Shopping for a Billionaire 2 (2 page)

“We kissed! We touched,” I confess. “Steve walked in on us kissing and touching. And then the Ice Queen made fun of Steve’s penis and bank account, and by the time Declan and I got to the table, they were gone.”

“
Who
was gone?” Mom asks.
 

“Steve and Jessica.”

“Back up! Back up!” Amy announces, holding her palm out like she’s a cop directing traffic. “Let me understand. You were kissing Declan—your business associate—and your ex-fiance walked in on you?”

“That about sums it up,” I say meekly.

A slow smile broadens my sister’s beautiful face. “That is the best revenge story I’ve ever heard.” She reaches her palm out to high-five me, and I give it back. Except I miss and go flying across my bed, falling flat on my face as Amy rescues my coffee. A mouthful of high-thread-count Egyptian cotton from my sheets fills my mouth.

Mom just gives me the evil eye, as if I shouldn’t still be so out of it. You try absorbing last night and all the permutations and implications and wines and not wake up in the morning with a coordination problem.

“He’s dating Jessica Coffin,” Amanda says to Mom and Amy, her eyes wide and knowing. The attention is suddenly off me, and I sit up and steal back my coffee.

“Oooooh!” they squeal in unison. Why do they act like I’m supposed to know who she is?

“Jessica is
the
society-pages chick in
Boston Magazine
,” Amy explains, eliminating the need for me to ask. “Her family’s foundation is doing malaria research in Africa. She goes on these huge expeditions and helps.”
 

“Does she singlehandedly provide air conditioning when they’re out in the field? Because that woman is cold as ice. Disney should have cast her instead of Kristen Bell for
Frozen
.” They all look at me like I’ve poured battery acid on top of chocolate mousse. I can take a hint, so I slurp coffee and take deep, knowing breaths.
 

“I heard she can make or break a new restaurant,” Amanda adds, continuing to ignore me, her attention on Amy and Mom. “There was that little Asian fusion place in Wellesley that she went to and a picture of her appeared on The Hub. BAM! Now you can’t get a reservation for weeks.” Mom, Amy, and Amanda all nod soberly, as if acknowledging Jessica’s power.

Pffft
. I can go to any restaurant that Consolidated Evalu-shop has a contract for, munch on half a cockroach in a Cobb salad, write up an evaluation, and get the health department to condemn it in forty-eight hours flat. Now who has the power?
 

“Do you follow her on Twitter?” Amy gasps. Both of them nod—
both
! My mother can’t figure out how to juggle two different open windows on a single screen on her MacBook but she has a Twitter account? And follows my ex-boyfriend’s snotty girlfriend?
 

“A tweet that mentions a stylist or a product means insta-success for that person,” Mom gasps. “Look at my hands.” She holds them out as if we’re supposed to admire them. They look like…hands.

“Nice moisturizer!” Amanda squeals. They are speaking in Aramaic as far as I am concerned. I am not fluent in spa-speak. I think I am missing the part of my brain that most women are born with, the one that can tell the difference between cerulean and aquamarine, or between beige and taupe. Once they start talking about moisturizers and alpha-hydroxy acid bases and foundation creams, I might as well take a long nap
because it’s like they’re speaking some foreign language I’ve never even heard of
.

“She’s a Botoxed Barbie with a superiority complex and no sense of boundaries,” I blurt out, looking in desolation at my empty coffee cup. I need more. Nineteen more cups and I’ll be closer to human. And I still have to go to work.

Is it seriously only Tuesday? Yesterday feels like it lasted a week. Greg should give me the day off for landing the account. I should call in sick for the level of stomach-churning experiences I faced. I slip my head under the covers and fake-pretend to ignore them all. Like that would ever work.

“Meow!” Amy says. Chuckles looks up and sneers at her like she’s an American trying to speak French in
Paris
.

“What?” I demand, mouth muffled against my comforter. What’s catty about what I say? “It’s the truth.”

“Did she make a pass at Declan?” Mom guesses. Damn. How does she do that?

