Sorry, I'm Really Not an Eight-Figure Man

Chapter 2: A Clean Number

I called Marla Voss the next morning from the workshop.

She answered on the second ring. "Ethan. How did it go?"

"She thinks I'm wealthy."

There was a pause, then a small laugh. "Well, that's encouraging. It means she was excited to meet you."

"I told her I'm not an A8."

"And she took it well?"

"She thinks I'm performing modesty."

"Ah." I heard paper shuffle on her end. "That's a common issue with successful men. They get tired of people approaching them for their assets, so they downplay things."

"I'm not a successful man in the way she thinks."

"Ethan, you own your business."

"I own a small workshop and a van. I pay a mortgage on half a duplex with my sister. I'm not rich."

"You're comfortable."

"Not eight figures."

Marla's voice turned soothing. "Let's not get hung up on numbers. You're both looking for a long-term partner. That's the important thing."

"It's important that she knows who she's meeting."

"Of course. But first impressions can be delicate. If you push too hard, she may think you're trying to control the narrative."

I looked at the unfinished cabinet on my bench. "I don't want a narrative. I want you to correct the file."

"We'll review it."

"Today."

"We have a process."

I heard the smile in her voice, the polished kind meant to reassure people while postponing them. Harbor & Pine had matched my sister with her husband four years earlier. That was why I'd trusted the agency when my sister put me forward. I hadn't expected a fairy tale. I'd expected someone to check a box before they handed out private profiles.

"Did you mark me as A8?" I asked.

"I don't handle every profile personally."

"Who did?"

"Ethan, I'll look into it. In the meantime, don't let an administrative detail ruin a promising connection."

I hung up feeling as if I'd been the one who'd asked for too much.

At noon, Lena texted.

Lena: I had a good time last night. I hope you did too.

I read it twice before answering.

Me: I did. I want to make sure there's no confusion about my finances.

Lena: You're very committed to this subject.

Me: It's relevant if you think I'm hiding something.

Lena: I don't. I think you're private.

That was not the same thing.

I typed a longer answer, deleted it, then replied that I'd be happy to see her again. She suggested coffee, which seemed promising. I suggested an inexpensive place near the school. She suggested the Bellwether House again.

I chose the place near the school.

When she arrived, she had a paper folder tucked beneath her arm and an apologetic look. "I have to be at the theater room in an hour. I thought we could talk and I could show you the stage."

"Sure."

We ordered coffee at a narrow counter, then walked through the school's side entrance. The building smelled of floor wax, old books, and the damp wool of a hundred coats. Lena led me down a corridor to a room with black-painted walls and a plywood platform that had begun to bow in the middle.

"I wasn't exaggerating," she said.

I crouched and pressed my palm to the stage. "No."

She watched me inspect the joints. "Can it be fixed?"

"Probably. I'd want to see the supports underneath."

"Would you charge me?"

"If I take the job."

"I'm asking if you'd charge me just to look."

"I don't charge for looking."

She seemed relieved. "That's generous."

"It's how I get work."

The smile faded slightly. She looked around the room at the painted backdrop, the stack of bent chairs, and a box of costumes patched with different colors of thread. "The school's putting the theater program under review next month. If enrollment doesn't improve, they'll cut the after-school budget."

"How many kids are in it?"

"Twenty-three right now. More when the spring production gets closer."

"Could the stage be part of the problem?"

"Possibly. Parents don't love a room where their kids can fall through the floor."

I crawled beneath the platform and found the joists had been reinforced in three different places with scraps of lumber. One support was split. I tapped the edge with my knuckle.

"I can give you a repair estimate."

Lena crouched at the opening. "You can?"

"Yeah."

"Do you need the school to pay you?"

"I need whoever hires me to pay me."

She laughed softly. "That's fair."

The brief exchange was easy. I liked the way she listened when I explained what was wrong. She didn't interrupt or pretend to understand terms she didn't know. When I emerged, she brushed sawdust from my sleeve.

"You're good at this," she said.

"I'm good at the wood part."

"What's the other part?"

"Getting people to admit they want the work done."

She looked as if she wanted to ask me something. Instead, she tucked the folder beneath her arm. "I'll talk to the principal about an estimate."

"I'll send one over. No promises until I check the measurements."

"That's more than I expected."

I almost asked whether she expected money or attention. I didn't.

At the front doors, she reached for her phone. "I'd like to see you again."

"I'd like that too."

"Maybe dinner somewhere a little nicer this time?"

I held her gaze. "Would it matter if I said no?"

"No," she said quickly. Then, after a beat, "I mean, I'd ask why."

"Because I don't want our dates to become a test I can't afford to pass."

Her face changed. Not anger. Something closer to embarrassment.

"I'm not testing you."

"I know you say that."

She held the folder tight against her side. "And you keep deciding I don't believe you."

"I've told you the truth twice."

"I heard you." She looked at the hallway behind me. "I just don't know why you need me to repeat it back to you."

I had no good answer. I knew why I needed her to repeat it. I needed to know she'd heard me.

But needing that sounded too much like asking her to reassure me.

"I'll send the estimate," I said.

She nodded. We said goodbye at the school entrance, and I drove home with my measurements in my pocket and the uneasy sense that my simplest truth had become a negotiation.