Leah’s apartment was a sanctuary of soft blankets, overflowing bookshelves, and the distinct, comforting scent of feminist rage and expensive candles. After the chaotic spectacle at the university gala, it was the only place I could breathe. We were curled up on opposite ends of her plush velvet couch, a giant tub of rocky road ice cream balanced between us, the television humming with some mindless reality show.
“Three hundred million dollars,” Leah said for the tenth time, stabbing her spoon into the ice cream with theatrical violence. “I mean, who does that? Who just donates three hundred million dollars like they’re tossing a coin into a fountain? That’s not human money, Claire. That’s ‘I own a small country and my pet is a dragon’ money.”
I managed a weak smile, the first genuine one all evening. “I think his pet is a wolf, actually.”
