We Told Six Lies(30)

A guy in a suit took us to a table. I wasn’t sure if he was a waiter or something else. I’d never been to a restaurant this nice. I didn’t know what to do with myself, and I was nervous as hell. The guy started to pull out your chair for you, but I cut him off, pulled the chair from his hands, and gave him a look like I got it.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, and then I felt like an asshole.

They put down two menus in front of us with black leather covers. I was terrified of what waited inside. Dishes I couldn’t pronounce. Prices too high for three weeks of part-time work at Steel.

You must have noticed how nervous I was, because you leaned across the table once the guy had left and said, “This place is really nice. I only came here once with my mom and felt like a poser the whole time.”

I laughed, feeling relieved. Remembering the state of your house. Knowing you were no more accustomed to this than I was. But also knowing you’d somehow have the waiter forgetting his other tables by the time the meal was over.

You reached under the table and grabbed my hand, leaned that red mouth toward my ear, and said, “We should pretend to be different people tonight. My name is Roxanne, and I am new money. My father is considering buying this place, and I’m here to see if it’s worthy.”

I laughed. “I’m old money. My mom is interested in buying this place, too. We are rivals.”

You kissed my ear, quick. “I’ll have your head.”

I grabbed your cheeks and pulled you back in. Said against your mouth, “I’ll have all of you.”

Our waiter appeared. “Hello, my name is Tim, and I’ll be serving you tonight. What can I get you to drink this evening?”

He shook out our napkins and laid them over our laps. You leaned back instinctually, but I was less graceful, watching his hand as it came close to my junk. Tensing.

“I should tell you I’m Arturo’s daughter,” you said suddenly.

The waiter looked at you with a blank face, and you smiled.

“You’ll want to find out who that is,” you said sweetly. “We’ll have red tonight. A Malbec.”

“And an appetizer,” I added, fumbling for the menu. Jabbing my finger at the first one I saw. “This one.”

The waiter looked back at you.

“That one,” you confirmed before setting your gaze on me and starting to talk about your day.

“Certainly,” the waiter said, and dashed away.

I watched him go and then laughed. “He’ll think you’re a mobster’s daughter.”

You giggled. “Hopefully.”

You watched the waiter disappear with regret. That look always came across your face when you’d manipulated someone. There were two parts of you, Molly. Have I told you that before? I’m sure I have. There was the part that celebrated getting what you wanted, however you had to. And then there was the human part, the part that hated being what you were.

As for me, I like the first part of you best.

The ruthlessness.

The meal was the best I’ve ever had. I ordered the strip steak with mashed potatoes, and you ordered the salmon salad. We drank the wine the waiter brought us—two glasses and no more because surely he knew we were underage—and we finished the meal with a chocolate-raspberry torte and a cup of espresso because I saw other guests doing the same.

When the waiter came along to drop the check, you dabbed at your mouth with the linen napkin and said, “You can tell the chef they can come over now.”

The waiter’s eyes popped, but he recovered quickly. Grinned from ear to ear and said, “Of course, ma’am. Right away.”

I bit back a smile as you waited. Hands in your lap. Back straight as a stretch of highway.

The chef came out of the back, wiping her hands on a rag. She handed it to the waiter before offering her palm to you. You shook it firmly.

“I’m so glad you could join us,” the chef said with an uncertain smile.

“As am I,” you said. “You can rest assured it’ll be a positive note I send my father. The tuna tartare was divine, and your staff”—you referenced the waiter, who squared his shoulders—“was most gracious and intuitive. This man alone is worth my father’s attention.”

The waiter beamed, and the chef laid a hand on his shoulder. “I have a great team. I’m so pleased to hear you enjoyed yourself.”

The chef excused herself, but not without glancing back over her shoulder.

I handed my money to the waiter in a black folder, and after he took it, I looked at you.

“You are absolutely wild,” I said.

You seemed as if you were about to say something but then stopped. Your entire face changed in that moment. I turned to see what you were looking at, and you said, “Cobain.”

I saw him.

He held a phone before him, clasped between two eager hands, the camera lens turned directly onto us. He had thick graying hair, sharp blue eyes, and a mole just to the right of his nose.

“Who is that?” I asked.

But when I turned back around, you were frozen, your eyes twice the size they normally were.

“Molly, do you know that guy?”

You shook your head, and the look on your face said you were telling the truth. But you still seemed absolutely terrified. You shot up from your chair. Reached into your purse and produced a wad of cash, threw it on the table, and ran.