“No!” They all stare. “Okay…yes.” Declan. The feel of his jaw against my cheekbone. The way our bodies touched and I could inhale his essence. The push of his hips into mine as our skin tingled with anticipation. I just…

“Did he accept it?” Mom asks. Her words say one thing, but her pleading eyes say,
Farmington Country Club wedding
. PoshTots. Beacon Hill in-law apartment.
 

“He didn’t think she was worth one iota of attention,” I say, distracted by my own pleasant tactile memories, memories quickly fading away as Mom’s question makes me remember the rest of the night. Steve had huffed off, but given me a gesture, using his hand to create an old telephone, held it to his ear, and he’d mouthed,
Call me
.
 

Bzzzz
. We all jump. My phone.
 

“Jesus—that thing has been buzzing all morning,” Amy groans. It’s about an inch away from falling off my nightstand.

I come out from under my bed fort and grab my coffee mug, wiggling in the air between me and Amy. She laughs and grabs it. She really is my new best friend. Amanda can suck it. Whoever brings me coffee gets my loyalty on this fine, post-Declan morning where I am bombarded by meddling people who know more about Jessica Coffin and moisturizer cream performance on veiny hands than they do about the new healthcare law or campaign finance reform.

Twenty-four new text messages. TWENTY-FOUR. Whoa. I am never that popular. Who did I blow last night?

I cringe. Oh, God. What if I really did…?

Fifteen text messages are from Steve:

How long have you been dating him?

Was this a one-night stand?

Do you miss me?

I miss you.

I miss Chuckles. How is he?

Things ended badly and I think we need to talk.

Jessica was joking about that bank account thing.

I’m not into Jessica at all.

Are you exclusive with him?

How are Marie and Jason? Jason still golf on Saturday mornings?

I forgive you.

I shouldn’t have ended things like that.

I’ve changed.

You haven’t changed a bit. And I like that about you.

Please call me.

Seven text messages were from Mom:

Don’t forget condoms.

But if you do, there are worse things than getting knocked up by a billionaire. Think of the child support payments.

Your father’s having bad gas. Don’t marry a man with an irritable bowel.

But a billionaire with an irritable bowel is an exception.

Does Declan have a brother for Amy?

If you get to fly in a helicopter, have sex in it. Mile-High Club. Whee!

I am on my third Lime Rickey and your father says I need to stop thinking about billionaire grandchildren.

One is from Amanda:

Stop thinking about Steve.

One is from Declan:

I’m bringing “both” to your place on Friday. Six o’clock. See you then.

My mind scrambles to remember the day. Tuesday. It’s Tuesday. He attaches a picture of strawberries the size of my fist, dipped in chocolate. Dark and milk. But not white, which is a sign from the universe that he is The One, because white chocolate is the jackalope of chocolate.

I read all of these aloud to my pity groupies, who suddenly can’t pity poor Shannon with the sad little life. How do you respond to knowing I’m being pursued by Steve the Ladder Climber and Declan the Almost-Billionaire Hot Guy? They look confused.

I want to kill all of them except Declan. When did Chuckles become the good person in my life?

“You guys sent me these texts? Seriously?” I grouse.

Amy rushes back to the bedroom but calls out behind her, “Not me!” The espresso machine begins hissing. So does Chuckles. He gives Mom and Amanda an evil eye that makes old Italian grandmas flinch.

“I was worried about you!” Mom argues.

“You’re getting a turkey neck, Mom,” I snap.

She shrieks back, “Now you’re just being vindictive!” Chuckles lifts his palm like he’s giving me a high-five. If my mouth didn’t feel li
k
e wet sand and my head like a blow-up doll being inflated by a horny, newly released ex-con after serving twenty years, I’d high-five him right back. Then again, that didn’t go so well when Amy tried, so…

“And texting me about having a billionaire baby when I’m on a business meeting isn’t?” If I have to use much more energy to speak I’ll need more coffee.

“I was wishing you well.”

“You want designer grandchildren.”

“Is that so bad?”

Amanda is trying not to laugh, so I pick on her next. “And you! Some best friend. I refuse to hold your hand on those same-sex-marriage mortgage shops next week.”

