"Call me big brother and I will tell you."
The way he said it made me want to look at the table separating us and talk to it instead. At least the table was honest. It did not pretend to care, and it definitely did not demand familial titles from strangers.
This man is so really… something. I am not particularly bad with words, or maybe I am. More accurately, I am currently experiencing an internal crisis inside my internal monologue, which is unfortunate, because that monologue is doing all the emotional labor and none of it is allowed into the narration.
"No. Who even are you?" I responded with a slight roll of my eyes, which I hoped conveyed dignity and not the fact that I had already accepted a free drink from him. He seemed to be enjoying the situation. A broke student like me, drinking a beverage he paid for, sitting obediently across from him, pretending this was a normal interaction and not a suspicious prelude to identity theft. "My only brother is Luca Pacioli. Never heard of him?"
I watched his face carefully. No reaction. Either he did not know who Luca Pacioli was, or he was good at pretending. Both were red flags.
Still, I could not deny that I was curious why he had been pestering me nonstop. People usually ignored me unless they needed notes, money, or emotional support I was not qualified to give. There was also the small, shameful possibility that he might secretly give me a MacBook. Oh, shut up. As a broke student with no laptop anymore, deluding yourself is not a sin. It is called ✨manifesting✨. Rich people do it all the time and call it vision.
I sipped my drink loudly. It was definitely empty. So empty that I could taste the plastic. It tasted like expectation, disappointment, and adulthood. Mostly adulthood. The kind that sneaks up on you and charges interest but with a twist of responsibility.
Mr. Aresé adjusted his sitting position. Nothing really changed. His long, frankly irritating legs were still crossed, and he leaned against the backrest of the café's wooden chair like he was about to advertise it. I half expected a brand logo to appear above his head.
"You need a job?"
"Very much. Who wouldn't? I am near dying. I need to buy my coffin," I blurted out immediately, sounding desperate. Definitely not money-hungry. Just hungry. In general.
I mentally shoved aside all the things I had accidentally done. All the crimes that made me scream at night because they kept disguising themselves as King Kong in my dreams and chasing me down streets that did not exist. Freud would have charged extra for that.
Therapy is expensive. A McDonald's burger with double patties and limp pickles, however, is affordable and comes with immediate emotional relief. That is not a joke. That is economics.
"So, how about you work under me?" Mr. Aresé raised his hand, probably to order again. He seemed to have forgotten that this café was a local one and completely self-service. Money really does change how people perceive reality.
"What kind of job?" I asked. Better to be cautious than trafficked. Even people like Mr. Aresé, who was currently wearing a Patek Philippe like it was a personality trait, could still be a scam.
"Anything?"
"There is no such thing as anything in job hunting," I replied. "If there were, I would absolutely not apply."
"You are young and already suffering from trust issues?" Mr. Aresé even dared to raise an eyebrow at me, like this was a personality flaw and not a survival requirement.
"That is called common survival sense. Thank you," I said. Which was ironic, considering my life history strongly suggested otherwise, and let's add the fact I did something very questionable and it's a lot.
Now I miss being a felon. Simpler times. Less future paperwork.
I set my empty drink down and watched as the bartender suddenly appeared to cater to Mr. Blond Aresé's needs. It felt like watching someone order another set of expensive watches while I mentally calculated how many instant noodles were left in my future. My face fought the urge not to twitch. It was losing.
I took a deep breath when my phone buzzed inside the pocket of my half-zipped jacket. Without a doubt, a notification from someone who needed something. My social life was as empty as my wallet, and my wallet had already given up hope.
[We need to talk about your novel.]
I raised my left eyebrow. Calm washed over me immediately, which was concerning. That kind of calm only comes when you already know something is wrong and your brain has decided to dissociate politely. Maybe it was the caffeine from my mocha, which I had been sipping like a desperate clown bargaining with sanity to stop making jokes.
Like my life, everything was a joke.
I replied immediately, explaining that I meant no disrespect, but my current schedule was full. This was technically true, thanks to a certain someone named Mr. Aresé, who was still in front of me and ordering something I had no intention of listening to.
Then, very suddenly and without warning, I remembered my mother and father proudly bringing home a sixty-five inch television. Apparently, the government in this country was acting like the motherland was their private business and taxpayers were the actual mothers footing the bill. My father, a man who feared two things only, authority and buffering screens, agreed to buy the television solely for Netflix. With twelve percent VAT tax.
That memory alone was enough to trigger guilt.
"I should get home. My mom is definitely looking for me now, Mr. Aresé," I said. Spoken confidently by a twenty-one-year-old with no friends, a decaying social life, and an AI as his primary chatmate. Sounds healthy. Very normal. Perfectly adjusted member of society.
I did not wait for his response. Waiting led to conversations, and conversations led to commitments I could not afford. I stood up quickly and slid the strap of my bag across my shoulder with urgency, as if the café itself might charge me rent for overstaying.
"I ordered tiramisu. Wait for a second and take it home."
His tone was not joking. That was the alarming part. He even dared to raise a finger at me and motioned for me to sit down. The audacity. The confidence. The unspoken power of free food.
So I sat back down.
Because he was offering free food, and I am not a principled person when sugar is involved. Morals are flexible. Hunger is not.
"How about I send you off instead?" he continued casually, as if he had not just overridden my free will with dessert. "I have my car and my driver parked outside. I am leaving anyway."
My brain immediately started flashing warning signs. Kidnapping documentaries. True crime podcasts. My mother's voice telling me not to get into strangers' cars, immediately followed by my bank balance reminding me that strangers' cars had air-conditioning.
I glanced at him, then at the imagined tiramisu, then back at him again. Somewhere in that silence, my survival instincts and my financial situation began negotiating terms.
I did not answer yet. I was busy calculating whether declining a rich man's driver was a form of self-respect or just bad economic decision-making.
Either way, my mother was going to kill me. And this time, dessert would not save me. Nevertheless, I am a human with empty pockets and empty stomach that will definitely say yes to the tiramisu cake and the free ride.