Trillion(13)

According to my research, this thing costs half a million dollars.

I don’t know that I’ll even see that kind of money in my lifetime.

“You said this could never be anything. You said I’m young enough to be your daughter. I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but—”

“I know what I said,” he cuts me off. “But I think if you were … a little older … maybe I wouldn’t feel so guilty. Maybe this wouldn’t feel so wrong? Maybe it … maybe it could be something?”

“My birthday’s in three weeks,” I say. “If three weeks is the difference between right and wrong for you—”

“—this is new to me too,” he says. “The age difference thing.”

“You pursued me for months before you asked me out.”

“You’re right,” he says. “Because after the first time I saw you, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. But after I asked around and found out your age, I knew it was wrong.”

“That party you took me to tonight,” I say, “why there? Why not just dinner?”

His lips flatten. “Because it would be masked, because it would give us some anonymity so we could enjoy the night. And given the circumstances, it seemed safer. Being seen together, Sophie, it could be a liability for me. Professionally. If anyone were to find out your age …”

“Fine. But why’d you lie about your name?”

He’s quiet, contemplative. His hand runs across the center console. “Because I thought it would be a one-time thing. I didn’t plan on seeing you again after tonight. I wanted my one night to feel young again, and then I was going to do the right thing and walk away.”

My eyes sting. I blink and look away so he can’t see the tears forming. I’ve never felt so used. Not even by the pencil-dicked pricks in my grade.

“I enjoyed my time with you more than I thought I would,” he says. “There’s something about you, Sophie. I have no idea what it is. But after spending the evening together … I know I shouldn’t, but I want to see you again.”

My stomach flips against giving him permission. I wish his words didn’t have that effect on me.

Aside from the fucked-up pockets of this night, his half-truths and messed-up confessions, I enjoyed my time with him too.

I wouldn’t mind seeing him again …

And that little thrill that travels up my spine every time I think about how rebellious this is, how it made me feel to step outside my good girl bubble and be someone else for a change, is nothing short of exhilarating.

“When do you turn eighteen, Soph?” He shortens my name like he knows me. I’m not stupid. He doesn’t know me. Not all the way. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to give him the chance to get to know me ...

“Next month,” I say, knowing this man will become either the best thing to happen to me … or my greatest undoing. “The seventh.”

John—Nolan—pulls out his phone and makes a note.

“Perfect.” His full mouth curls into a half-smirk. “I want to celebrate with you.”

“I’m probably working that night,” I say, because it falls on a Friday, and I work every Friday.

Reaching into his wallet, he slips out a small stack of crisp bills and hands them to me. “Not anymore, you’re not.”

I don’t have to count them to know there’s more than five hundred dollars in my hand.

“See you in three weeks,” he says.

The passenger window glides shut. I move to the sidewalk. The engine of his shiny coupe purrs, and the weight of his watchful gaze follows me inside.

A minute later, I stand outside our apartment door, key in hand, breath held tight in my chest.

I count the money before I go inside.

Fifteen hundred dollars.

“Holy shit,” I mouth before shoving it into my clutch.

“You’re late.” My mother whispers through the quiet dimness of our living room when I step in. She reaches for the string on the crooked lamp by the corduroy recliner. The dim lights paint dark shadows on her gaunt face, sending ominous vibes to this moment. “You said you’d be home by ten, Sophie. It’s after midnight.”

“I know. I’m so sorry. We were having such a good time … I wasn’t paying attention …”

“How long does it take to go out to dinner?” She paces the living room. I should stop her. She shouldn’t be up and around. She should be resting, sleeping. If she wakes up feeling worse tomorrow, it will all be my fault. “Where else did he take you?”

“Nowhere else. It was just a long dinner. We talked. A lot …”

“You could have called. You could have texted.” Her words are terse, halfway between a yell and a whisper

I’m frozen on the entry rug, praying she doesn’t rise and stagger over here because she’ll smell the champagne on my breath—and the champagne on my skin from all the places Nolan kissed me tonight. My neck. The tops of my shoulders. The back of my wrists. Behind my ears.

He captured every exposed inch of me over the span of five hours.

“I’m so sorry, Mom,” I apologize again. “It’ll never happen again. I promise.”

She tries to form a response, but exhaustion colors her expression instead.