Shopping for a Billionaire 4 Page 7

  “He didn’t have a choice. I chose.” Her eyes go to a place I can’t even see, where a love that has lasted more than thirty years lives. Dad’s in there somewhere, and he and Mom have their own world where they are each other’s sun and moon, orbiting each other.

  Amy pipes up finally, as if she’s been holding back all along from asking a question that’s burning a hole in her head. “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “How did you meet Dad?”

  Her smile broadens. “He was the vet tech for Winky.”

  * * *

  When we get back from our walk, two issues are clear:

  1. We’re still going to eat ice cream.

  2. Amanda’s struck out.

  “I have the best Google skills this side of the Mississippi,” she groans. “But there’s just this obituary. Not even a mention in the society pages. It’s…weird.”

  We’re shoving mouthfuls of sex substitute (and no, not vibrators) into our mouths, my caramel chunks a poor substitute for a man’s mouth, but hey, I’ll take it, when Mom shouts, “Jessica Coffin!”

  I inhale a solid piece of chocolate-covered frozen caramel and the world begins to swirl. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. I thump my chest and stare, bug-eyed, at Mom.

  “Look at Shannon do her Planet of the Apes imitation,” Mom jokes.

  Dark spots fill in the edges of my vision. I seriously cannot breathe, and Mom’s face changes as she realizes I’m not making a sound.

  Amy jumps up and is across the room in seconds, arms wrapping around me from the back as one thought fills my mind:

  Death by chocolate is very, very real.

  You take first-aid classes and learn the Heimlich maneuver and wrap your arms around a dummy and pull toward you. You practice on another human being without hurting them. In the seconds between life and death in real life, though, you don’t realize how hard you have to pull, the force it takes to dislodge an errant chocolate caramel, or the panic that you feel as blood’s cut off from your brain, your entire life in the hands of the baby sister who used to break the heads off your Barbies and roast them on a stick in the fire in the wood stove.

  If I’m going to die, there’s a certain irony that it’s like this and not from a bee sting.

  Amy, fortunately, turns out to be as much a hero as Declan, and with one rib-cracking yank the chocolate climbs up my throat, scrapes against the back of my tongue, bounces off the top of my mouth, and flies right into Chuckles’ eye, sending him sprawling off the back of the couch and into a wastebasket next to the front door.

  A hole in one.

  Whoop! I inhale so long and hard it’s like the sound a hurt toddler makes as they gear up for a big old outraged cry. Chuckles beats me to it, scratching his way out of the trash can and howling with outrage.

  “My God, Shannon, are you okay?” Mom asks, rushing over with a glass of water.

  Everyone ignores Chuckles. He marches over to the front door and begins peeing in Mom’s purse. My throat is raw and I can’t say anything, but a weird hitching sound comes out of me, tears rolling down my face as sweet, blessed air makes its way where the frozen caramel just perched.

  “Eye,” is all I can manage, pointing at the cat, who is now peeing on Amy’s shoe. The new Manolo knockoff.

  Amy’s studying her hands like they’re an Oscar statue. “I can’t believe I did that,” she whispers. Mom gives her a huge hug and they all watch me, Amanda behind me, her hand on my back with a supportive touch.

  Normal respiration resumes. By the time I’m okay, Chuckles has moved on to peeing on a plant, a doorstop painted like a bunny, and someone’s stray Target bag filled with dish soap. Equal opportunity sprayer, he is.

  He hates everyone equally.

  “Jessica Coffin made you choke!” Amanda declares, trying to be funny. She fails.

  “Why did you shout her name?” I ask. The words make sense to me, but everyone acts like I just spoke in Farsi.

  Somehow, Amy understands what I’m asking and repeats it.

  Mom frowns. “We can talk about that later.”

  “Now,” I croak.

  “Okay, well…” She really doesn’t want to say this. “When you’re recovered.”

  I drink all the water in the glass she’s given me, heart slowing down. “Thank you,” I say to Amy with as much gratitude as my damaged voice can muster.

  “Anytime.”

