Chapter 5 She Calls

POV: Lila Monroe

The list had taken me three hours to write and twenty minutes to cut down to something that did not sound like I was filing a legal complaint, which was the version I printed and folded and put in my jacket pocket before I left the dorm.

I had chosen the coffee shop. That was important. I had also arrived twelve minutes early, picked the table farthest from the door, and ordered my own coffee before he got there.

He arrived on time. 

I unfolded the list and put it on the table between us without saying anything.

He looked at it. He did not pick it up immediately, which I had not expected. He read it where it sat.

The list had seven items. No private obligations of any kind. All appearances agreed in advance with a minimum of forty-eight hours notice. Payment on the first of each month, transferred. No physical contact beyond what a public setting required. I retained the right to end the arrangement at any point. Neither party discusses the arrangement with anyone.

He finished reading.

"Two additions," he said.

I had been ready for negotiation. The terms were not starting points, they were the floor, and anything he added had to sit on top without touching what was already there.

"Go ahead," I said.

"Nobody finds out it is not real. Not your roommate, not your friends, not anyone you trust. One person knowing makes it something that can get out."

That was reasonable. I had already planned to tell no one. I nodded once.

"And if anyone gives you trouble," he said, "you tell me immediately. Before you handle it yourself."

I looked at him. "I handle my own problems."

"I know you do." He met my eyes. "Tell me anyway."

I did not like it. I wrote it down at the bottom of the list in my own handwriting, which meant it was now part of the document.

"Anything else," I said.

"No."

I slid the list across to him. He read it again, the whole thing, including the two new lines at the bottom, and then he reached into his jacket and took out a pen and signed his name at the bottom of the page. 

He slid it back.

I signed below his name.

He extended his hand across the table. I looked at his hand for a moment longer than was probably necessary and then shook it, once.

His grip was steady. So was mine. We both let go at the same time.

That was when it should have been finished. Terms agreed, arrangement formalised, both of us completely clear on what came next. I was already mentally calculating the first deposit date and quietly working out which of Eli's upcoming appointments it would cover.

"One more thing," he said.

I had the list in my hands, folding it back along the original crease. I stopped folding.

"What," I said.

"What is his name."

I straightened the paper and tried again and got it.

"Whose name," I said.

"The person this money is really for." He was just sitting there with his coffee asking a question that had no business being on the table between us. "It is not for you. The way you looked at the number on that card, it was not relief. It was calculation. Someone else's calculation."

I said nothing.

"You do not have to tell me," he said. "I am not asking because it changes anything. The terms are the same either way."

"Then why ask."

He was quiet for a second. "Because I want to know what I am actually helping with. Not what is on the list."

Something moved through my chest.

I had not told anyone at Westfield about Eli. Not my roommate, not the two girls I sometimes ate lunch with, not the academic advisor who asked every semester about my home situation as part of a routine welfare check.

I had a very specific reason for that, which was that information shared was information that could be used, and I had learned that early enough.

I looked at the table.

"His name is Eli," I said.

It came out before I had decided to say  and the moment it was out I felt the specific wrongness of having given something away that I could not take back.

Ryder did not write it down. He did not ask a follow-up question. He just nodded once, like he was filing it, and picked up his coffee.

I stood up.

"First appearance," I said. "Forty-eight hours notice. I choose the outfit."

"Fine," he said.

I walked out.

On the pavement outside I stopped and breathed in cold air and told myself it was just a name, it meant nothing, it changed nothing about the terms or the plan or any of the seven items on the folded piece of paper in my pocket.

Then I thought about the way he had said it, quiet and certain, and I walked faster.