Chapter 8 Maria #2
“Almost exclusively,” he said, taking out two beers. “Breakfast of the champions.”
“What would you know about it?” I took the beer from him. “Doesn’t the butler give you breakfast in bed every morning?”
“True, and ouch,” he said, sitting by me, sipping from his beer. “Is this a little bit of class humor?”
“Class? No. You’re royalty. I’m a commoner. People like you transcend class. In a league of their own. Don’t think I’m saying it out of reverence, either. I don’t care for billionaires, nor for people who hoard enough wealth that could feed entire nations.”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” he said, looking away in the distance. “But we’re not even royalty. We’re criminals. Or at least we were criminals. That’s not the same as royalty.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that you’re obscenely rich,” I said, sipping my beer.
It wasn’t my intention to attack him or make him feel bad.
But these past few hours had been a different ride altogether.
GMC escorts, a chauffeur, a butler, security detail, and expensive reservations—I was beginning to feel spoiled, and it had started to creep this dissatisfactory feeling toward my old life into my mind.
My attack on him was more of an attempt for my mind to prevent itself from being rewired.
In another six days, he’d be back to his old life, and I’d be back to mine.
I just needed to make sure that it wouldn’t sting then.
“True. It doesn’t. But I’m not one to go about apologizing for being wealthy.”
“No one’s asking you to. The only thing we hate more than a billionaire is a whiny billionaire.”
“We?”
“The masses, Mr. Romano,” I chuckled.
“Here’s to the masses,” he said, clinking his bottle with mine.
“To the masses.”
When he’d finished his beer, he walked about my apartment, taking a book out of my shelves, perusing its title, then putting it back.
I had five shelves that I’d populated over the course of the last couple of years.
Fiction, nonfiction, biographies, magazines—my shelves had it all.
I was a regular visitor of second-hand bookshops in the area, wanting to be a loyal patron so that they wouldn’t shut down and have some fast-food chain open up where they were.
“Do you apologize for being obscenely well-read?” he asked, looking at a copy of Lonesome Dove.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“How many books do you read in a year?” he asked, now taking out a copy of Poe’s entire works and perusing it.
“Around forty or so, but I don’t really keep a count,” I said, feeling like I was headed into a trap.
Elio smiled at me, putting the book back in place. He had his counterargument ready. This should be exciting.
“Nearly ten percent of America’s population constitutes millionaires and billionaires.
Of course, billionaires are the minority of that percentage, but that doesn’t change the fact that ten percent of Americans enjoy obscene amounts of wealth.
Now, there’s only fourteen percent of Americans who actually read around twenty books a year.
Do you want to estimate the percentage of Americans who read as many books as you do? ”
“That’s your argument?”
“Come on. Entertain me.”
“I don’t know.”
“Just between five and eight percent of Americans read forty or more books a year,” Elio said.
“Almost all of them are doing well in terms of their careers. We’re not talking about school teachers or librarians, but hobbyists, influencers, mega-nerds, writers, professional readers. Catching my drift?”
“That I need to apologize for my being well-read?”
“Less than one percent of the entire world’s population reads forty or more books, Maria Thurman.
Wealth isn’t the only statistical anomaly that you can use as a metric.
There’s travel crazy people who have visited every country in the world.
There are those frequent fliers who have flown hundreds of thousands of miles.
Excess of anything good is a privilege. If I’m swimming in excess of wealth, you’re swimming in excess of information, knowledge, good taste.
Would you apologize for that? Do you not somehow make room in your budget to buy more books?
Do you not maintain your lifestyle around it?
Hasn’t the fact that you’re well-read decided your career trajectory for you?
Isn’t that why you’re such an amazing journalist? ”
“Flattery won’t get you out of it,” I said, grinning sheepishly.
“It’s not flattery if it’s facts.”
“All flattery is facts dressed up, Romano,” I said.
“Suit yourself, Thurman.”
“I think I’m going to suit myself,” I said, getting up and heading into my bedroom to take a quick shower, change into a more formal dress for Zing’s. “Don’t break anything, okay?”
He sat down on the sofa, turned the TV on, and gave me a grin with a thumbs up. He’d taken another beer for himself.
When I came out fifteen minutes later, dressed, my hair done in a braid, and my dark green dress flowing down my body, Elio stood up, gawping at me.
“Jesus, Thurman. You’ve been holding out on me,” he said, walking over to me, taking in the sight of the green, backless bodycon dress.
I wouldn’t have minded it in that moment if he’d have taken the straps off my shoulders, kissed me profusely, and canceled on our reservation so that he could fuck me.
But instead he just looked up at me, into my eyes, and whispered, “You’re gorgeous.”
I shied away from his eyes, blushing, smiling.
He took my arm and walked out of the apartment with me. It was about time, too. I was starving.