Page 89 of Here & There

“Richard?” Shelby says.

Then she looks at me.

Chapter 21

Shelby

Islide into the seat in the booth across from Richard with two glasses. One’s a Belgian beer; the other’s a club soda.

“So this is it, huh?” Richard says with that voice I hate. The one where he sounds like he’s being casual, but there’s this tiny bit of judgment threaded through it. “I thought your mom was exaggerating.” He takes a big sip of the beer. Then another. “It really is a dump, though. I guess it’s a good thing you’re here.”

I fight the rage that flares through me. “Keep your voice down, Richard. And it’s not adump.”

I glance over at Mac’s office, to where he disappeared a moment ago. Where he worked so hard today, going along with all my seemingly unhinged questions. People are rarely so engaged in this stage of the process. They question it, check their watches. Talk about having to get to other meetings. They only thank me for it later, when they see everything come together. When they see thatwhypermeate their whole business plan and feel it at the end.

But Mac—he felt it today, I’m sure of it.

Then things got weird.

The door’s open, but I can’t see inside from here. He’s probably at his desk, his big frame making his computer look like a toy.

Richard scoffs. “All right, maybe it’s not adump-dump.But this place is two steps away from wooden seagulls and crab-traps on the ceiling.”

He waves his hands up to the rafters.

“What’s that chain in the airport called? It’s so fucking gauche. Anyway, your mother was aghast. She was sure you’d be back in a day. We all were.”

He’s not usually an absolute dick like this. Inattentive, sure. Snobby, definitely. But spitting?

He sways a little in his seat.

And drunk?

He takes a giant gulp of his beer. There’s only half of it left.

Richard doesn’t drink much, but that little beer couldn’t make him this drunk. He came in here already shit-faced.

I grit my teeth. In five years, I’ve only seen him like this three times. The first, he tried to have sex with me. We’d only been dating for a few weeks, and I wasn’t ready. I was actually thinking of breaking up with him. When I said no, he broke down sobbing.

“You’ve seen my parents?” I ask, only because I’m still formulating what I really want to say to him.

“Only at the club.” He’s talking about the yacht club.

He glances around the Dinghy, clearly comparing it table for table with the restaurant there. Where this place is hearty white ceramics and beer steins, that place is all silverware and crisp white linens and different wine glasses for different grape varietals. It’s expensive clothes and fake laughter and posturing.

“I’ve done a few rounds with your dad, of course,” he says.

“Dinners too, I guess.”

He laughs but doesn’t deny it.

I sit back in my booth, drumming my fingers on the tabletop. I’m not surprised he’s spending more time with my parents than I ever did. I used to joke with him that he was only dating me because of them. He laughed it off, but a paranoid part of me was convinced it was true.

Now I’m almost certain.

Richard taps his fingers on the side of his glass, almost like he’s mocking my fingers on the table.

I drop my hand to my lap.

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