I recognize that term for two reasons. One, it’s a martial art I want to study one day. And two, it falls neatly into the category of facts that nobody discovers about another person in a bathroom stall.

I look up at Riley. She’s looking right at me. She still looks nervous, but Riley with jitters is somehow compelling. She looks like a frightened animal, but one who’s stepped past her fears to face them. It’s vulnerable and bold at once. I want to admire her. And protect her.

My phone says, Holy crap, Brandon. Check this shit out. I wonder what that’s supposed to mean, but then she texts me a photo, and I see Riley with an older man’s arm around her, both of them smiling broadly. It takes me a few minutes to realize who it is because I’m used to seeing this particular man in his twenties, on album art.

And Bridget sends, JOHN FUCKING LYDON. 

Riley leans toward me, her expression peacemaking. We had a nice morning last week until things got weird, and the distance between us now is definitely strange. But there was no war declared, and it’s odd to see her wanting to make nice so that we can fix it.

“Who’s texting you?” she asks, trying on a smile that seems too small.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. What’s that picture?”

I clasp the phone to my body, realizing only a second later that it looks like I’m hiding porn. Riley seems almost hurt, so I blurt, “It’s personal.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, slinking back.

“Not like that. It’s just … ” I search for a nonoffensive lie, loath to admit that my sister is texting from the bathroom in an attempt to hook me up with the girl who could ruin everything I’m hoping to build. “It’s a photo of a work in progress.”

I have no idea what that means. I imagine an artist working on a painting that’s not yet ready for public viewing. I don’t even know any fucking painters.

“Artists.” I smile. “You know. They don’t want anyone seeing their stuff before it’s done.”

“Oh.” Riley looks like she doesn’t believe a word.

You should see how her ass looks in a bathing suit, Bridget texts. I brace, but she doesn’t send me that photo — from wherever she’s getting them.

“I … I need to reply.” I glance at Mason, who’s oblivious. “I’m so sorry.”

“No big deal,” she says. But Riley looks hurt because she knows I’m lying.

I look at my watch. Ten minutes now. I stab at my phone and text Bridget, GET OUT HERE RIGHT NOW. 

I’m looking at LiveLyfe photos. 

You can look at photos later!

It will be easier once I get back to my place.

My blood turns to ice. She’s on LiveLyfe. Looking through Riley’s photos to see if we’re a good match. And I’m suddenly sure, knowing Bridget and the time she’s taken, that she’s not in the bathroom at all.

My hand, as if it’s way ahead of me, starts slapping at my pockets.

My keys are gone.

Because this is my house jacket, and the pockets don’t open. I put my keys in Bridget’s purse. Which she took with her into the restroom. Before, presumably, she walked out the restaurant’s front door.

Tell me you’re in the bathroom still, I text.

Okay. I’ll tell you that if you want.

And before I put the phone away, Bridget texts, Don’t be surprised if Mason gets an urgent text in a few minutes.

And, finally: Trust me. XOXO. :)

At the next table, I watch Mason pull his phone from his pocket.

“Goddammit,” I mutter.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Riley

I DON’T KNOW WHY BRANDON is suddenly in some sort of a text war, or why he feels the need to do it right here, right now. He certainly wouldn’t dare if my father was at the table.

I know he’s not doing it to insult me, but knowing that he’d only respond to texts at this fancy table — where the company will be picking up the tab — while I’m the only one sitting with him is hard to square with the whole not-doing-it-to-insult-me thing.

He does apologize, but it’s such bullshit. It’s a get-off-the-hook apology. It’s a social trap. He wants to text, so he apologizes and says it’s urgent. What am I supposed to say? I have to say it’s okay, no big deal. And now, that acceptance means I’ve forfeited my right to be pissed … though after he gets a photo he won’t show me, it’s hard not to be.

I’m suddenly, vividly certain that he’s making fun of me.

I have no basis for this. No reason to believe it. But given that his bumblings about an artist and a work in progress are clearly lies, there must be another reason he won’t show me whatever it is. His guilty look, when he barely meets my eyes, only drives the certainty deeper. If it’s not directly about me, it’s absolutely something that I — not just anyone — am not supposed to see.

Is it a girlfriend, sending him a nude snap? That’s the kind of thing a guy would clutch to his chest and get all red faced about in public. But then why do I get the distinct impression that he’d show others, and it’s specifically Riley James who’s not supposed to see?

I’m being paranoid. I’ve never been especially comfortable in places like this. I can’t really be arm candy to Dad because that role is reserved for dates, but I’m still an accessory, like a purse for a man. Dad wants to show me off, fresh from college. And you can’t be shown off while also being dealt with as an equal.

I shouldn’t have worn this dress.

And if I’d known that Brandon would be here ahead of time, I don’t think I’d have come.

That asshole.

Who thinks it’s okay to have idle chats with his buddies while I’m right here. While he’s been sitting a foot away, not so much as glancing in my direction more than a time or two. Like he’s annoyed that I’m here because this was supposed to be man to man. Dad already said Brandon is the guy he wants for the VP job, so this is just the last test — the final effort to make sure that Brandon can play the role now that Dad’s decided.

I wish he’d just tell him already. Get this over with so I can stop wondering whether Brandon should be my boss or not, and at what level.

Dad shows up, to my left and Brandon’s right. But there’s no seat between us, and he was on my other side. He’s making no move to take his seat, or sit down.

He sets something on the table. It’s a credit card, cobalt, with a finish that’s not glossy, but matte like satin. And of course he’s put it in front of Brandon, not me. Not his daughter, whose name is literally on the card, in the company position.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I have to leave.”

Brandon looks disappointed. I suppose he was expecting final word on his promotion, and now he sees he’s not about to get it. Following the text debacle, this makes me spitefully happy. Let him keep waiting. God knows, I still am.

“What?” I ask. “Why?”

“It’s a business thing. Margo heard from one of our people who … well, don’t worry about it. I’ll tell you tomorrow.” His face tries softens, but I can tell this bugs him — not because he wanted dinner, but because he’s running out on me. And at least there’s that. Dad and Brandon have been ignoring me and Brandon’s sister to talk about stuff that orbits the company without actually being business, but when it comes down to it, it’s me he’s loath to disappoint, not Brandon.

I decide to ignore his “it’s a business thing” brush-off. As if I wouldn’t understand. At least he’s not explaining to Brandon.