Return Billionaire to Sender

by Annika Martin

  People break for the bathroom and snacks. Only Elle is left.

  “Do you see how people fall all over themselves to show they believe in you?” she says. As usual, she’s trying to look at the upside.

  “If they didn’t believe in me, it would show that they’re idiots,” I say. “And I’d have to fire their asses.”

  “So full of shit,” she breathes.

  I look down, wishing I could touch her. She comes off as a shrinking violet, but she’s got grit.

  If our mole is going to make a move, they’ll do it now. We’re both really conscious now of who has gone into the restroom, who has gone to the street to vape or talk on the phone. Nisha wanders up with a sparkling water for Elle and they break off to chat about whatever those two chat about.

  I do things on my phone until we reconvene.

  Gerrold seems excited about the deal.

  I like the other party excited about a deal, but it’s usually my goal for them to be excited about a deal that gives me exactly what I want. And it typically takes a good deal of work to get them there. Instead, I’ve plopped his fondest desire right down on the table in front of him.

  In exchange for intangibles.

  Yes, good PR has monetary value, but still, it’s not me. I’ve left my comfort zone in the dust to head for the unknown.

  Then I feel fingers on my arm, searching around until they find my hand. Elle, grabbing my hand, anchoring me like a counterpart.

  The most important intangible.

  I don’t look at her—I won’t compromise her in front of the team, but I’m rocked by her.

  And right here, I decide that we have to be done with this ridiculous charade—sneaking around because she is my executive coach. Sneaking around is for children.

  I want us to go back to New York and be together in front of the world. I have no doubt that she’s concerned about the ethics of our situation. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I have to think that that’s the obstacle that plagues her. Becoming romantic with the client would probably cause her to lose her license or certificate.

  Whatever it is, it would be so Elle to have it framed and cherish the shit out of it, tell everybody she knows how amazing her job is. No doubt she has all kinds of anecdotes about executive coaching the way she has them about being a letter carrier, being that her nerd streak runs a mile wide. I love that about her. And how it’s her way of putting the world in order.

  Lucky for us, I’ve figured out a solution. I need to graduate the program early. That’s all there is to it.

  I’m broken out of my reverie by Gerrold’s new ask. Two days to look through the documents.

  “Are you kidding me?” I say. “You want to look this gift horse in the mouth? You really do?” True, I made an unexpectedly gift-like offer, but that doesn’t mean I’ve had a personality transplant. “This is not a complex document. The changes are minimal, and all in your favor. Two hours.”

  Gerrold’s thinking about it, but Junior scoffs.

  “Look, you’ve been sitting with most of it for two weeks. This overcomes one of your main objections, Gerrold, with flying colors if I do say so myself. There are provisions for mediation in case of road bumps. Two hours, take it or leave it. I’m not trying to squeeze you here, but I’m not going to twiddle my thumbs. I want this deal done. I want my team back in New York. This is my final offer and it’s a pumpkin at four, got it?

  Gerrold is nodding. Junior’s piping up; he wants more investigation into this offer. Gerrold asks me to walk with him while his legal looks at it.

  So we walk. We follow Vallejo toward the water.

  I decide to level with him. I tell him my father wants his company. I let him know that my father will look a lot better on paper, but it won’t be real in the end. I’m pre-empting it with something concrete, with the best thing he’s likely to see. I tell him that even my team is surprised by the seeming gift of it. I tell him that there’s a PR angle in it that may or may not happen. I tell him that I think he should take the deal.

  “I appreciate your speaking plainly,” he says.

  We walk for a bit in silence.

  I’m feeling bad about the historical retrospective, now—the way we shined on his ego. He wants to be a good guy and he is one, and I played on that. He’s about my father’s age, and for a second, I wonder what it would’ve been like to grow up with a guy like this.

  The offer is signed not two hours later.

  Before we are even out of the building, my security head pulls me aside and lets me know that it was the son who was courting my father; they caught him putting in a call to my old man down on the street. He’d even forwarded him the PDF to look at.

  I’m happier than I should be that it’s not my people.

  “Do you want us to tell Gerrold?” my security head asks.

  “He knows. On some level, anyway,” I say.

  I get my admin to find us a nice table for eight somewhere. We’re gonna do some celebrating, and then I’ll leave and they can all get drunk and dance. But they won’t be taking Elle. I’ve got after-dinner plans for her.

  27

  Noelle

  * * *

  I get to the restaurant early. It’s one of those glam hotel lobby places that make you feel like a princess.

  I have a cocktail with Nisha while we wait for our people. Nisha is speculating wildly about Malcolm’s black eye. “He’s gotten into things with strangers before,” she says, “but usually it’s somebody he knows, and I’ll bet you so much money that they deserved it. He doesn’t go for people who don’t deserve it.”

  I nod, feeling bad having to pretend that I don’t know. The pretending has to stop. Not just with her.

  I try not to think about that. We’ll have a nice dinner with the gang. I’ll tell him right after.

