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

I had barely unfolded my napkin when Claire Avery asked whether my waterfront place came with a dock. I looked at her across the small table. A candle burned between us, throwing a warm stripe of light over the menu and the glass of water she hadn't touched. "I don't have a waterfront place," I said. "I rent an apartment above a pharmacy." Claire smiled. "Of course you do." "I'm serious." "Evan, I'm not asking you to prove anything." "I know. I'm trying to tell you something." She tilted her head, amused rather than concerned. "Then tell me." I put the menu down. "The matchmaker described me as A8. That isn't right. I'm a civil engineer. I make eighty-four thousand dollars a year. I have a mortgage-sized student loan, except the mortgage would probably be less irritating." Claire's smile softened into something almost fond. "You don't have to do the mysterious modesty thing." "It's not a thing. It's a mistake." The waiter came to take our drink order. Claire asked for sparkling water. I ordered iced tea, then watched the waiter leave before I continued. "I don't know what you were told about me." "Lydia said you were private about money." "That's not the same as telling you I'm wealthy." "She said you were in the A8 tier." The words settled between us. At the time, I didn't know that Aster Matchmaking used asset codes. I only knew that "A8" sounded like something attached to a spreadsheet, not a person. "What does A8 mean?" I asked. Claire gave me a look that said she thought I was testing her. "You know what it means." "I really don't." "It means the top category. Eight figures or above." I let out a breath through my nose. "I have forty-seven thousand dollars in savings." "Evan." "And thirty-one thousand in student loans." "Okay." "And a 2014 hatchback that makes a new noise every time it rains." She smiled again. "You're funny." "I'm not trying to be." The waiter returned, and we ordered. I spent the first course trying not to turn dinner into an argument. I asked Claire about her job, and she told me she taught art at Bellwether Middle School. She described a seventh-grade mural project that had taken over one hallway and a set of clay turtles that had clogged a sink. I liked the way her whole face changed when she talked about the students. It made me want a second date for reasons that had nothing to do with her mistaken idea of my bank balance. I told her I worked on water infrastructure projects for the town of Marlowe Bay. I explained that I inspected pump stations and reviewed plans for stormwater upgrades. It wasn't a glamorous job, but I liked the tangible part: a broken system, a practical fix, a neighborhood that didn't flood the next time a storm rolled in. Claire listened. Then she asked whether I owned any land. "No." "Any investment properties?" "No." "Family money?" "No." "Trust?" I set my fork down. "Claire, I'm not withholding anything. I work for the town. I rent my apartment. My dad is a retired mechanic, and my mom runs a book club at the library. There is no hidden estate." Her expression changed, but only for a moment. She glanced at the open room around us, at the other couples talking over their meals. "You don't have to share all that on a first date." "I'm sharing it because you think I'm lying." "I don't think you're lying." "You think I'm pretending to be ordinary." Claire folded her hands around her water glass. "Maybe I just think you don't like being defined by money." "That would be a nice quality. It isn't the same as having eight figures." The waiter brought our entrees. Claire waited until he was out of earshot. "Lydia said you'd be careful about this," she said. "She told me you wouldn't talk about finances on a first date." "Lydia told you I was wealthy?" "She told me you were A8." "And she said that meant what?" "Eight figures." I rubbed the bridge of my nose. "Then she gave you the wrong information." Claire's gaze held mine. "Or she gave me the right information and you're trying to find out whether I care." That was when I understood the problem. Any denial sounded like proof of the story she'd already accepted. I could say I was broke, and she'd hear a rich man performing humility. I could say I had a plain job, and she'd hear a rich man guarding his privacy. So I stopped talking about money. We made it through the rest of dinner with careful questions and small jokes. Claire told me she liked old buildings and hated restaurants that played music too loudly. I told her I couldn't keep basil alive. When the check came, I paid my half before she could reach for it. "Very modern of you," she said. "Very affordable of me." She laughed, and for a moment the night felt easy. Outside, the air smelled of rain and salt. I walked her to her car, a silver sedan parked under a streetlamp. "I had a good time," she said. "So did I." She looked at me as if she expected me to make some grand gesture. I didn't. I had no yacht to invite her onto, no country house, no secret wealth waiting to be revealed. "Would you like to see me again?" I asked. "Yes," she said. Then, after a beat, "I'd like to see the real you." "You already did." Her smile came back, gentle and unconvinced. "I hope so." I watched her drive away. Then I walked to the bus stop with the receipt in my coat pocket and the sense that our first date had already become an argument neither of us had agreed to have.