  “This makes up for the Barbie,” I say in a shorthand only siblings understand.

  “Finally!” She throws her hand up like an Olympian winning a gold medal. “It only took fifteen years and near-death!”

  “That was my favorite Barbie,” I rasp. We share a smile. I inhale deeply and turn to Mom.

  “Jessica Coffin?”

  Amanda points at Mom. “You’re right! Perfect!” The two share a look that goes right over my head.

  “Care to share?”

  “She’s the hoity-toity gossip queen. If anyone knows what happened to Elena, it’s her. Or her Mom. They both use gossip like it’s currency.”

  My throat nearly closes up again with the implications of what they’re saying. “You want me to go and see Jessica Coffin to pick her brain for the answer to how Declan’s mother’s death is connected to his dumping me?”

  All three of them nod.

  “You are all in a folie a deux. A tres,” I amend, because all three of them are nuts.

  “What’s that?” Amy asks.

  “It’s French for ‘batpoop crazy,’” Mom explains.

  “You speak French?”

  “No. But you’re not the first person to use that phrase with me.”

  “And I won’t be the last.”

  “If you don’t see her,” Mom threatens, “I will.”

  I give her a dark look. She’s unpredictable enough to do it. The shock of seeing Jessica with Declan in Northampton was bad enough. The woman is pure, social media evil. But Mom and Amanda have a point. If there’s some secret, some lynchpin to understanding what Declan’s mom’s death has to do with his breakup with me, then…

  “Give me my phone.”

  And with that I tweet the only woman in the world who resembles my old Barbie.

  Before its head was roasted on a stick.

  Chapter Ten

  “You told me this would be a bunch of hot men running around covered in mud while scaling wooden walls like they do in Army basic training camp commercials,” I grouse as I fill the 1287th paper cup with Gatorade. Amanda is slicing oranges and shoving them into little paper cups that will be summarily squashed by the fists of runners and flung in our faces.

  And we have to cheer for those same people.

  “Amy said that if we volunteer and hand out rehydration we can go to all the after-event parties and meet cool people,” Amanda explains. A bee begins to hover over her hands, lazy and drunk, and I back away slowly.

  We’re at this 10k running event in downtown Boston, surrounded by a crowd that cheers on the runners. Amy’s one of the athletes, and Mom and Dad are somewhere nearby, Dad with a camera so big and old it might have a black cloth you have to drape over it, and Mom’s wearing four-inch high heels that scream I Am So Not a Runner.

  The race is for a charity run to raise money for some medical condition I’ve forgotten already. The runners shoot through mud runs, climb crazy ropes courses, and engage in a manufactured obstacle course that is carefully cultivated to generate maximum filth and photogenic fun.

  I just came to help out because Amy’s on my case about turning into one of those women they profile on a cable reality television show, the kind with three hundred dolls in a living museum in their basement, or the woman who grows her fingernails out so long she can pick locks across the street.

  “And that’s my cue to leave,” I say softly. Amanda jerks suddenly at the sight of the bee, and I step backward slowly, sticky hands in the air.

  “You have your EpiPen?” she asks, giving me a concerned look.

  “Th
ree.”

  “Three?” As if on cue, two more staggering bees come over and give the air around her hands an ominous feel.

  “Mom’s new thing. And the doctor wrote the prescription out happily.” I back away and head toward the building where the runners all register. I know there are volunteer spots in there to help with answering questions, directing people to bathrooms, helping with finding outlets to charge dead mobile phones, and to listen to people complain about everything from the dye in the Gatorade to questions about whether the oranges have GMOs in them.

  Ah, Boston. Don’t ever change.

  I can’t avoid bees and wasps in May in New England. Impossible. Unlike Declan’s brother, I have no desire to live my entire life in some self-created bubble where I never go outdoors, never feel the sun shine on my skin. Being fully aware and carefully prepared for stings and medical responses is one thing; never taking the tiniest risk and being unable to enjoy the vast majority of what it means to live a rich, fully human life is quite another.