  “Coralee thinks it’s connected to the generous offer,” Nisha continues. “Like something happened. What? But it could be really good PR. That has to be what he’s going for. It’s not like the court-ordered coaching suddenly gave him a heart. No offense, but wouldn’t you just keel over?” She turns to me. “Oh my god, that was kind of offensive, wasn’t it? I didn’t mean like it’s ineffective—”

  I’m laughing. “No offense taken.”

  Nisha and I talk and laugh, and at one point I’m thinking I need to invite her over when this is all finished, maybe for one of our fifth-floor dance parties. Then I remember there won’t be any more of those. The building is going down in sixty-some days.

  The rest of the traveling team arrives minus the legal people. There’s some vetting thing they have to hammer out. The team is excited to be going home.

  “I honestly thought we’d be here forever,” Walt says. “I thought I was going to have to miss the Voidz concert.”

  People are talking about what they’re gonna do when they get back to the city. When they ask me, I say I’ll be mostly looking for a new place and getting ready to move.

  “A better place, I hope,” Nisha says.

  “I hope so,” I say. But no place can possibly be better than 341.

  More people arrive. Apparently we’re supposed to start with the apps and the drinks and not wait for Malcolm.

  “He usually swoops in for the entrée,” Lawrence says. “Quick cameo.”

  We file in to the restaurant and order all the outrageous things, and it’s fun. The traveling team is totally fun.

  I text Malcolm at one point. Just a frown emoji, like where is he?

  He texts back—an upside-down frown emoji, which is so him. It’s him doing the right thing for the wrong reason. It’s him throwing the best party he knows how to throw—a party he mostly isn’t there for. An upside-down frown as a smile. It’s sweet and sad and it makes me want to go find him and forcibly snuggle him.

  It gets late. We start in on our entrées. Where is Malcolm? I would have thought he’d stop in at least by now. I keep thinking about AJ—what if AJ got to him?

  “Maybe he’s
huddling with New York on something,” Walt says.

  “It’s weird that he wouldn’t come at all,” Nisha observes. “He’s the one that gathered us.”

  “I hope he didn’t get into another fight,” Coralee says.

  People resume eating. Conversation goes back to normal. I text Malcolm a question mark. Nothing comes back.

  I’m getting a bad feeling about this.

  Right before dessert, Walt eyes the group of us. “I’m thinking another round, full dessert service, and then dancing it off at that place on Mission Street.”

  “I’ve got an early flight,” Coralee says.

  “I’m out, too,” I say, over the protests of Nisha. “I slept for shit last night,” I add.

  Back at the hotel, I go straight to Malcolm’s room. I have this terrible feeling he’s found out. Or what if AJ got to him? I need to tell him.

  Nervously, I knock on the door. This is the right thing to do. If I’ll ever have a chance with him in the future, I have to be honest with him now. How did I let it go on so long?

  The door swings open, and Malcolm’s broad smile tells me he doesn’t know. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “You didn’t come to dinner or answer my text.”

  “You texted?” He pulls me in. The door shuts behind me. In a jokey voice he says, “There is something you can assist me with.”

  I roll my eyes. “Shut.” I make a little hand motion that means hole and also bruschetta, and I walk in. There are papers strewn all over his desk. A printer is spitting out hard copies of something. “It’s ten at night, dude, and you just closed a deal. Is this more about Germantown?”

  “No,” he says, stepping between me and the papers.

  “Is it a secret? A secret for moi?” I tease.

  He smiles, and it makes me smile. I’d wanted him to see us as humans with hopes and dreams—that was the extent of my plan. I’d never imagined how important he could become to me. How his hopes and dreams might become intertwined with mine.

  “Look, I need to tell you something.”

  “Oh, I think I know what you’re going to tell me,” he says.

  My pulse is racing. “You do?”

  “I’ve missed my video session. I understand that you might feel compelled to give me an X for the day. We know how stringent you are about those rules.”

  “No,” I say sadly. “That’s not it.” I take a deep breath, unsure how to begin.

  He’s gathering up his papers and collating them. “That’s right, you’re not going to give me an X. I’m making sure of that.” He spins around. “I’m expecting a passing grade, in fact, because what have I done? Completely nailed this course.” He shoves a bunch of papers into my hands.

  “What is this?” I ask, clutching them, not reading. They look legal. Did his lawyers figure out a way to get him extricated from the coaching?

  “It’s my extra credit assignment.”

  I furrow my brow, confused. “What extra credit assignment?”

  “Don’t you remember?” he asks. “One way I can get a pass out of the class? I’m tired of this, Elle. Take a look. Let’s end this charade.”

  I glance down and read the first line. “A proposed offering plan relating to the conversion to cooperative ownership of the apartments in this building has been submitted to the Department of Law of the State of New York…”

  Cooperative ownership. “What...” I ask, heart racing. I scan down and find the address—341 West 45th Street. Our building. Everything in me begins to vibrate. It’s everything I wanted.

  And the worst thing, too.

  “Before you freak out.” He takes the papers and shows me the payment part. “I’m converting it to rent-to-own if they can’t pay up front, which I’m assuming most of them can’t, because let’s face it, if they could, they wouldn’t be living there. It’s actually a good price. We’ll courier it to the residents tomorrow, but I think it counts to get me out of class today, don’t you?”

