Page 65 of The Revenge Game
Alarm rises in me. “What do you mean different?”
“I mean it in a good way. You’ve just seemed…happier.”
I stare at my reflection again. Am I happier at the moment?
Definitely.
In fact, I think I’m the happiest I can remember being since I was a kid. And it’s not difficult to work out why.
I haven’t told Mom about Drew yet. And suddenly, it seems more like a lie than an omission.
“I’ve got a new friend,” I find myself saying. “His name is Drew. We’ve been hanging out.”
The words feel inadequate to describe what Drew has come to mean to me.
Exploring London with him has been so much fun. But I like the quiet evenings we’ve spent in my apartment even more.
They started out on the pretense of him helping me with the auction website but turned into me cooking dinner for him, getting into passionate debates about dishwashing methodology, and watching comedy clips while sitting on the couch with the cats.
Even though the auction is over, I still invite him over for dinner several nights a week.
And he still accepts.
I’ve always felt like I’m performing, trying to be what other people expect me to be.
But lately, with Drew, I’ve started to feel like I’m being the real me. Whoever that actually is.
“I’m glad you’ve made a friend,” Mom says.
“Yeah, he works at my company. He helped me with the Second Chances fundraiser.” I smooth down my jacket, remembering Drew’s focused expression as he coded the auction website.
“It’s nice you’ve got someone who makes you happy.”
My hands freeze on my lapels. I know her words are benign, but it feels like my carefully constructed world of half-truths is being examined under a microscope, even if she doesn’t realize it.
“I…” I swallow hard. “I should probably finish getting ready. I’ve got this…thing tonight.”
“Okay, honey. Have fun.”
I end the call and lean against the wall, letting out a shaky breath.
The relief of ending the call fades quickly, replaced by the hollow feeling that comes from not being completely honest with my mother. But I can’t think about that right now.
I’m meeting my mystery date at The Shard in less than an hour. I’m getting to dine at one of the most exclusive restaurants in London. I should be excited, right?
Instead, all I can think about is how I’d prefer to spend the evening with Drew, cooking for him so he can eat something nicer than his latest microwave culinary disaster, watching some comedy show together while Cassie and Tabitha demand a share of our attention.
I don’t want to make polite conversation with some rich stranger. I want to relax with Drew.
I adjust my tie one final time, trying to ignore the voice in my head that sounds like Bobby Ray, telling me that real men don’tspend this much time fussing over their appearance. It’s been easier to banish his voice lately.
Another thing I attribute to Drew.
The Shard pierces the London skyline like a diamond-tipped needle as my Uber pulls up outside.
Inside, the hostess leads me through TING’s elegant dining room to a window table. The table is set for two, a small card labeledReservedpropped against a crystal wine glass. The windows showcase London’s sprawling tapestry of lights.
“Your guest hasn’t arrived yet,” the hostess says. “Would you like to order a drink while you wait?”
