Page 8 of Billionaire Romance

“Thanks, Kate,” I say, a little embarrassed by how pleased I feel. “But no, there will be no tucking in because we have to pack in a lot of girlfriend time. What should we do now? I wrote out a list of about a dozen things we have to do this weekend.”

“Oh honey, there’s only one thing we have to do right now, and that’s sit down in that gorgeous kitchen, have a cup of tea, and you tell me what the fuck is going on? How can you afford this apartment?”

“Oh, it’s just a place to sleep,” I say to Kate, who is already filling the kettle and poking around for mugs and teabags. I need to start and finish this conversation fast. I don’t want to lie to Kate, but I don’t want to spill everything to her either. Once Kate sits down with a mug of tea, we’ll be in it for the long haul. There is nothing my best friend loves more than a hot cup of tea and a thorough analysis of her friend’s feelings, life events, and decisions. Kate is someone who likes to process. A lot. And with tea.

“No, Weaver,” Kate says, closing the cabinet. “Your fourth-floor walk-up was “just a place to sleep” because you literally couldn’t do anything else in there. I didn’t even like to pee in that bathroom because my knees knocked into the door. This is a luxury, pre-war, upper west side apartment building. It is way more than a place to sleep. It’s heads and shoulders above your last place, so I want to know, how’d it happen?”

The tea kettle whistles buying me some time to think of an answer. I guess I should start with the truth, and work from there.

“Well, I kind of got thrown out of my other apartment,” I begin. “I couldn’t cover the rent anymore. Like you knew, I was struggling, so the landlord wouldn’t renew my lease. I left my things in Long Island with mom and flew out to you, for your restaurant opening.”

Kate puts down the kettle, a little aggressively, I notice.

“Hold up. Hold up,” she says, her hands making a T for time-out. “Are you telling me that when we were together in Paris, celebrating my restaurant opening, you were coming back here homeless?”

“Technically, yes, but…” I trail off.

“I feel sick,” she says.

“I know, I know. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know,” I say, soothingly.

She looks at me like I’m stupid. “I know it wasn’t my fault, dummy. I feel sick because friends are supposed to share things with each other, like, you know, being homeless!”

“I could have moved into my childhood bedroom if worst came to worst,” I say, quickly trying to do damage control. “My mom even left my Backstreet Boy posters on the wall. But that felt like moving backwards, and I didn’t want to burden Mom. I was never without a bed. Of my own. I slept in a motel for a week before I got some cash to crash with Molly. Remember Molly? She was a year ahead of us. She had a room available, well, more like a walk-in closet with a mattress, but it was private. And then in a month or so, I’d saved enough for this place, which really just fell into my lap because a friend needed to break her lease. So as you can see, technically I wasn’t homeless, and while it may seem like it was all very dramatic, it really wasn’t.” I dip my tea bag into my mug a few times, hoping my charade of nonchalance will move us away from the topic of my finances and apartment.

“So how’d you do it?” she asks, scrutinizing me.

“I told you, a friend had to get out of the lease,” I say. “Oh, you’ll like this story. You see she had an opportunity to move to Los Angeles for…”

“The money, Weaver,” she interrupts. “How’d you get the money? Taking over a lease still requires mo-ney! Moola. Dough. So where are you working and how’d you get so much, so fast? Don’t play dumb blonde with me.”

I’m pretty sure a lie about clients in Dubai overheating their airports with deciduous routers wouldn’t fly with Kate.

“Freelancing, mostly,” I say. Dunk, dunk went my tea bag. Totally casual, I am.

“At what?” Kate say, staring at me as if I’d just walked in hours after curfew.

“Mostly techie things on various apps for travel and leisure. You know, the gig economy. There’s lots of…uhm, gigs…out there these days.”

There are those squinty eyes again; the slight shake of her head while she looks at me. She doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.

“Lady, I’m exhausted,” she says. “You exhaust me. If I have any chance of going out tonight, I need a little nap. So we’ll pick up this conversation later. Okay Weaver?”

“Sure. I’m happy to,” I say, way too jovially.

As she walks past me and into the guest room, she looks over her shoulder and says, “And Weaver. You’re over-steeping your tea. I’ve known you too long not to know that’s your tell when you’re hiding something.”

She closes the door behind her, and I slump into my kitchen chair. I sip my tea. She was right. It’s completely bitter.

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