Page 68 of The Revenge Game
Justin’s at a corner table, his jacket draped over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms.
He’s scrolling through his phone, and when he glances up and sees me, his smile transforms his whole face.
It’s not his polished sales-guy smile. It’s his happy grin, the one I’ve only seen when he’s at home with his cats or when we’re debating the merits of different M&M colors.
He gets out of his chair as I approach, and for a moment, we just stare at each other, the city lights twinkling outside the window like we’re in some romantic movie.
I push my glasses up my nose, suddenly hyperaware of the way his shirt pulls slightly across his shoulders as he reaches to pull out my chair, how the soft lighting catches the angles of his face.
“You came,” he says.
“It appears I did,” I reply.
“You’ve got perfect timing because the food just arrived,” he says.
His words give me an excuse to tear my gaze away from him and check out my beetroot salad, which is arranged neatly on a pristine white plate.
I sit awkwardly.
“This looks great,” I say as I unfold my napkin. “Definitely better than what I had lined up for dinner anyway.”
“I’m really glad you could come,” Justin says as he settles back in his chair. “Although I feel bad for the mystery bidder who didn’t show and has nothing to show for all that money.”
“I’m fairly sure that helping the charity was their primary motivation rather than going on a date with you,” I say.
“Gee, thanks.” His eyes crinkle in a smile.
“No offense intended.”
“None taken. I was actually very worried about how I could make it a date worth seventy-five thousand pounds,” he says.
“Are you disappointed they didn’t show?” I take a bite of the salad, keeping my eyes on my plate.
“A little,” Justin says. “I was nervous, but I was actually looking forward to meeting them. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who can throw around that kind of money, so I was interested in how they would be different from me.”
There’s a weird feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with the quality of the beetroot salad I’m eating.
“Different, like whether they have a diamond-encrusted phone case? Or maybe they only drink water that’s been blessed by Tibetan monks?”
Justin cuts into his perfectly seared scallop. “No, not different in that way. I don’t know… I guess I just wonder if having that much money means you stop seeing price tags altogether. Like, does the world become this place where everything is just…available? Where you never have to choose or make trade-offs?”
“Money can’t buy happiness,” I say.
I know this only too well. When I made my first million, I kept refreshing my banking app like it was a social media feed, addicted to watching the numbers climb. Each new milestone felt like leveling up in a game where the score was kept in zeros.
Then, every transaction started to feel surreal. It was almost comical, casually paying for coffee with a card linked to an account that could buy the entire coffee shop chain.
For an insane second, I want to tell Justin. I want to explain how I deceived myself into thinking that somehow those numbers could rewrite history, could retroactively make teenage Drew’s life easier.
How it didn’t actually work.
Yet my money sometimes still feels like armor. The ultimate protection against ever feeling powerless again.
But I can’t share that with Justin.
The churning feeling has returned.
“Yeah, I know money can’t buy happiness. But it gives you more choices, right?” Justin asks.
