I told Eric I just wanted to get the media shitstorm over with, but that doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to it.

I get to work early. Deciding that arriving first would make it a lot easier. I’d rather see each person’s stupid little look as they walk in rather than walk into a room full of stupid little looks.

It won’t be that bad, I figure, since most people at the shop have seen me with Eric already. None of them realized who he was, as bike hipsters don’t exactly follow billionaire gossip news.

Hell, maybe I’ll be safe for that reason. Maybe none of the people I work with will even see the photos.

As I’m getting the register ready, Wilson walks in with his bike in tow.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he says, avoiding looking at me.

“Wilson,” I say, leaning in closer toward him, and stopping him from walking past me.

“Yeah?” He asks.

“Did you see?” I ask.

He nods slowly.

“If you have something to say about it, just say it.”

“Uhhhh,” he says, stroking his beard with his free hand, and clutching his bike saddle in the other. “I dunno.”

“So you read gossip websites?” I ask.

“I saw it on Reddit,” he says.

“Of course you did.”

“It’s cool though,” he says. “I didn’t realize that guy was... that guy.”

“I didn’t either,” I say.

“Oh,” he says, “Well—”

“Do you think everyone else is going to see it?” I interrupt.

Wilson purses his lips together and says nothing. Then he slowly nods, looking uncomfortable.

“Dammit,” I groan.

He slides past me as soon as I let my guard down, and he disappears into the backroom.

Maya is the next one in, and I don’t even have time to ask her. She just shouts across the shop. “You gold-digging slut!”

If she didn’t have a giant grin on her face, I’d think she was actually insulting me.

I look down at the floor, hoping she’ll leave me alone.

Instead, she walks up and hugs me. She’s never been friendly with me at all, but now she’s hugging me so tight that I can hardly breathe.

“You slay them,” Maya says. “Take it all down!”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, trying to push her off me.

“The patriarchy,” she says. “I wish I had realized who that guy was when he was in here... but you can do it too.”

“Do what?”

“Eric Prince’s billions are basically stolen from the poor and suffering—mostly women, the real underclass—and now you can get it back.”

“I’m not in it for his money, Maya,” I say.

“Oh,” Maya says. “I know you’re not like that Ruth. But just think about how much of what he’s taken you can claw back in the name of women everywhere.”

I decide to just humor her. It’ll be a lot easier than explaining to her a simple concept such as: “I like him as a human being.”

“Will do, Maya. I’ll play the long game on him. I’m just on step two or three, but there are hundreds—thousands—of steps to go,” I say hoping she doesn’t hear my sarcasm.

Maya grasps my shoulders and smiles. “I’ll help you along the way.”

“Thanks,” I say, faking a big smile. “I so appreciate that.”

It all turns out to not be as bad as I think, until I go on my lunch break and decide to check the articles on my phone. I purposefully ignored them this morning, being too nervous, but now I’m curious.

“They... they called me a fidget spinner.” I whisper to my burrito.

I look over everything, and I start to wonder if Maya isn’t fucking right. Everyone is acting like Eric is some great and noble man for dating me. Not a single article throws out there that maybe, just maybe, he likes me. There’s always some implied power dynamic, and the only one who comes out ever looking good is Eric.

Even the ones that try to trash him act like he’s just clueless. Look at the big dumb billionaire that doesn’t realize how undesirable and awful the girl he’s with is, what a fool!

The prevailing question across all of the articles is: Why is this gorgeous billionaire dating this poor, boring nerd?

They all try to answer that question, and they all ignore what I thought was the obvious answer: Maybe we just like each other?

Not that I’ve ever put huge stock in tabloids and gossip rags, but if literally everyone but me is seeing something else here, then just maybe I’m the foolish idiot. I can’t help but notice how—overall—Eric comes out looking good from this. They say the simplest explanation is usually the right one, and just maybe “Cocky selfish billionaire wants to make himself look good by dating down” is the more realistic explanation than “Gorgeous billionaire that could have any woman in the world has chosen Ruth Biederman.”

I try to put it all out of my mind, but it’s a slow day at work, and the hours drag by.

By the time I finally get off work, I want to just go home and sleep more than anything. Stressing and worrying all day has worn me out. Since I haven’t heard from Eric, I figure after the media frenzy he won’t be picking me up at work after all.

I get home and collapse onto the bed with all my clothes on, with a sigh I grab my phone. I open a text message to Eric and start typing up an excuse to cancel. I’ll tell him that I’m too tired. It’s actually true…

I won’t mention that I’m angry, and that taking tonight off might make me less likely to bite his head off.

