Shopping for a Billionaire 4 Read online

  Too late.

  “Jessica Coffin has some blame here,” Amy says in an ominous voice. “Poking him on Twitter.”

  “He never cared about Twitter,” I call out. The rhythm and flow of cleansing myself helps. Lather, rinse, lather, rinse, conditioner, leave it on. Soap and clean the filth off me. Rinse. It’s a ritual cleansing. Normally I’d cry in the shower, but my sister and best friend are outside sharing theories about Why Declan Dumped Shannon, and while there’s plenty of fodder for material, the way they’re talking is such a relief.

  Because they’re just as perplexed as I am.

  The lesbian thing? He knows I’m not. His fury at thinking I’d been using him to climb the corporate ladder and land a big client? C’mon. Couldn’t he tell by how my body, my heart, my lips, and hands responded to him that I was—am—sincerely falling for him?

  Is he a commitmentphobe? Am I just a fat chick he decided to bone because he could? Does he harbor the same snotty pretense that Steve has about wanting a more refined woman? Did my bee allergy turn him off? What what what?

  My mind is my own worst enemy, looping frantically through every possible scenario to understand what my heart already knows:

  He’s gone.

  But why?

  And if I can’t have him back, then how can I get through the minutes that become hours, the hours that become days, and the days that roll out and on and on without sharing a look with him? A hug or a kiss, or a casual wink that holds so much promise?

  Who else on the planet could I meet with my hands down a toilet and have them ask me out on a date?

  (One without a toilet fetish, I mean. There are 588 people on FetLife looking for women who put their hands in toilets. That’s not an imaginary number—I checked.)

  I turn on the waterproof radio Amy uses when she showers. “Ain’t No Sunshine” pours loud and proud through the tiny bathroom, and that?

  That gives me permission to cry in the shower. Big, fat, ugly tears of pain and abandon. Of promises that just died, of hope that was murdered, of the sound of his name rushing in to fill all the cracks in my mind.

  Declan.

  How do you drive away the very thing you once welcomed so eagerly just weeks ago?

  You start by letting it leak out through your eyes.

  I hear the door close quietly and I cry under the hot water for as long as I have tears. My mouth is so dry it should have sand in it. Maybe this is how I try to block out the last few days: death by intentional dehydration via tears.

  A soft knock on the door shocks me. “What? You don’t barge in on me anymore? Oh, dear sweet Jesus, am I that bad off that you’re walking on eggshells around me?”

  “Mom called,” Amy says.

  “And?” I shout, turning the water off.

  “She wants you to go to her yoga class tonight, after you’re done with work. Says it will be good for you.”

  As I dry off, I groan. “All those old ladies will ask where Declan is!”

  “Think of it as a Golden Girls gripefest.”

  “That’s not helping.”

  “Mom will take you out for ice cream afterwards.”

  “Not helping either.” I am sliding my underwear on over my hips and it appears they have shrunk.

  “It’s really bad,” Amy says to Amanda.

  “I can hear you through the door, you know! Those cheap hollow core pieces of crap Dad’s always complaining about are about as effective at hiding your comments as Mom is at being tactful.”

  “Yoga. 7:15. That’s the message.”

  “Fine!” I choke out, talking to the steam. “I’ll meet her! But I’m getting toffee allllll over my double chocolate chip ice cream and she has to tolerate the crunching!” I shout.

  “I’ll text her for you so she can bring ear plugs.”

  I make a sound of disgust so deep in my throat I think I’ve inherited a hairball from Chuckles.

  “Amanda and I are leaving now,” Amy declares.

  “But we’ll be back tomorrow!” Amanda shouts.

  “Of course you will,” I call back. “You have to deconstruct my failure.”

  “With pad Thai! My treat!” she shouts back. I hear the front door close.

  Yoga class, huh?

  An image of Declan’s tight, muscled ass in workout clothes at the only yoga class he attended makes my heart race, my mouth feel like sandpaper, and parts farther south get moist. Moister than they are from the shower. And then the tears return.

