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

Chapter 3: The Small Print

I met Claire's friends at a Saturday brunch three weeks after our first date.

We were supposed to meet at a café by the waterfront, but rain drove everyone inside. Claire stood near the entrance and waved me over to a table where three women and one man had saved a chair.

"Evan, this is Jo, Melissa, Sam, and Peter," she said. "Everyone, this is Evan."

I shook hands and sat down. Jo had cropped silver hair and a denim jacket. Melissa wore a neat black sweater and a gold necklace. Sam was tall, with a red beard and a mug of tea. Peter gave me a friendly nod and moved his plate so I'd have room.

"I've heard you work in infrastructure," Jo said.

"I do. Stormwater, water systems, a little bit of everything."

"Does that mean you know where all the secret tunnels are?" Peter asked.

"Only the boring ones."

"Those are usually the best ones," Sam said.

The conversation moved easily at first. Melissa asked whether I'd grown up in Marlowe Bay. I told her I'd grown up inland, in a small town called Redfern, and moved to the coast for work. Jo wanted to know whether the old harbor wall was still safe. I explained the survey schedule.

Then Melissa turned to Claire. "So, how did you two meet?"

"Through Aster," Claire said.

"Lydia found him," I added. "She got one detail wrong, though."

Claire glanced at me. "The A8 thing."

The table paused. Jo set down her fork.

"What's A8?" Sam asked.

"An asset category," Claire said. "Apparently it means eight figures."

Peter looked at me. "Apparently?"

"It was a mistake," I said. "I rent an apartment and work for the town."

"Maybe that's why you're so relaxed about it," Melissa said. "You already know you have plenty."

"I don't."

The words came out more sharply than I intended. I softened my voice. "I'm not trying to make this a big deal. It's just not true."

Jo studied me with a directness I found oddly comforting. "Have they corrected the listing?"

"I asked them to."

"Good," she said. "A person shouldn't have to explain a label they didn't choose."

Claire's hand rested near mine on the table. She didn't touch me, but her elbow was close enough to make me aware of the space between us.

Peter changed the subject, and the conversation picked up again. I learned that Jo had worked with Claire at the school years earlier, Melissa designed theater sets, Sam was a nurse, and Peter managed a hardware store. I liked them. They teased one another with the kind of familiarity that didn't require anyone to win.

When the bill came, I paid for my food and left a tip. Claire walked me outside after the others headed to their cars.

"I'm sorry that came up," she said.

"It's fine."

"It's not. You shouldn't have to defend yourself at brunch."

"Then don't introduce me as A8."

Her face tightened. "I didn't."

"You told them about it."

"I thought you wanted people to know you didn't have the money Lydia claimed."

"I wanted you to know."

"I do know."

"Do you?"

Claire folded her arms against the wind. "I told you I'm trying."

I looked past her toward the harbor, where gray water rolled against the seawall. "I'm not asking you to trust me with your life. I'm asking you to take my words at face value."

"I'm taking them at face value."

"Then why does everyone keep hearing about the A8 thing?"

"Because it's strange. Because it came up. Because I'm trying to understand what happened."

I regretted my tone. "I'm sorry."

"So am I."

We stood in the rain for another moment. I wanted to kiss her, but I didn't know whether that would feel like an apology or a way to avoid the subject. She solved it by reaching for my hand.

"I like you," she said.

"I like you too."

"Then don't let Lydia's mistake become our entire story."

"I don't want it to."

We walked to the parking lot together. I gave her a quick kiss before she left. For the rest of the day, I tried to hold on to the feel of her fingers in mine rather than the conversation that had come before it.

On Monday, Lydia sent me an email saying my profile had been "updated to reflect the information provided." She included a link to a new copy.

I opened it at my desk.

Under assets, the form showed a total of $862,400.

I read the number again. It had been calculated from the value of the pumping facility and a retirement account that belonged to the town. My personal savings were listed on another page, but the summary put me in A8 all over again.

I called Lydia.

"This hasn't been fixed."

"I'm looking at it now," she said.

"It says I have eight hundred thousand dollars in property."

"The system is pulling from the primary asset field."

"I don't own the primary asset."

"I understand. I'll change it."

"You've said that already."

"I'm sorry, Evan."

I kept my voice level. "Please remove my profile from circulation until it's corrected."

"Of course."

I thought about the brunch, the way Claire had explained A8 to her friends. I thought about the fact that she had heard my denial and still seemed to think there might be an elegant truth underneath it.

That evening, Claire sent me a picture of a bright blue ceramic turtle.

Claire: One of my students made this for the showcase. It has three legs and an expression that says it knows something.

Evan: It knows the secrets of the harbor tunnels.

Claire: I knew you'd understand.

I smiled at the screen. I wanted us to become ordinary in all the ways that mattered. Dinner, books, stories from work, the occasional lopsided turtle.

But ordinary required trust, and our most important fact was still the one she hadn't been willing to accept.