But then my phone vibrates, and I see that it’s a text from Eric.

Go to this address.

Is all the text message says, and there’s a map link.

I sigh and click the map. Didn’t he say he would pick me up? Can’t a billionaire at least send a car, or even an Uber?

The map location is a building just two blocks away. Maybe he’s got the car waiting there?

Give me thirty minutes. I respond.

I splash water on my face to try to force my brain to adjust from relaxing on my bed and feeling sorry for myself to biting the bullet and seeing Eric tonight.

I don’t have the nerve to ask Tracy if I can borrow another outfit. If Eric is in this for all the “dating down” points, I might as well dress like I usually do.

The one concession I do make is changing into a clean pair of jeans and a sweater I found at a thrift store three winters ago. It’s at least two sizes too big, but it’s soft and warm.

I consider doing my makeup, but decide also not to bother. Maybe I’m just being spiteful now, but if Eric really likes me, he shouldn’t care either way, right?

Since the address is so close, I end up walking. It’s a six or seven story building, one of the taller buildings in my neighborhood.

There’s a guy in a suit standing outside, but it’s not Eric.

“Ms. Biederman?” he asks me.

“Yes,” I say. “Are you the driver?”

“No, this way,” he says indicating I should follow him.

He opens the door, and I follow him inside.

The hallway is warmly lit, and we go down a hallway with freshly-waxed hardwood floors. He takes me to an elevator, and he hits the button for the roof.

“Is Eric up there?” I ask.

The man just shakes his head.

When the elevator doors open, we’re on the rooftop, and there’s a helicopter in front of me.

“I’m not your driver,” he says. “I’m your pilot.”

My mouth drops open as I look up at the thing.

“You’re not afraid to fly?” he asks. “Eric didn’t mention—”

“I’m not,” I quickly say. “It just seems… extravagant.”

He shrugs and slides open the door for me.

The interior of the passenger section is lined with leather seats and couches. I slide onto one of the couches, and the pilot turns back to me.

“I’m going to shut the window, it’s sealed to be nearly soundproof. If you need to talk to me, use the radio,” he points to it.

I nod.

“And enjoy the view,” he says just before sliding the window shut.

I feel vibrations as the blades start to turn, though I can barely hear anything through the soundproofing.

There’s a TV screen in front of me, so I suppose I could watch TV or a movie if I wanted. It seems a bit silly when there’s a nice view to be had, but I guess that’s what luxury means: to have things you don’t really need at all.

I forgot to ask the pilot even where we are going. For all I know he could be taking me to another city. Hell, he could be taking me to Canada. Can helicopters even go that far?

I press the button on the intercom. “Hey, where are we going?”

“Eric’s penthouse,” the pilot responds.

Oh, of course. Assuming he lives in a prime location in Manhattan, I probably could have biked there or taken the train there in under forty-five minutes. The helicopter will probably get us there in five or ten minutes. So it will save thirty-five minutes, and it probably costs something like five thousand dollars per hour just to operate. It seems so ridiculous.

Suddenly I see movement, and I realize we’ve already lifted off the rooftop. I stick my face closer to the window, and I watch in amazement as my whole neighborhood comes into view.

As soon as we’re a few hundred feet off the ground, I can basically see all of Brooklyn and Manhattan. It’s a rare view, because even flying into New York, you’re usually on the wrong side of the plane, or the wing is blocking the window, or you’re flying into Newark, or a million other reasons you can’t see a thing.

Now though, I’m in a helicopter that is travelling straight over the city. The bridges look like cords of light connecting Brooklyn to Manhattan. The helicopter starts to move toward Manhattan, and the grid-shaped roads dotted with thousands of pairs of headlights come more and more clearly into view.

The helicopter isn’t even really moving that fast, but it’s able to completely circumvent all bridges, traffic, indirect roads—everything. I see Central Park, which looks like a big rectangle of missing lights. Just as fast as it came it disappears from view when the helicopter turns. The fact that I can’t see it means we’re probably heading straight for it.

Just as I’m getting settled in, the buildings are suddenly directly below me, and then I see the park again, right next to us. There’s a small lurch as the helicopter stops its forward motion and begins to descend.

I’m not used to any of this, but I still clearly remember taking off from only six or seven stories up. As I watch our descent, I expect it to take another minute or so to touch down, but then we just stop seemingly in mid-air.