  One of the hardest parts about breaking up with someone is that moment when you realize they will never, ever touch you again. Not once. Not one stroke, one love pat, one kiss, one lick, one thrust—nothing. Dry and barren defines your new relationship, and the deep intensity, the push and pull, the dance that was all-consuming in getting to know them and defining and redefining boundaries, it’s all…gone.

  Just gone.

  All done.

  Over and out.

  Forever.

  I’m never going to have Declan lace his fingers through mine. Never rest his palm on my ass and squeeze. Never thread his fingers through my hair and tug gently as he kisses me with such urgency you’d think we had to make love before the house stopped burning.

  Never.

  Never is a long time.

  Never makes me cry again.

  Never is the loneliest word.

  Never.

  Chapter Four

  When I arrive at Mom’s yoga class, the room is at capacity. Packed. Sixty women and one older man are in the room. I do a double take at the man.

  “Fire marshal,” Mom explains. I jump and make a little sound of surprise, because she’s like a vampire. So swift I didn’t realize she was there.

  “Fire marshal?”

  “There might be too many people in the room. Someone called him in.”

  “What’s going on? Is Sting here or something? Willem Dafoe? Alec Baldwin’s wife?”

  “Ha ha. Hilaria Baldwin. She’s a famous yoga instructor, but nope! None of those people are the reason.” Mom beams at me and looks around behind me. “Where’s Declan?”

  Ah. Now I get it. Hoo boy. Mom has a thousand-dollar yoga class and I get to be the bearer of bad news. What a great way to get restoration.

  “He’s not here.”

  “Running late?”

  “No. Not coming. We broke up.” Oh, those last words. They feel, literally, like last words. Someone should shake some holy water on me and I’ll just go into Savasana and everything can slip away.

  Not really. No guy is worth that.

  “You broke up with a billionaire? Are you insane? They don’t grow on trees!”

  The image of Declan hanging from a branch, sweet and ripe and ready to be plucked, isn’t helping.

  “I’m…sorry? I’m not sure what to say.” Tears threaten the edges of my eyes. No no no. Can’t cry in front of a group of women drooling to stare at my ex-boyfriend’s butt.

  “Oh, honey!” Mom’s trying to be supportive at the same time that she’s freaking out on the inside, because Declan was obviously her Big Draw.

  “I’m not leaving!” I hear Agnes shout to the poor fire marshal, who looks a bit panicked.

  “No one has to leave, ma’am,” he says. The guy looks just enough like Dad to make me look again. “But I do need to ask that the class be capped at seventy people, and that the two exits remain open at all times.”

  “Who called him?” I cock a suspicious eyebrow at Agnes as I try to change the subject.

  “Probably Agnes. I’ll bet she hoped he’d clear the room and she could sneak in to get the prime spot behind Declan. She’s offering an entire unlimited class card for two months if people will back off.”

  “Who knew a billionaire’s butt was so valuable,” I crack, and then…I really crack. A tight ball of sorrow fills my throat and my ears burn. The tears come now and Mom’s arms are around me, one hand smoothing my hair, messing up the ponytail.

  “Oh, Shannon, it’s go
ing to be okay. It will. I don’t know what to say right now,” she adds, twisting her head and looking helplessly around the room.

  “I know. I didn’t want to tell you, but—”

  “I want to know the rest. Really. I want to know the entire story, but right now…”

  I wipe the tears off my face with a little yoga towel. “Gotcha.” I sniff and compose myself.

  And then:

  “SHANNON!” Jesus, Agnes has some strong lungs for a woman who looks like a desiccated Hobbit. “Where’s Declan?” The leer on her face as she says his name takes three decades off her.

  “He’s not here. Sorry,” I peep.

  Silence. All shuffling and whispers and movement halts.

  “Not here. Running late?”

  Good God.

  “No,” I say, extending the word with a tone of contrition. “He’s just not coming. Sorry.”

  “Why are you sorry?” Corrine asks. “You’re not him. You have nothing to be sorry about.”

  And that makes the waterworks come pouring out.

  A sudden rush of women surround me, hands patting my back, wrapped around my shoulders, soothing me. Out of the corner of my eye I see a few women scowl and trickle out of the room.

  The fire marshal is noticeably relieved.

