Page 7 of Counting the Days

“I just know Tiny better than she knows herself.”

“How did you guys meet?”

“High school.”

“Which one?”

“Auburn Sinclair,” she said with an apology in her tone.

“Ah, I see—”

“No, you don’t see—”

“I don’t?”

“No, ’cause you’re thinking, ‘Oh,Auburn Sinclair,this lady grew up super rich just like Tiny, ’cause she went to an impossibly expensive L.A. private school.’ ”

“And being rich is a bad thing?”

“Well, no, not necessarily, but I wasn’t rich,” she said while poking a drunken finger into his shoulder, which pushed back in a surprisingly muscular kind of way.

Although Rhea used Celine sweaters to create an image of wealth, she did not want people to assume shegrew upwith that wealth. She knew the judgment the children of the rich received for being born on third base, and since she was born in the backseat on the way to the game, she wanted credit for having earned her successful-adult status all by herself.

“Well, I actually have a one hundred percent foolproof test to find out if someone grew up rich,” he said.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Have you ever been camping?”

She paused, and he laughed.

“See? Wealthy kids do not go camping, it’s just a fact.”

“Well…actually no, I have never been camping.”

“No campingandAuburn Sinclair? It’s okay, just come clean.”

“Wait! You’ve got me all wrong. It’s just that my childhood was too…complicated for camping.”

“Then how did you end up at Auburn Sinclair?”

“I had a rich aunt.”

“Shepaid for your private school? Dang, my aunt only knits me scarves.”

“Good scarves?” Rhea asked with a tipsy smile.

“Well, I’ve never shown them to anyone because my instinct is that they’reterriblescarves, but I’d love to get your opinion….”

“Don’t worry, I work in fashion, I’ll sort this whole thing out,” she said, sounding impressively casual about the fact that he may have just asked her on a date.

“Thank God, what if I’ve been keeping amazing scarves in a box under my bed for thirty years?”

Rhea laughed. They locked eyes; his were a shade of brown that reminded Rhea of a redwood tree. When he smiled, the skin around them crinkled in a way that made her feel wholly safe and in way over her head.

“So, your aunt paid for your private school?” he prompted, waiting to hear more.

Was he reasking her a question? Rhea found that men usually did not ask her a question even once, much lesstwice. Besides her closest friends, who were genuinely interested in her, she moved through the world listening. She learned at a young age that most people love talking about themselves and loathe listening to other people.