Page 99 of Played
"Always."
He shakes his head, amused, and reaches for the dessert menu. I lean in to study it with him, our heads close together. The crème brûlée catches my eye immediately—caramelized sugar, vanilla bean, fresh berries.
But my gaze drifts to the price. Fifteen dollars. For dessert.
I glance at the wine glasses, the empty plates that once held filet mignon and seared scallops. The total's climbing in my head, making my chest tight.
I know he's paying for the entire meal—he always insists, won't even entertain the idea of splitting the check. And he's been adamant about covering rent too, refusing every single time I try to contribute even a small amount.
My mind keeps circling back to the question I can't quite answer: how does he manage to pay for all of this? The expensive dinners, the rent on his brownstone, everything—especially now, when his broken hand means he hasn't been able to work his piano gigs in weeks.
"The crème brûlée looks good," Julian says, pointing.
"It does." I close the menu. "But I'm actually pretty full."
He studies me, sees right through me. "Liza."
"What?"
"You've been eyeing that dessert in the window since we sat down."
"I'm just—" I wave a hand. "This meal's already expensive. And you won't even let me chip in."
"We've been over this."
"Julian, you're not working right now. Your hand—" I gesture at the cast, guilt crawling up my throat. "You shouldn't be spending money on fancy dinners when you can't even play."
"I have savings."
"That you're burning through because of me." My voice drops. "Because Daniel broke your hand. And you won't let me help with rent, and now you're buying me fancy dinners I don't deserve—"
"Stop it.” He reaches across the table, catching my hand. "You deserve everything. The dinners, the dessert, all of it. And my hand's healing. I'll be back at work soon."
"You don't know that."
"I do." His thumb traces circles on my palm. "The doctor said eight weeks. I'm already halfway there."
I bite my lip, unconvinced.
"Order the crème brûlée," he says softly. "Let me do this."
He takes my hand, and I can tell he wants to say something else.
He inhales a long, measured breath, his shoulders rising and falling as if he's bracing himself for something. "My father," he begins, his voice careful, measured, "owned a paper recycling company. A successful one. Not glamorous, but profitable." He pauses, his thumb still tracing those slow circles on my palm. "He sold it six years ago for a lot of money. Then he died a year later." His eyes meet mine, dark and serious. "He left me everything. A very large sum."
I watch him, flabbergasted, waiting, sensing there's more.
"I don't pay rent or a mortgage on my brownstone… just maintenance fees. I own it, free and clear. And I don’t need to work to pay my bills, Liza. I haven't for a while now." His jaw tightens slightly. "I work because I love it. Because sitting at a piano is the only thing that's ever made sense to me. The money just... sits there."
The words land between us like a confession.
"Wait." I pull my hand back, processing. “But I thought your dad was out of the picture. He left you money? Like, a lot of money?"
"Yeah."
"Julian, that's—" I can't even finish the sentence. My brain's spinning, recalculating everything I thought I knew about him. "You've been letting me stress about rent and dinner prices when you're sitting on a fortune?"
"It's not like that."
