Chapter 9: Until the Papers Are Signed

By Saturday morning, the photograph had nine hundred thousand views.

Bea sat at my kitchen counter with her laptop and read me the comments.

"Half of them say you're a gold digger. The other half want to know the name of your boss."

"Don't read me any more."

"One says he looks like a sad lumberjack."

"That's rude."

"It's also accurate. Are you going to eat with him tonight?"

"Who told you that?"

"Emme, he sent you a text at six this morning. I saw it on the counter."

I had not told her about the text.

It said: Dinner? I know a place with a back door. We don't have to talk about anyone.

I wrote back: Okay.

The place was called The Anchor, a narrow restaurant with eight tables and a chef who came out to tell us the soup was good.

We sat at the back, away from the windows.

For forty minutes we talked about nothing.

He told me the studio coffee machine had a sign taped on it that said DO NOT TRUST, put there by the team after a dispute.

I told him about the Duluth house where Gran had kept a jar of buttons.

He laughed, a real laugh, and I felt it in my chest.

Then the front door opened, and the girl with the gimbal walked in with her phone held out.

The second one trailed behind her with a ring light.

The short one with the braid wasn't with them.

"Emme!" the first girl called, bright and loud. "Is this the boyfriend? Can we get a comment for our followers?"