Page 42 of Maid For Each Other
Which was why I kind of led a double life, keeping the Hathaway business separate from the business I had with Roman.
“Something like that,” I just said, leaving it at that.
When we got to Immersion, the hostess took us right to our table, but before we could even order cocktails, someone came up to our table, introducing themselves. And then another, and another.
I imagined an actual girlfriend would get sick of the constant interruptions that went along with being a Powell, but Abi was a professional. She smiled at everyone like she welcomed their table-crashing, and she was warm and engaging with each person she met.
Although it didn’t escape my notice when she finished her second glass of wine. She didn’t seem tipsy or buzzed, but her face was just a little more relaxed after the glass was emptied, like she was amused by everything.
We were finally left to ourselves when our food came, thank God.
When she cut into her filet and lifted the fork to her mouth, she said, “You know, Declan, I think perhaps it’s time for a truce.”
I looked at her in the candlelight and couldn’t detect any sarcasm. “Explain.”
“Well,” she said. “I think it’s silly, our battle for dominance, when we’re just two people trying to get the best outcomes for our lives this weekend, right?”
“Right…?” I said, waiting to hear more.
“Neither of us really expected this scenario to happen in the first place, but now that it has, why can’t we behave like adults? I think it’s possible for us to get along while we work together, don’t you?”
“Perhaps,” I said, sitting back in my chair and lifting my Manhattan. “So then, Abi, tell me a little bit about your life. What do you do with your days when you aren’t fake-dating strangers?”
Abi leaned back in her seat as well, a small smile on her face, and I found myself looking forward to whatever she was about to say.
15
Dinner with Friends
Abi
“Well, you already know that I work at Benny’s and for Masterkleen,” I said, swallowing my food before picking up my wineglass while wondering what it would hurt to share a little. “I’m also in grad school—final year, thank God—getting my MFA.”
His eyebrows knitted together like he was confused. “Wait, what? You’re getting your master’s?”
“Thatisthe goal of graduate school, yes,” I said slowly, cutting another piece of steak.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever had a better piece of meat.
“Notin finance?” he clarified, then took a bite of his pesto penne with prosciutto (which lookedverygood, by the way).
Now it made sense, the confusion. He’d obviously googled me and knew I had a degree in finance, and for someone like him, it probably made zero sense why I’d want to do anything other than make the absolute most money I possibly could. I cut another piece and said, “Not in finance. I’m studying fiction writing.”
I don’t know what I saw pass over his face, judgment or mockery perhaps, but he recovered and said, “Explain how you went from finance to fiction.”
“Well,” I said, shrugging and deciding to be honest about this part of my life. I wasn’t sure if it was the wine—probably was—but I kind of felt like opening up to him a little.
I knew he assumed I was just a grocery clerk with a crappy apartment, but I felt compelled to show him that wasn’t all.
I said, “I graduated from college and got a job in finance, wherein I quickly discovered that I hated it. Like, hated it so much I could barely get out of bed every day. I decided to go back to school out of desperation, wanting to find literally anything else I could do with my life that would pay a decent salary but not steal my soul. I took a fiction writing class in the summer, fell madly in love, then discovered I could jump right into the MFA program with my existing bachelor’s.”
“Really,” he said, looking intrigued.
“Every single writing class I’ve ever taken has been, like, pure serotonin for me,” I said. “And my MFA advisor, Anna Vaccaro, is this accomplished lit-fic writer who is everything I want to be.”
“So you want to write books?” he asked.
“No, I mean, maybe,” I corrected, dipping my fork into the face-size baked potato. “But writing doesn’t come with guarantees, like a salary and benefits sort of thing; it’s a constant hustle. Which I’m fine with on the side, but I just couldn’t live with that lack of security. No, I want to be a writing professor. I want to spend my days workshopping with students, rolling around instories and characterization until I have tenure. Then I can write on the side and see what happens.”
