She looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "What someone?" she asked. "Who the hell are you talking about?"
"You tell me."
"I can't. Because he doesn't exist."
"Alright. Then who was that guy?"
"Which one?"
I shrugged.
She stared up at me. "You mean the guy on the porch?"
"That'd be a good start."
She made a sound of disbelief. "You'vegotto be kidding me. That guy? You seriously think he's my boyfriend or something?"
No. I didn't think he was her boyfriend. I thought he was something worse. But I didn't want to say it, so I just shook my head. "That's not what I said."
"Then whatareyou saying?"
"I'm saying that I don't get it."
"Get what?" she asked.
"Alright," I said. "I'll spell it out. I don'tgetwhy some guy in a fancy car would be showing up on your doorstep and handing you a pile of cash. I don'tgetwho you live with, or why you've never asked me inside."
I was talking louder now, probably too loud. But I couldn’t seem to make myself stop. "I don'tgetwhy you're getting 'business calls' at midnight on a Sunday night or why I'd happen to go by early this morning and see some guy in a sports car leaving your house."
My heart was pounding, and my muscles were tight. I stared down at her, waiting for her to tell I was seeing things. Hell, at this point, I'd be relieved to hear it.
She was glaring up at me. "You're twisting everything around, making it sound worse than it is."
"Is that so?" I crossed my arms and waited. "Then go ahead. Tell me howyou'dsay it."
"I already told you." She gestured vaguely toward the place she called home. "I get paid to stay there. What don't you get?"
An image of the cash flashed in my brain. What, exactly, had she been paid for?
She lifted her hands. "Yeah. I do it for money. Big fucking deal. And the reason I didn't tell you right from the start is because that's part of the deal. I'm supposed to look like I actually belong here."
The douchebag's words echoed in my brain."What about nice girls? I got them, too."
I stared down at her, wondering what, exactly, she did for that money. Straight stuff? Kinky stuff? The kind of stuff she did with me?
I felt sick. All the secrets, all the shit she didn't want to talk about. No wonder.
Her eyes were filling with tears. "Yeah." She made a scoffing sound. "I've got the dog, I've got the plants. Hell, I've even got some stupid lawn guy coming once a week to trim shit that doesn't need trimming." Her voice cracked. "But it's all about the money, because I don't have any of my own."
No. That wasn't true. Iknewit wasn't true. The Porsche, the jewelry, the house…what the fuck?
She looked down at her front pocket, still bulging with all that cash. Her shoulders started to shake, and she swallowed a sob. "I'm broke. There, you happy?"
I felt my eyebrows furrow. "What?"
"Yeah. You want the whole story?" In a choked voice, she kept on talking. "Well, here it is. I've got a grandma who gets all her rent money from this fake job I had to make up. I've got a kid brother who thinks our mom gives some sort of a crap, even though she doesn't. I've got student loans from a degree that as far as I can tell, probably cost me a lot more than the damn thing's worth."
Her voice rose. "And now, I've got you ragging on me like I’m some kind of horrible person!"
