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

I had just explained that my most valuable possession was a table saw when Lena Hart ordered the wine. "Sorry," I said, looking at the server as he set the bottle between us. "I wasn't clear. I'm not an A8." Lena glanced at the wine list, then at me. "You don't have to announce it like you're confessing to a crime." "I'm not confessing. I'm correcting the file." She smiled as if I'd made a clever joke. "Of course." We sat in the front window of the Bellwether House, a restaurant with brass lamps and a view of the harbor. I'd chosen it because the matchmaking agency, Harbor & Pine, had called it "comfortable and discreet." I had understood that to mean we could hear each other. The table was small, the menu expensive, and the server had recognized Lena as a teacher from the local arts council. I suspected I'd been placed in a room designed to make my ordinary jacket look like a deliberate statement. Lena had dark curls pinned loosely behind her head and a slim silver ring on her right hand. She looked about my age, mid-thirties, and carried herself with the alertness of someone accustomed to managing a room full of people who wanted to be somewhere else. "I'm not sure what you think A8 means," I said. "Eight figures." "Right. I have nowhere near eight figures." "Your profile said you're a private investor." "My profile says I restore old houses. I'm a carpenter." "And the A8 tier?" "I didn't select a tier. I told Harbor & Pine I preferred not to discuss income before meeting someone." She tilted her head. "That sounds like exactly what a discreet investor would say." "It sounds like exactly what I said." The server poured. Lena thanked him. I watched the wine darken her glass and waited for her to look embarrassed, offended, or at least uncertain. She looked amused. "I understand," she said. "You want to be seen as a person first." "I want you to know I'm not wealthy." "Ethan, we've been sitting here for four minutes. I'm not going to audit you." The trouble was, she still didn't believe me. Harbor & Pine had called her "Miss Hart" in every email, though she'd told me to use Lena as soon as we met. She taught English and ran the after-school theater program at Bellwether Middle School. She'd also told me, before the wine arrived, that she liked "men who didn't need to make a show of what they had." I'd taken that as a warning. Now I thought it might have been an invitation to misunderstand her. "I don't have anything to make a show of," I said. "Then we're off to a good start." I picked up the menu. The least expensive main course was a roasted chicken that cost more than I spent on groceries for three days. "You said you wanted to meet a person first," I said. "I'm trying to make sure we're both meeting the same person." Lena's expression softened, but not with belief. "I'm not here because of the money." "Then why does your agency profile say you prefer A8?" Her eyes sharpened. "You read my profile?" "No. Marla told me." "Marla told you my financial preferences?" "She said we were a strong match because we wanted the same things." Lena set down her glass. "What did she say you wanted?" I felt heat rise along my neck. "A stable relationship. A family, maybe. A house that doesn't fall down." "That last part might be optimistic, considering your job." "I know how to keep a house standing." "I'm sure you do." She offered a little smile. "Maybe let's not turn dinner into an argument about an app." "It's not an app." "Fine. An agency." "An agency that told you I had eight figures." "I said I wasn't here for the money." The sentence should have helped. Instead, it landed like a door closing gently in my face. If she didn't care about the money, why had she decided I was lying about not having it? I took the menu and looked down at the chicken. Lena lifted her glass. "Tell me about the houses you restore." I had spent years learning to talk about work without making it sound like I was asking for admiration. I told her about a clapboard cottage on Salt Street, where the previous owner had tried to fix a sagging porch with a car jack and optimism. Lena laughed at the right part. She asked what kind of wood I used for the new posts, then asked if I'd ever worked on a school stage. "Not a school," I said. "Our theater program has a set that's been held together with donated plywood and prayer." "I could look at it." "You'd do that?" "I'm a carpenter. Looking at things is half my job." She seemed pleased, and for a moment the conversation felt easy. I let myself imagine the evening improving. Then the server returned, and Lena ordered the wine without asking me what I wanted. I requested water. As the bottle was opened, she leaned across the table. "I should probably tell you that Harbor & Pine is careful with privacy. They don't share details without permission." "Apparently they share a lot." "Maybe they misread your preferences." "Or they misrepresented me." She gave me the same look she'd given the first time I corrected her, warm and unconvinced. "Ethan, if this is your way of testing whether I'm interested in your money, you can stop. I'm interested in you." She said it with such confidence that I couldn't find a response that didn't sound like an accusation. So I stayed for dinner, let her tell me about the students who wanted to be actors, and watched her lift the wineglass she believed I'd been too modest to buy. When I left, I had one number saved in my phone and one clear fact between us. Lena thought I was pretending.