Chapter 2 - The Numbers Blurred on His Phone
The phone stayed where he put it, close enough that the light hit the rice. I could see the steam still coming off the plate in my lap and the glow cutting across it, and I didn't want to look up because if I looked I would have to understand what was on it. My knees were pressed to the cabinet and the marble had gone cold through my uniform. He didn't move it closer. He just waited on one knee in front of me, his shirt hanging open at the collar, his watch catching the under-cabinet light every time he breathed.
I made myself look.
The screen was a payroll summary. White background, black text. I saw my first name and then two numbers stacked under it, one larger than the other. The top one had a comma in it. The bottom one was the one I knew. My eyes slid off them. The fork shook against the plate and made a small sound I hated hearing.
I didn't process it as math. I processed it as trouble. A screen like that only came out when somebody was about to be blamed.
"Sit up for me," he said. His voice had dropped. Not soft exactly, just lower, like he didn't want it traveling down the hall. "Can you stand and talk to me for a minute? The floor's cold."
I gripped the plate harder. The rice had gone sticky at the edges where I'd left it. "I'm okay here, sir," I said. "I don't want to make a mess."
"You won't." He glanced at the plate, then back at my face. "Set it on the counter if you want. I just don't want to tower over you while we do this."
That was the moment I understood he was going to keep asking. Men in houses like this didn't kneel unless they'd already decided something. I shifted my weight and the black flat of my shoe squeaked faint against the marble. I didn't stand yet.
He turned the phone slightly so the glare eased off. "Do those numbers mean anything to you?" he asked.
I shook my head before he'd finished. "I just get what the agency sends," I said. "Please don't call them about this."
He frowned. "About what?"
"About me eating. About talking to you." My throat felt tight. I swallowed and forced the next part out. "They told us not to bother the clients after hours. If they hear I was in the kitchen like this, they'll pull me."
"Lena," he said, "I'm not trying to get you in trouble."
I looked down at the rice because I couldn't hold his eyes. "Then please leave them out of it," I said. "Please."
He was quiet for two breaths. I could hear the refrigerator humming and the faint tick of the stove cooling. Then he stood in one smooth motion and stepped back to give me room, and that scared me more than the kneeling had.
On the far end of the counter, behind the fruit bowl I polished that afternoon, was the folded pay stub I'd left after my shift. BrightNest sent it as a printout with the check summary. I always left it out until I filed it in my locker because the numbers never changed and looking at it felt like checking a locked door.
He'd seen it. I knew by the way his gaze stopped there.
"Is that yours?" he asked.
I nodded. He didn't touch it right away. He looked at me first. "Can I look at it? I won't take it."
I wanted to say no. My hands were full with the plate and the fork and I had nowhere to hide. If I said no, it would look like I had something to hide. If I said yes, there would be a record that I'd shown it.
"Just to look," I said.
He picked it up by the corner, unfolded it once, laid it flat under the light. Fourteen hundred. Hours listed, rate listed, agency logo across the top. He stared at it a second too long. Then he took his phone back, tapped once, and held it over the paper. I heard the soft shutter click.
My chest went cold. "What was that for?"
"So I remember it right," he said quickly. "For me. Not for them."
He set the stub back exactly where it had been, crease aligned. I pushed myself up then, using the cabinet handle, plate balanced in one hand. My legs tingled from sitting. He didn't reach for me, which I was grateful for. I stood with my back to the counter, rice in front of me like something I had to defend.
"Who's your contact over there?" he asked. "Who sends you the schedule?"
The name sat right behind my teeth. Mrs. Cole. I pictured her office by the parking lot, the sign-in sheet, the way she tapped her pen when someone asked about pay.
I shook my head. "It changes," I said. "I don't have a name."
May you like
He studied me. I could tell he knew that wasn't the whole truth, and I could tell he decided not to push it with me still holding dinner like a shield. He slipped his phone into his pocket and nodded toward the plate.
"Finish eating," he said. "We'll talk tomorrow."