We must have touched down on a rooftop, but we’re way above the park still, and way above even most of the buildings I can see.

I notice the vibrations begin to die down, and when they’ve completely stopped, the door swings open, and the pilot smiles.

“We’re here,” he says.

“Where’s here?” I ask.

“My penthouse.”

Eric answers in his deep voice. I crane my neck out of the helicopter and see him standing there, his tall figure dressed in a suit, and his tie blowing in the last wind of the slowing helicopter blades.

He approaches and holds out his hand for me. I take it, and he helps me down. I look around, and I see that on the other side of the helipad there’s a pool, a terraced garden, and entire outdoor kitchen complete with grill, and dozens of other little things that are nicer than my entire apartment. And this is just Eric’s roof.

“Jesus,” I whisper.

“This is a new building,” Eric says. “I got it on the ground floor—”

“You mean the top floor,” I say.

He laughs. “You know what I mean. And it’s the top five floors, actually. You’d think that having billions would make getting a place like this easy, but I’m competing with a bunch of Russian and Chinese oligarchs who want properly like this to safely park their graft money outside of their respective countries.”

“Sounds fun,” I say.

Eric takes me by the arm. “Let me show you around.”

“This is the pool,” he says, “Obviously. And there’s a hot tub there. It’s one of those infinity pools, which just means it goes right to the edge like that.”

I see what he means. It looks as if the pool water is going to just fall off the roof, and it looks like it would scare the crap out of me if I swam anywhere near the edge.

“The helipad is nice to have,” he says. “I used to use it to avoid traffic…”

“But then you got a bike,” I say, laughing.

“It’s a really excessive way to travel within the city. I mostly use it for quick trips out of the city. And for impressing people I like.”

His white teeth gleam at me, and I blush. I need to remind myself that I am still upset. Or mad at him. I try to tell myself I’m just upset, but I think there’s some real anger there too, and I shouldn’t just swallow it.

“It’s a bit chilly for the roof,” he says. “I have a fire pit here, but let’s go inside for now.”

I nod, and he takes me toward a doorway. It leads to a set of glass steps that spiral down to a sprawling space covered in white marble.

Each piece of modern looking furniture probably is worth more than my yearly pay at the Fixed Gear, and the paintings hanging on the wall are breathtaking.

“Wow,” I say, “I didn’t know you were into art…”

“Huh,” he says, “Funny how we haven’t talked about that yet. It seems like we have a lot to look forward to still.”

He licks his lips as he says it, and I remember last night—the reason I was coming over in the first place. I try to swallow, but it gets stuck in my throat.

Maybe we can have make-up sex, but making up usually requires fighting first.

“This one,” he says, pointing to a super-wide horizontal frame covering one of his walls, “Is not by a famous artist, but she will be famous. It’s an investment.”

The painting looks like an abstract and surreal depiction of some kind of whale-like creature. It’s much longer than a real whale would be. The whale is purple, and the water is a shade of aqua-green. As I get closer, I see that the purple paint is laid on thick, raising at least an inch off the canvas. I walk from the front of the whale to the back, and I see the thick paint transform into scales. I lean closer in to see if the scales aren’t just painted. They look real.

“They’re real,” Eric says.

The canvas is at least 12 feet wide, and as I get closer to the back, I see that the whale has tiny little legs sticking out of its back. I step back and take the whole painting in again. The tiny little legs are pressing against the seafloor, and the top of the whale is floating up toward the surface.

“I don’t think it’s ready to step out of the ocean,” I say.

Eric nods, and then I feel his hand grasp my waist. “Maybe it just wants to have a look outside.” His hand slides down, partially touching my ass.

I pull away from his grasp and face him. “The tabloids.”

He sucks in a breath. “We knew it would be bad.”

“I can’t help but notice,” I say, trying not to sound too bitter, “that it didn’t make you look all that bad.”

“I noticed it too, Ruth, and I’m sorry. You realize I can’t control the media, nor can I control all the double standards about class and gender and—”

“Just stop,” I say, holding up a hand.

“Okay,” he says, crossing his arms. “I’m happy to make a public statement.”

“That would make you look even better, wouldn’t it?” I ask.

He laughs. “Sounds like I can’t win here.”

“I’m not trying to be a bitch, Eric. I just want to make sure that you aren’t... benefitting at my expense.”

“What does that mean?” he asks.

“I need to know that you are... that you just wandered into the bike shop that day, and you saw me, and for whatever inexplicable reason you just liked me. Is that what happened?”