“It wasn’t a scheme.” It was definitely a scheme.
“Did you need money for something?”
“No,” she said. “I just…” She trailed off, calculating what was worth saying. “It wasn’t long after college,” she decided. “My boyfriend at the time was an artist, and it was mostly his idea.”
Aldo paused with his glass midway between his mouth and the table.
“Lie,” he said.
She caught herself pausing mid-breath and reached for her wine, exhaling.
“You don’t believe me?” she asked neutrally.
“Of course I don’t believe you. I bet you’ve never gone along with someone else’s idea in your life.” Aldo’s glass resumed its path to his lips. “I think it was your idea,” he said after a pensive sip, “but I can’t figure out why you’d do it.” He scanned her again, the effect of it intensely asexual and certainly aromantic. “You seem like you have plenty of money.”
“Do you actually believe that people only do things because they need them?” she asked, though as soon as she said it, she figured he probably did. He’d needed to kick a habit, so he had. He seemed to see the world through some lens of necessity, as if everything was purely reflex.
“I think you needed something,” he assured her. “I’m just pretty sure it wasn’t money.”
The waiter arrived with her salad, which was convenient timing. She spread the napkin over her lap, delicately spearing part of an egg and an olive with her fork. Then she placed it in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.
“Tell me more about your father,” she said after a moment.
“He’s a chef. He owns a restaurant.”
“Oh?” She took another bite. “Can you cook?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.” She set her fork down temporarily, glancing at him. “Do you like it?”
He shook his head. “Not really.”
“Well, makes sense,” she said. “I don’t think we’re really capable of loving the things our parents love. I always wonder about father-son athletes, you know?” She picked up her fork again. “If my dad were Michael Jordan there’s no way I’d ever pick up a basketball.”
“You’re from Chicago,” Aldo noted aloud, and she rolled her eyes.
“Can you make this less like an interview, please?” she sighed. “You’re making me feel like a zoo animal.”
“I like zoos,” Aldo said.
“Everybody likes zoos. That’s not the point.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re wrong,” he said.
“About what?”
“People take issue with zoos.”
“People take issue with everything,” she assured him, taking another bite. “The point is, you’re observing me too closely.”
He eyed her for a second, then half-smiled.
“Truth,” he judged.
She glared at him, just to try it out, and his smile broadened.
“Fine. Where are you from?” he asked her, and she sighed.
“Here,” she conceded, earning herself a little smug glance. “Well, Naperville. My dad’s a hedge fund manager.”
“And you’re a thief?” he asked, still smiling.
“I wanted to be an artist,” she said, and then corrected herself. “I was trying to be.” She picked at an olive, separating it from a leaf of lettuce. “But yes.” She sat back, giving up on her food and redirecting her attention to Aldo. “I was formerly a thief.”
“Suits you,” he said.
For some reason, she wanted to believe him.
“So,” she said after a pause. “Did you get the lies you came for?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. His water glass was empty, and he tapped his fingers lightly against its side. “I think you pretty much told me the truth. Except for the thing about the heist not being your idea.”
“It wasn’t a heist,” she said.
“It was basically a heist,” he said, “and you’re definitely the one who thought of it. I just want to know why.”
She picked up her glass of wine, giving it a pointed swirl. “Perhaps I’m very vain,” she suggested, “or too clever for my own good. Too interested in causing my parents grief.”
“Those,” Aldo said, “sound like lies. Or possibly someone else’s truths.”
They were. Her mother’s, specifically.