  A pang of sadness fills me as I make a beeline (pun intended) for the bathroom. Declan. He was the cornerstone of what I thought would be that kind of life, one filled with fun and hope and love. I set the feeling aside like an errant child who needs to be put on Time-Out. I go to the bank of sinks to wash off the sugar.

  The past week has been one long string of rejection, starting with Jessica Coffin, who completely ignored my direct message on Twitter and my carefully worded email through the Contact Us form on her website. Nothing. Nada. My dreams have shifted from sexy times with Declan to pitchforks and torches, Barbie heads on spikes and ogres noshing on jointed Barbie legs.

  The new system at work that Josh carefully designed has been spitting back every single report my shoppers submit, and Chuckles hates my guts even more, refusing to sit in my lap after I hocked up a chocolate projectile and gave him the kitty version of a black eye.

  I can’t win.

  Scrubbed clean and no longer a bee or wasp magnet, I walk out to a long hallway and look up to see Declan and his brother, Andrew, standing at the end.

  Speak of the queen bee.

  Optical illusion, right? My brain created it. They take three steps to the left and disappear, the long white floor making a channel of white light into a tunnel that feeds into a glass-covered wall at the building’s exterior. I feel like something out of a movie about death and the afterlife.

  Like being reborn.

  What would Declan be doing here? It’s a Saturday, and we’re across the bay. There’s no reason for him and his brother to be in this high-rise business building unless…

  My eyes scan the walls near the bathroom doors. If I’m right, I’ll find it in under a minute. And…yes. “Employees Only.”

  And next to that door is a small placard that reads:

  “Managed By Anterdec Industries.”

  His company owns this building, and there are five thousand runners and friends using it for the race’s headquarters, which means my heart starts to race and my palms sweat, because I am about to see him for the first time since our disastrous last meeting.

  All because of a few bees outside.

  Maybe Andrew’s got it right. What if sealing yourself off from the rest of the world because you know there’s one lethal enemy out there that is sociopathic and ready to destroy you with one touch is the right move after all? What if one sigh, one hitched eyebrow, one frown, one dismissive huff could crush you?

  Would you do everything in your power to get away from them—forever?

  Reason would dictate that any person of average intelligence and with a little common sense would do so.

  Especially my heart. Because while I won’t go to his extremes to protect myself from the absolutely random, utterly errant, highly unpredictable sting, I might hermetically seal up my heart because—

  This is just too hard.

  Suddenly, I understand Declan’s brother better. Screw the world—I’ll just build a bubble around myself and not even try to justify it. Make the world bend to me. Team Andrew all the way.

  I should get some oranges and Gatorade and toss them his way. Maybe a little to the left, though, where Declan’s standing.

  I walk slowly down the hall toward the sunlight, glad now for my tennis shoes, which make not a single sound on the floor. Two men’s voices murmur softly to each other, and I slow down. What a dilemma.

  Walk past them and acknowledge their presence, or march on past and pretend I’m not there?

  I’m not there.

  Notice how I said that? Not pretend they’re not there. Me. I make myself invisible because I don’t know any other way.

  “You should say something to her,” Andrew says. I freeze. A handful of people run to and fro in the space at the end of the hall, all of them wearing jogger’s shorts and carrying clipboards. The leaders are only a few minutes away and I need to go somewhere to help.

  Missing this conversation, though, is worth incurring the wrath of Amy.

  “Jessica’s here. I don’t want to add fuel that fire.” Her is Jessica? Boo. Hiss. She’s here? I’ll go back outside and risk the bees and wasps to get a giant container of Gatorade and go Belichick on her ass. Pin her down and make her talk, Pry open those Botoxed pork chop lips and—

  “You’re not dating Jessica, though.” He’s not? Whew!

  “And I’m not dating Shannon.” Oh! Oh! So her is me!

  “Which is stupid.” TEAM ANDREW! I knew I liked this guy!

  “What? My love life isn’t any of your business.”

  “Following Dad’s orders isn’t exactly your standard operating procedure, Declan.”

  James? What the hell does James have to do with Declan’s dating me? Orders?

