“I’ve never really been one for galas,” I admitted, “or lavish parties of any kind really. I’ve attended more of them than any man should ever have to in my time and I think I got it in my head that fancy dinners with high ticket prices were the only way to be charitable. Or the most effective. But since working with Good Fellow’s, I’ve come to realize this isn’t the case. The non-profit gave me an opportunity to have some hands-on experience and now I can’t go back to how it used to be before that.”
“How did it used to be before that?” Rebecca asked.
“Removed,” I said. “Galas let the rich feel good about themselves for a night. They let them think they’re doing enough when they could do so much more. Now, I’m not saying everyone has to become a charity worker. I’m not saying that at all. All I’m saying is we could all do with a bit of a reality check. These kinds of fundraisers are too far removed from the real issues. Folks don’t even know what the issues are that they’re giving to half the time. And I used to be one of those people. I have a lot of regrets about that.”
I was saying a lot of things I’d never said before and Rebecca was catching it all on her little recording device.
She leaned forward and draped an elbow over her crossed knee. “Why do you have regrets?”
I shrugged one shoulder and thought for a moment before answering. The response grew clearer in my mind. “I used to be the guy who thought the fundraisers were enough. But I realize now that I was foolish, which is especially ironic because I used to be the kid who needed the help so I didn’t go hungry.”
“Can you tell me more about that, Lukas?”
“I grew up in an apartment co-op. I had a single mother who worked tirelessly to provide for us, but when nobody wants to take a chance on you, it’s impossible to get your foot in the door and make any real money. We struggled for a long time. As a kid, I thought I had it harder. You know how kids are, unwillingly self-absorbed. I thought about how I wanted more. How I wanted to be more. How I couldn’t bear the thought of never getting out of those rundown condos. But I never thought about how hard it was on my mother until I was older. She was the one with the real worries. She was the one paying the bills and trying to put food on our table. She was the one who felt like she was failing on the nights when there was no food. I owe her a lot. I owe her everything.”
Rebecca pressed her lips together and was quiet for a minute.
I didn’t know where all of this was coming from. I never intended to share my past like this, especially with a reporter, but the words were flowing, and part of me suspected this meant it was time for the truth to come out.
There was no more time to hide the boy I used to be from the world.
“Do you think your past is what made you into the man you are today?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Sure, but isn’t that the case for all of us?”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I overheard a conversation last night that rubbed me the wrong way and I left before I spoiled the evening for everyone,” I said. “There was ignorance in that room that made me feel ashamed because I used to—” I broke off and shook my head.
“Used to what?”
I used to be like Lewis and Ken. I was a damn bastard for it, too.
“It doesn’t matter.” I shifted in my chair. “The point is, those with less means are just as deserving of having their stories told, of being respected, as people who have everything. Or the illusion of everything.”
“The illusion of everything?” Rebecca pressed.
“Fast cars, big houses, luxurious high-rise office towers. None of that matters. None of that equates to having everything.”
Her eyes twinkled. “What does equate to having everything, Mr. Holt?”
I studied her and she stared calmly back. “I don’t know yet,” I said truthfully.
“But you’re trying to find out?”
“I think I’m making a mess of things, but yes, I’m trying to find out.”
Rebecca pressed the little red button on her recording device and leaned back in her chair. “I think people are going to like what you have to say.”
“I didn’t say it so they would like it. I said it because it’s the truth.”
“I know,” she said, her dark eyes still twinkling. “And I respect it. You are not the man I took you for when we first met. Thank you for being so open with me. This is what makes good articles. Truth and insight. And a good picture, of course.” She got to her feet and tucked her recorder in her purse. She paused and turned to me. “Would you like to grab a drink and talk a little more? Off the record, of course.”
Her forwardness surprised me. Had Rebecca Mills just asked me out on a date?
She was beautiful, intelligent, talented, hardworking. She checked all the boxes. But she wasn’t the woman I wanted. A few weeks ago, I might have said yes, even knowing that fact. I might have strung her along and indulged her in a drink or four, and then I might have taken her back to my place to show off my home and my bedroom.
But things were different now.
“Thank you, but I don’t think
