Then he asked me to pay for dinner.
The following month, he borrowed eight hundred dollars toward his wedding suit.
“You’re a millionaire,” I said. “Why can’t you afford your own pants?”
“The explanation would ruin the surprise.”
I transferred the money.
Not because I trusted him completely, but because I had already spent weeks choosing imaginary curtains for the mansion.
My parents became increasingly suspicious.
“Have you actually seen the mansion?” Mom asked.
“Only photographs.”
“His company?”
“The website.”
“The Bentley?”
“It’s being repaired.”
Dad stared at me.
“If Walter lost every dollar tomorrow, would you still marry him?”
I opened my mouth but could not answer.
Strangely, as Walter’s visible wealth disappeared, our relationship improved.
Without the Bentley, we walked.
Without costly restaurants, we cooked together.
Walter made terrible omelets but excellent soup. We visited farmers’ markets, watched old movies, and laughed for hours in his modest rented apartment.
One rainy afternoon, I realized I had spent four hours with him without checking my phone.
