Page 109 of The Unraveling

“Where the fuck are we?” I ask.

“It’s called the Seven. An exclusive club you can only visit with obscene wealth. Even your wife’s.”

I feel a little embarrassed for having said that to him earlier. “Sorry,” I say.

“It’s fine,” he says. “It’s why I like you. You’re sparky.”

“Sparky?” I ask with a laugh.

The server returns quickly with our champagne. He opens it and pours for us both.

“Cheers,” he says.

“Cheers.”

We clink glasses and the crystal makes a distinctive ding sound.

“So why is it you hate money so much?” he asks. “You don’t like fancy clothes, beautiful flats, and exclusive clubs like this?”

I look around us. Everyone is laughing and having fun. It’s a gorgeous, colorful atmosphere. Exciting. Charged. Relaxed.

I grew up poor and can confirm that even at the nicest of barbecues and block parties, there’s never quite the same sense of relaxation there. Unlike the people I grew up with, these people just simply don’t have to worry. Conversations at block parties are usually about the rising cost of something or the cost of repairing one’s roof. Here, they just find new ways to talk about success while making everything sound like stoicism.

Why does it make me so mad?

“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s not like I don’t like this. I love the champagne. I love the dress.”

We have to raise our voices to be heard by each other over the festive din, and I find myself doing that thing where I gesture in half-made-up sign language to make it clear what I’m saying in case he doesn’t catch every word.

“So what’s the problem?” he asks.

Then he surprises me and moves me closer to him by my waist. “That’s better, now we can hear each other properly.” He’s so close it tickles my neck and sends chills up my arm. I barely suppress an involuntary moan.

He really is gorgeous. The dark hair, the dark lashes, the pale eyes. The lips I know can make me go crazy.

“Like I said, I don’t know.” I think for a second, and then say, “It’s probably to do with my mom. She spent her whole life chasing wealth. It made her miserable. It made me miserable.”

He nods. “Makes sense. Did she ever get it?”

I think of the dilapidated house in wild Louisiana. The medical bills.

I shake my head. “Not really. The last time we talked, she was just breaking up with this rich guy, George. I don’t know. She just spent her whole life trying to marry rich.”

“Why do you think she did that?”

I hold up the champagne and gesture at all this around us. “She wanted this,” I say. “She said it was because she was making it possible for me to do ballet, but”—I shrug—“I don’t know.”

A memory starts to form in my mind of an evening before I moved to New York and I shake my head to make it go away.

No. I can’t think about that right now.

“Well, you made it, baby.” He smiles slightly. “You’ll always be okay now.”

Something in me relaxes a little when I look in his eyes. “I don’t know,” I whisper.

“Maybe your problem isn’t that you’re going to turn into your mom,” he says, interpreting everything I’ve said and synthetizing it into something like a diagnosis, “maybe the problem is you can’t accept peace when it’s on offer. Maybe your life is actually falling into place, not falling apart.”

He holds my gaze for a second and I feel my breath catch.

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