  Mom is in the middle of the group. Their hands and throaty sounds of comfort are so kind that I can’t hold back. Grief and fear and reproach and regret pour out of me in a string of sobs so disjointed they sound like a new modern music composition.

  And then the questions begin. Oh, the questions.

  “Did he cheat on you? I read an article in Science News about how men with higher status cheat on their mates more than men with lower social status and income. So maybe you need to aim lower.”

  Aim lower?

  Corrine jostles Agnes hard enough for the two to look like bone-thin weeble-wobbles, frantically grasping at each other to avoid falling. Two other women in the group help them to stay upright.

  “That’s silly,” Corrine grouses. “I’ve known men who were gas station attendants making minimum wage who were cheaters. You don’t need to be a billionaire.”

  “He didn’t cheat on me,” I say, sighing. Every attempt to catch Mom’s eye is met with the careful avoidance Mom has honed with the care of a neurosurgeon removing a tumor with tendrils that spread out like the Flying Spaghetti Monster.

  “Bad in bed?” Agnes asks. Every eyebrow is arched now. All breathing has paused. Enraptured, the crowd slowly closes in as if I’m about to spill the salacious details.

  “Uh, no.”

  One big exhale. “Good. Last thing I need is to have that fantasy destroyed.”

  What?

  “If you’re going to date a hot, rich man he’d better be good in bed, too. Otherwise, the myth is as boring as sleeping with a guy who thinks taking out the garbage for you is foreplay and whose idea of cuddling is to reach over you afterward to grab the TV Guide.”

  “Ladies!” Mom claps her hands. It’s the sound of rescue. “Time to get started.” She looks like a blonde Michelle Bachmann teaching pre-schoolers. Crazy eyes and big smiles abound.

  “Wait, Marie,” Agnes shouts. She’s wearing magenta lycra bike shorts and a t-shirt that says [insert funny saying]. Seriously—that’s what it says. Just the brackets and “insert funny saying.” I like Agnes more and more every time I see her. “We need to know more about Declan. Why did you two break up?”

  Mom ignores her. “Some of you have already met her, but this is my middle daughter, Shannon. She’s the one who dated a billionaire and then she pretended to be a lesbian for her job and got outed.”

  Oh. My. God.

  The old woman next to me pats my hand. “It gets better, dear.”

  “Lesbians?” another old woman sniffs. “We didn’t have those when I was younger.”

  “Oh, she’s not really gay. She just acts like it when she has to do mystery shops. And when she ruins her life.” Mom fluffs her hair and turns to her iPod, poking the screen. Languid music fills the air, but it’s not enough to stop the lambs from screaming in my head.

  Corrine’s face lights up. “If he thinks you’re a lesbian, then here’s your solution: call your wife and call Declan and offer him a threesome.”

  Disturbing murmurs of assent fill the air. Even the fire marshal is listening now.

  Especially the fire marshal.

  “Every man wants two women at once,” Agnes adds.

  “We tried that once,” Mom says. The entire crowd turns its focus to her. While it’s a relief to be out from under scrutiny, having Mom talk about her and Dad getting it on with another woman is about as much fun as going to a feminist rally with Robin Thicke.

  “You did?” someone asks. The fire marshal is now leaning against the wall. Pretty soon I expect to see him smoking a cigarette and talking about how this was the best capacity check he’s ever had.

  “We were going to go to one of those meet-up things where you find other people online who have the same, uh…tastes.” Mom makes actual eye contact with me for a second and it appears—sweet Jesus!—even she has an oversharing limit.

  “What happened?” I ask, turning the tables.

  “Jason chickened out.” Not you? I want to ask.

  “Not you?” Agnes asks. If I were standing closer to her I’d give her a fist bump.

  “I…well, anyhow,” she says, weirdly avoiding the question. “We just bought one of those ‘real dolls’ and had at it.”

  The entire room is struck dumb.

  “You had sex with a doll?” Agnes finally asks.

  “This alone is worth the $17 fee,” Corrine whispers to a group of shocked women.

  “I didn’t have sex with it. But…”

  “Dad did?” I squeak. Brain bleach. Brain bleach. You cannot un-hear that.

