them all. “This is us,” I say, handing the driver cash and sliding out to the sidewalk.
Chris follows, his expression perplexed. “What are we doing here?”
“Investing. Doesn’t that sound fun?”
“Not really.”
I smirk. “Come on.”
The lobby of the Carone Building is designed to resemble an atrium, with glass-walled greenhouses boasting tropical plants and birds. Behind