“What the hell did I do wrong? I just told you not to be an idiot and let your squishy inner self go soft on Steve.”

“Too late,” I mutter. She gives me an eye roll that I take as a warning. A girlfriend lecture is coming soon, the kind where I just say, “I know, I know,” over and over and she tries in earnest to get me to realize that I don’t have to let him treat me like a doormat. Like the movie
Groundhog Day
, only I never actually learn from my mistakes.
 

This is why I have sworn off men.

Mom’s face goes three shades of pale. “Same sex
what
? Amanda, did you just say
same-sex marriage
? I thought Shannon was dating a billionaire now! A
male
one!” That look of horror Mom had earlier when I made the AARP comment pales in comparison to how she looks now.
 

Let me explain: for years, Mom assumed I was gay because I didn’t like makeup, didn’t date men, and because I enjoyed visiting my friends in Northampton, the current lesbian capital of the world.

The only reason she would disapprove of my being gay is that the Farmington Country Club technically has not allowed a gay wedding just yet. Which is why I will never get married there, even if I do marry a billionaire. Not because I’m gay. Because I think everyone, regardless of sexual orientation, should have an equal opportunity to be tortured by their mother into a wedding designed not to celebrate the nuptials of two people in love, but to allow the mother of the bride(s) to prance in all her glory and to scream hot-faced about the ribbons on the table centerpieces being the wrong shade of hot pink and to worry obsessively that Uncle Marty will ask the band to play “Stairway to Heaven” at the reception.

If you can survive that, you are meant for each other for eternity.

“One of the credit unions we do mystery shopping for has a bunch of evaluations where same-sex, legally married couples go into credit unions and apply for mortgages jointly. We’re evaluating for discrimination,” Amanda explains to Mom.

“With her credit score?” Mom says, pointing and laughing at me. “Shannon’s never met a credit card she didn’t like.”

That is so not true…anymore. I had my crazy credit-card spree days and I’m over that now. Loan payments on $50,000 in student debt will do that to you.

“And you have to go in and pretend to be married to each other?” Mom asks, skeptical. She squints one eye like she’s sizing us up to be measured for wedding gowns.

“Yes,” I say.

She looks at Amanda like I’m not even in the room. “Are you the man or the woman?”

“What?” Amanda and I say in unison.

“You know…tops and bottoms. Are you the top or the bottom, Amanda?” Mom looks at us like she’s asked whether we prefer pink roses or red roses, as if normal people ask whether hypothetical lesbians have a positioning preference.

“Your mother is so much better than mine,” I tell Amanda as I turn and look at her with a
Please make it stop
look. “She can’t even say the words ‘toilet paper’ in public conversation.”
 

“What does she call it?” Mom asks, fascinated.

“By the brand name, whatever she’s using,” Amanda explains.

“What does toilet paper have to do with lesbians and which one wears the strap-on?” Mom asks.

“OUT!” I bellow. “Get out of my room!”

“Why would you be offended by that, Shannon? Women use sex toys all the time, and I don’t mean just the lesbians,” Mom says.

I crawl out of bed and sit up, my head trying to secede from the rest of my body. “I really don’t want to talk about this,” I moan.

“I’ll bet if I checked your bedside drawer I’d find a stash,” Mom says. Her eyes flick over to my nightstand. I freeze.

“Don’t you dare,” I hiss.

“Moooooooom,” Amy calls out as she comes back in the room. “That’s another nine or ten therapy sessions you have to pay for if you go rifling around in Shannon’s drawer looking for rabbits and bullets.”

“What do bunnies and guns have to do with sex toys?” Mom looks at Amy like she’s crazy.

Amanda is now laughing so hard I think her intestines are twisting.

“You can go with Amanda when she does seven ‘marital aids’ shops next week,” I add, using my fingers for quote marks around “marital aids.”

“Why this?” Mom asks, mimicking me. “They
are
marital aids! You try sleeping with the same man for thirty-two years. It gets boring really fast. And there are only so many times you can play ‘The Pirate and the Maiden.’”