Page 48 of The Lonely Road

She smiles, nods. “My roommate’s father had more money than God. Texas Oil. So, yeah, we went on a private jet and all that jazz.”

“You still friends with her?” I work with a lot of oil people in Texas.

“Alas, she dropped out after the first year. I heard she married the heir of Texaco or one of those big oil companies.” She sets the menu down. Apparently, she’s made her decision. “It was a strange five nights in Paris. We stayed at this cool apartment—rooftop garden, view of the Eiffel Tower.” She becomes wistful. “A part of me wanted that life.”

“You did? The wealthy life?” I can afford a private jet and an apartment with a view in Paris, if that’s what she wants.

She smiles, shaking her head. “I thought I wanted that. That’s why I worked at the fancy law firm.” She says the word fancy with a small sneer.

“And now?”

“Now, I know what I want, and it’s not a private jet or a trip to Paris—as fun as they are, they don’t”—she pauses, as if trying to find the right words—“fill my heart. Do you know what I mean?”

Do I? Maybe.

But just because I know what she means doesn’t mean I agree with her.

Flying coach sucks.

Doing menial labor sucks.

I like my life.

I like that I have an apartment in New York that I go to when I’m able—and it’s alright because I can afford it.

I like that when I have time off, I can book a private jet and go wherever I want.

Last break I took, I flew to Tanzania and climbed Kilimanjaro. I had just spent three months sweating in Cairo, undercover as a hotel night manager. Profitable work but not comfortable.

We order.

She gets the duck confit.

I get the steak.

The sommelier arrives. She discusses the wine list with him in a confident, unhurried way, treating him as a collaborator rather than a resource, and he responds the way people respond to Taya Morningstar—with their eyes wide, eager to please.

They settle on a Burgundy from a producer I’ve never heard of. The somm goes away pleased.

“You know wine,” I remark.

“I know Burgundy,” she corrects. “And Barolo. Everything else is geography.”

The food arrives in the unhurried rhythm of a kitchen that doesn’t need to prove its pace. Her duck confit is lacquered and dark, served with a lentil preparation scented with thyme and smoke.

The steak looks and tastes absolutely delicious.

She cuts into the duck and closes her eyes briefly when she tastes it.

It is, objectively, an extraordinary reaction.

Is that how she looks when she⁠—

“Good?” I ask, my voice hoarse because I can now picture her when she releases, and the thought is erotic.

“Don’t talk to me for a minute. I’m having a moment.” Her eyes remain closed, her expression beatific.

Charmed, I eat my steak and don’t talk to her for a minute.