Gold Digger – Story 16 – THIRD DINNER

Thursday was dinner three with Richard.

By dinner three you stop learning the obvious things.

The job. The money. The board memberships.

You start learning the weird things.

For example.

Richard hates truffle.

I know.

I was as surprised as you are.

The restaurant sent something expensive to the table – compliments of the chef, the kind of dish that arrives with a small explanation – and Richard took one bite, put his fork down, and said awful with the calm certainty of a man announcing the weather.

I laughed.

Not strategically.

Not attractively.

Just – actually laughed, the too-loud version, the one I’m always slightly embarrassed about after.

Richard looked at me.

Then smiled.

The real one.

That was the first problem of the evening.

The second problem was the question.

We were somewhere between the main course and whatever came after when he set his glass down and asked:

“Are you happy?”

Just like that.

No preamble.

No flirtation.

Just curious, the way Richard is curious – like he’s been thinking about asking for a while and finally decided the timing was acceptable.

I had an answer ready.

Obviously I had an answer ready.

Confident. Warm. Specific enough to sound considered. I’ve been giving that answer for long enough that it comes out smooth and I believe it while I’m saying it.

Richard listened.

Nodded.

Changed the subject.

No follow-up. No challenge. No reassurance.

Which meant he didn’t believe me.

And somehow that bothered me more than if he’d argued.

Near the end of the evening he told me a story about Eleanor.

Not a widow story.

A marriage story.

She’d found a painting at auction. Loved it. Bought it before he’d had a chance to object to the price. He’d objected anyway – consistently, thoroughly, for eleven years – until one morning he woke up and realized she’d been right the whole time and the painting was actually extraordinary.

He smiled when he told it.

Not sadly.

Just – a real smile. The smile of someone telling a story they’ve told before and still like.

I looked at him for a moment.

I’d been thinking about Eleanor wrong.

Predecessor.

Shadow.

Standard to meet.

What I understood at dinner three was simpler.

I wasn’t competing with Eleanor.

I was competing with eleven years.

Eleven years of private jokes.

Eleven years of the same argument.

Eleven years of someone knowing exactly which painting you’d hate and buying it anyway.

I didn’t have a spreadsheet column for that.

I’d never needed one before.

In the Uber home I opened the spreadsheet.

Typed one note.

He was happy once.

Then underneath:

Not hopeful. Not lucky. Happy.

There is a difference.

I had not budgeted for that.

Closed the laptop.

Thought about eleven years and a painting.

Thought about laughing too loud at a table and not caring.

Filed that last part under nothing.

Left it there.

Spreadsheet status:
Richard → dinner three: complete. he hates truffle. I laughed wrong and didn’t fix it.
New problem: he was happy once. genuinely. specifically. not hopeful. not lucky. happy.
I had not budgeted for that.
Noah → apology pending.
D → [row does not exist]

The hoodie is in my wardrobe. Still not discussing it. – Mila