Rolling in the Deep by Rebecca Rogers Maher Page A

congratulate us before they head back to work, and I believe that they do mean it. The understandable envy is harder for some to hide than for others, but they do their best to set it aside. They wish us well.
    We’re not in the same boat as they are now. We have access to things they’ll never be able to reach for. We have a kind of freedom—a freedom from worry. About bills, college tuitions, health crises, mortgages, emergencies. We will always and forever have a cushion between us and the real, immediate survival concerns that most people spend the majority of their lives trying to face.
    They file out of the room as a group and leave Holly and me behind, which is only fitting.
    We may not be in the same boat as they are anymore, but on their boat, they are all together. They have each other still.
    Who will we be the same as now? Will we walk into a country club, say, with stacks of cash in our hands, and be received with open arms? I doubt it.
    To our friends here at Cogmans we’ll be members of a different class, an outsider class—the super-rich. And to the super-rich we’ll be the Beverly Hillbillies.
    I glance at Holly. She looks like she’s thinking similar thoughts, and I feel a sharp pang for her. These people might have been my potential friends, but they were Holly’s actual friends. Awkwardness with them is going to make things very lonely for her.
    Chris claps us both on the back as he heads out. He, for one, is doing his level best to put us at ease, which is pretty generous if you ask me. I think Holly once told me that he’s a deacon at his church, and a hospice volunteer.
    And I’m the one who wins the lottery. How is that fair?
    “Congratulations, you two,” Chris says, stopping at the door. “Couldn’t have happened to better people.”
    Holly goes over, hugs him tight, and thanks him. He walks out to the store, whistling, leaving Holly and me alone.
    She eyes me warily. “Hey, Ray.”
    The worn fabric of her T-shirt clings to the curves of her hips, her breasts. Which I should not be noticing. Not now.
    I clear my throat. “Hi.”
    “This was nice of them, wasn’t it?” She tosses her cake plate in the trash and starts cleaning up the table. “We should probably fix this up before we go.”
    “Yeah. Of course.” I move in to help. “How you doing? You…Everything okay?”
    She won’t look at me, which in a way I’m grateful for. I have a feeling she’d be able to read the turn of my thoughts, and at the moment, they’re not about cake.
    It’s been only a few days since I’ve seen her alone, but the number of times I’ve replayed kissing her in my mind is embarrassing to even think about.
    Except that remembering it at night in my bed, alone, it hasn’t ended with a kiss. In those silent, furtive versions, I’ve taken her back to my apartment. I’ve touched every part of her.
    I grit my teeth and gather up the used napkins on the table.
    “Yeah,” Holly says. “I’m…I’m fine. It’s settling down a little now. You know, the craziness.”
    I pause across the table and weigh the risk of looking into her eyes.
Man up, Ray. You’re a grown-ass man and should be able to handle talking to a woman without losing your shit.
I straighten and face her full-on. “It’s starting to sink in, right?”
    She nods but doesn’t answer. Almost as if she can’t. Her eyes hold mine, and she takes in a long, shaky breath. Then she looks down and puts the plastic cover on top of the cake. “I’d, um…I’d better go.”
    I stack up the rest of the clean plates and step back from the table. “Yeah. Okay. Me too.”
    She grabs her purse from a chair and starts toward the door.
    “Are you parked in the front?”
    That stops her short. “Yeah.”
    “The reporters.” I stand with her just inside the doorway. A few feet away, shoppers continue filling their carts to the sound of a Muzak version of a Steely Dan song. I notice a pile of earbud boxes have fallen to the floor and