  I am sliding against the textured, wallpapered wall like a ninja, but with a rack like mine I resemble a silent warrior mastermind who can make himself seem invisible and discreet about as much as LeBron James resembles Mother Teresa in the humility department.

  I try anyway, because eavesdropping on this conversation is the mystery shop of a lifetime.

  “Dad didn’t make me stop dating Shannon and you know it damn well, Andrew.” A long, slow, angry sigh comes out of Declan, and I can imagine him, even if I can’t see him, running a shaky hand through his hair. It’s been a month since we’ve been together and I can’t get a good look now. Is his hair growing out a bit from his super-short cut? Does he get it clipped regularly? Does he still smell like—

  Andrew laughs, the kind of noise only a sibling can make. “Then you’re being even more ridiculous than I thought. Not pissing Dad off is one thing. Dumping the first woman I’ve ever heard you really fall for is just asinine, and your reason is stupid. Plus, she has a hot friend.”

  Falling for? Reason? Hot friend? He thinks Amanda’s hot? I need to tell her so she can run away from the killer bees and come in here and—

  Wait—WHAT REASON? Maybe I don’t need to kidnap Jessica after all. I crane my neck, inches away from the end of the hall, now exposing myself to certain discovery but not caring. I have to know. I need to know. He wouldn’t tell me when I asked, and now this casual conversation tells me more than anything I’ve guessed.

  “Dad’s wrong about plenty of issues, but not this one,” Declan says.

  “Dec.” Andrew’s voice is suddenly so pained it makes me pause. Sometimes one syllable can have more emotion in it than one thousand words.

  An involuntary sadness fills me. “It wasn’t your fault,” Andrew continues. What wasn’t his fault? Our breakup? Because it damn sure was Declan’s fault! I didn’t dump him in the hallway of his company while Mail Boy rubbernecked with a cart creakier than a rusted Tin Man.

  This is one of those moments where blood rushes to my ears, I can count the molecules in my breath, the ceiling seems lower suddenly, and the walls expand as if they seek infinity.

  The moment when my life unfolds, for good or for bad.

  “You keep saying that,” Declan responds
. “Been saying it for ten years.”

  Ten years? He’s only known me for a month.

  “And I’ll say it for rest of my life,” Andrew adds. I hear him take a deep breath to say something more, and just when I think I’m about to understand how the world works, how all the gears fit into place to turn the crank and function, why Declan broke up with me, and how maybe—just the tiniest taste of maybe?—I can find my way back to him, I hear:

  “Oh. Hello.” Declan’s voice goes tight. He’s clearly talking with someone he didn’t expect to see. Did Jessica crash my conversation?

  Mine.

  Because they’re talking about me.

  “Declan.” The voice is low, gravelly, and very angry.

  That voice is my dad’s. Controlled and tight, he introduces himself to Andrew, whose voice shifts down a half-octave, like a bunch of younger gorillas meeting a new orangutan they’ve never seen before, but one who disrupts the social order not only because he’s strange looking, but because he’s communicating pretty clearly that you don’t mess with him.

  My dad. The one who let me paint his toenails pink when I was seven and who walked around at the beach in flip-flops? The former vet tech who stole Mom away from Declan’s dad?

  Andrew says his goodbyes. Please don’t need to pee. Please don’t need to pee. Please don’t need to pee, I pray, and he doesn’t turn the corner. If he did, we’d be able to kiss, because my ear is that close to the edge of the hall.

  My ex and my dad are about to square off. A rush of heat and terror spikes my skin. If I ever imagined a parent calling Declan out if would be Mom, like she did with Steve at the ice cream parlor. Not…my dad.

  “How are you?” Declan asks conversationally. His voice is so neutral it sounds like a series of sound bites, like phone trees at major corporations. How—Are—You? He couldn’t sound more robotic if he tried. I’ve seen him in enough tense situations to know that this is not his normal reaction.

  “You don’t need to engage in meaningless pleasantries,” Dad replies. His voice is so deep, so filled with implied rage. Danger pours out of that mouth, and I’m hearing a side to him I didn’t know he possessed.