  She claps her hands twice. “Topic change! Let’s start out in Child’s Pose.”

  “You can’t just cut us off in the middle of something that salacious! How many of us here have had husbands who humped a woman-shaped version of water wings?” Corrine shouts.

  Three women raise their hands.

  Kink is the new black.

  “This is supposed to be restorative yoga!” I hiss to the group, eyes blazing and on Mom. “I did not come here under duress to listen to people talk about their partners humping plastic sex dolls.”

  “Well, dear,” Agnes huffs, “we didn’t come here to listen to you tell us how you destroyed a fantastic relationship with a billionaire with an ass so fine you could hang it on a wall at the Museum of Fine Arts.”

  More murmurs of assent.

  “So no one is getting what they want today!” Mom says in a too-cheerful voice. “Let’s forget about kinky sex and settle in to taking a nice, meditative breathing session.”

  Groans of dissent.

  As we crawl on our mats, Agnes leans over and says in a scratchy voice, “Make sure the next boyfriend is eye candy, too, and I’ll buy you a new pair of yoga pants.’

  “The poor woman lost Boston’s hottest eligible bachelor, Agnes. We should buy her a consolation prize.”

  “A vibrator that smells like money?”

  That was Corrine. I just…I can’t sit here and talk about sex toys with a woman who looks like my second grade teacher. Can’t.

  Won’t.

  “And now we relax,” Mom intones as deep chimes tones fills the air.

  Yeah.

  Right.

  Chapter Five

  “You did lose a billionaire,” Mom says as she joins me, sitting at the booth at the local ice cream parlor, my spoon digging into a puddle of caramel and marshmallow sauce that is about as viscous as any salacious fluid I’ve ever put in my mouth before (and considerably tastier). “It takes a certain kind of skill to drive a man like that away.”

  “I love you, too, Mom,” I mumble after shoving the chocolate-chip-caramel-marshmallow love in my mouth. That’s right—love. I can buy a giant glass ful
l of sugared love. The proof fills my tongue with a sweet coating of love, the cold chocolate bliss biting into my teeth and gums, my stomach groaning with anticipatory pleasure as my six dollars buys me a gustatory hug, kiss, and if you add in the peanut butter sauce in the ramekin on the side—maybe even an ass grab.

  “I don’t mean to rub salt in the wound, honey.”

  “Then why are you standing there with a brick of Himalayan salt the size of my head and beating me with it?”

  She purses her lips in what looks like a Chuckles’ butt imitation, then softens. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

  I freeze, and not from an ice cream headache. I go completely still.

  “Say what?” I choke out.

  Mom rolls her eyes. “I can admit when I’m wrong.” Her own glass full of love is perched in front of her, a bunch of berry-flavored nonsense covered in more berries, with whipped cream on top. This is how I know we cannot possibly be related, because my mother only eats berry-flavored ice cream. No chocolate sauce, no caramel-y gooey joy. She won’t touch cookie dough ice cream, nor butter pecan, nor anything with chunks of chocolate in it.

  That’s just…it’s like she’s a poor imitation of someone who possesses XX chromosomes. Like she’s a Stepford Wife. The only thing worse would be to hate ice cream, and if I ever meet someone who does I’ll have to pull out the microchip embedded in their neck and scream, “POD PERSON!”

  I just stare at her. I feel so hollow. I’m so empty the ice cream on my spoon starts to drip back in the sundae glass.

  Her lips snap shut and she gives me a look of compassion so deep and authentic it makes tears well in my eyes.

  “You’re really hurting, honey.”

  All I can do is nod.

  “I wish I could make it better.”

  “You said the same thing when Steve dumped me, Mom.”

  “I meant it then, too.” She’s a little disheveled after yoga, a little less done today, makeup lighter, her hair perfectly in place and hairsprayed so well it would take a Category 4 hurricane to blow a single strand out of place, but she’s more…Mom. More of the woman who tucked me in bed with a nighttime story, the mother who catered to me when I was sick, the one who taught me how to use an EpiPen by injecting herself in the thigh seventeen times before I got it right.