Page 40 of Filthy Rich

She sends me options for places I could order takeout from, and the options keep coming. She doesn’t stop until she’s sent at least half a dozen options.

With a beleaguered sigh, I call for Korean takeout. “No, not very spicy on the tteokbokki,” I say. “I have no idea whether she like spicy food, because it’s our first date.” At least the guy taking my order can’t see my idiotic smile.

“Who are you talking to?” Octavia arches one eyebrow as she rounds the corner.

“Gotta go.” I hang up, and then I smile. “Sorry. Work calls me a lot.” That’s not technically a lie. They do, even if that wasn’t work calling.

She purses her lips, but doesn’t argue. “Are you ready? You didn’t meet me in produce.”

“I mean, ‘ready’ can mean a lot of things,” I say. “I need a bit more time.”

“You didn’t say we couldn’t search for ideas online, but I feel like you’re supposed to be coming up with it yourself.” She stares pointedly at my phone.

“Right,” I say. “Yes, no more of that.” But since I can’t google for ideas on my phone—why wasn’t I doing that instead of texting Bea?—I decide to walk a little aimlessly up and down the aisles, hoping that inspiration will strike.

I mean, I know that help from my stupid idea is on the way, but I can’t let her know or it won’t be a surprise. So I walk up the aisle slowly, pondering the items on the shelf until I see something I know.

Pasta Roni.

“They still make this?” I don’t even have to fake my delight. “This was my favorite summer lunch when I was. . .when Dave and Seren were working and Bea was busy.” I toss one in my basket.

“You don’t call them Mom or Dad?” Octavia looks genuinely curious.

“It’s complicated,” I say.

“Why?”

“I have a dad,” I say. “I mean, presumably I have a mother too, but Dad never really said anything about her. When I asked, he changed the subject. Either way, Bea’s mom’s a total mess, but my dad. . .” I’m not sure how to defend him when he’s in prison for actually trying to steal from people. “I just know he was a pretty good dad to me when he had the chance to be.”

“Bea said he’s locked up?” She grimaces. “I know that sounds bad, but that’s what she said.”

I shrug. “Some people make a living by lying to people on their televisions like I do. Others make a living by lying to their faces.”

She winces. “Well, I’m sure it was hard for you when he went to prison.”

I’m not sure how to answer. “It was actually easy—too easy. My life was hard with Dad in a lot of ways, and when he got locked up.” I snort. “I mean, we were actually trying to con Dave and Seren, and then after they testified against him, they took me in. At first, I thought they were looking for a way to punish me. I spent a miserable few weeks, waiting for them to. . .” I sigh. “I’m not sure. Beat me?”

I see a bag of tortilla chips and toss it in my basket.

“They never did anything but make me special treats, buy me clothes, and get me lessons for things I wanted to learn.” I can’t help my half-smile when I think about the paranoid little kid I was when they found me. “In some ways, I almost feel bad saying this, but in some ways it was the best thing that ever happened to me.” I’ve never said that aloud. Not once.

I feel terrible about it.

I have a father, and one thing I’ve always prided myself on being is loyal. Saying that it was good for me that he was caught is hard, but it’s also true.

“Your dad going to prison was the best thing?” Octavia looks surprised.

I nod slowly. “Dad—what he taught me and what the Fansees taught—they were complete opposites. When I lived with Dad, I believed everything he said, but as I got older, I started to wonder. The Fansees seemed right, too.”

“Couldn’t they both be right?” Octavia’s looking straight ahead, at the floor, talking as if to herself. “I used to think the world had to be black and white, but I think sometimes the truth is somewhere in between.”

“Shades of grey,” I say. “I like that. My two sets of parents are both extremes. The Fansees are optimistic and idealistic, and my dad’s jaded and cynical. Maybe that’s the closest anyone has ever come to describing me—something in between.”

She nods. “What you need to do is take the best from both. You can see things like Dave and Seren, but you’re also smart enough to spot duplicity in situations and people in a way your foster parents probably can’t.”

It’s like I’ve been waltzing through my life for decades and no one has ever seen me before. Then along comes Octavia, and suddenly, someone gets it. The real me. Unvarnished. Grey. Dingy.

But she doesn’t seem put off by it.

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