  I look up, mouth hanging open. Yes, I said that. I’d forgotten. The pie-in-the-sky ask.

  “I can see you’re stunned. I’m fine if you want to give me more postal anecdotes. In fact, I rather like those, but I draw the line at more of that insipid video.”

  The words on the document blur and bend. It’s everything I’d wanted. Everything I’d never hoped to dream.

  A legal contract for us to own our apartments.

  He’ll sign it and send it around to us, and if we sign, it’ll be binding. There’s probably some percentage of us who need to agree to make it legal, but who of us wouldn’t?

  Once it’s all signed, it’s final. He couldn’t take it away.

  I sink onto the bed, mind spinning. I could have this—we could have this—me and my girl squad and everybody else.

  “You’re a hard audience. Look—this is the best part.” He takes it from me and turns to the next part. “Look who’s running the place.” He shoves it back into my hands.

  It’s John and Maisey. He somehow found out their last names—I suppose because he’s the landlord. He’s put them in joint charge as the first presidents of the cooperative board.

  I’m holding onto that document so tightly, it’s a wonder my fingers haven’t pulverized the paper.

  He pretends it’s about getting out of watching any more of the video, but he’s doing it for me, and maybe even a little bit for my neighbors. The detail about John and Maisey gives him away. This is Malcolm, tentatively opening up his heart.

  “Malcolm,” I whisper.

  I can feel his confusion. “What’s wrong, country mouse?”

  Hopelessly, I shake my head.

  “Wow,” he says, “you really had your heart set on showing me those videos, didn’t you? I’m sorry, I really am, but a man has his limits.”

  “Don’t be funny,” I gust out.

  “But I thought that was one of my selling points,” he says softly. “My darkly acerbic yet strangely compelling wit.”

  I shake my head.

  “You don’t like it?” he asks, meaning the contract. “Personally, I think it demonstrates an almost psychotic level of empathy.”

  I look up to find him smiling, searching my face.

  His tone changes, turning serious now. “You know this has to end. This sneaking around, this pretense of coach and student. I know what your profession means to you, and I don’t want you to be crossing ethical lines and jeopardizing your career, but this thing between us deserves better, don’t you think? Let’s see where it goes. You did say that I get to graduate if I promise not to tear the building down. Surely you remember…”

  “I remember.”

  “I had my designer look into an alternate way to do the parking ramp entrance, and he worked it up. And yes, it’s not the best in terms of aesthetics, but there is an unexpected convenience factor to re-orienting the ramp. And you know me, just another billionaire who does whatever ridic thing that flies into his head.”

  Malcolm. I think he has never been more lovable.

  All I have to do is to hold my tongue for a day or so, and we’ll have what we want. I can just imagine my people’s faces when they see these papers. They would be beyond amazed. I can see Mia laughing her head off. Little Noelle! Francine would be wide-eyed with shock—these apartments can be ours? We’d never have to leave? Jada would be like, No way! She’d practically yell it, and that would make it so incredibly fun. Willow would just laugh, loving it. Tabitha would make more hot pink Barbies. Lizzie would bake up a mean batch of cookies shaped like our building.

  For a moment I allow myself to enjoy the daydream of it.

  But what about Malcolm? I can’t do that to Malcolm. My belly twists in a knot.

  He kneels in front of me. He takes the papers from my hands. “What’s going on, Elle?”

  “I’m so sorry, Malcolm. I’m just so sorry. I’ve let this thing go on way too long.”

  “What thing? What are you talking about?”

  I suck in a dee
p breath. “I’m not an executive coach.”

  He does this amused smile-frown. “What?”

  “And my name is not Stella or Elle.”

  He’s frowning now. “What are you talking about?”

  “My name is Noelle, and I’m a letter carrier,” I tell him. “I live at 341 West Forty-fifth Street.”

  His dark brows draw in, expression mystified. “What?”

  “I was going up to talk to you about our building that first day when we met in the lobby, but they wouldn’t let me up. So I came back in my letter carrier’s uniform, knowing I’d be more likely to get in to see you. I got stuck in the elevator with your real coach. She was hating on her job…” I tell him about our conversation, and how I encouraged her to quit coaching and follow her dreams.

  His usually warm brown eyes are cold. His voice is eerie-soft. “And you decided to impersonate her.”

  “No, I didn’t decide, it just happened. She gave me her card to stay in touch. Your people made the assumption and—”

  “So…this whole thing was always just about the building,” he says.

  “No, don’t say that. It started out that way, yes—”

  He drags in a fitful breath. “All this time, it was just you trying to get me to halt the demolition plans.”

  “You know that’s not true,” I say. “It’s not!”

  “All this time,” he bites out, words hard as diamonds. He plucks the papers from my hands. Everything about him is different, now. His expression is tormented; his eyes shine with misery. It’s like an out-of-body experience, facing him like this.

  “Listen, Malcolm, it was real—my feelings for you, all of it—” My words die in the face of his furious anguish. In a small voice, I say, “It was real.”

  He stalks to the window, looks out over the city, the small sheaf of papers in his fist. His silence cuts deeper than any blade could. I’d prefer thundering rage—anything but this—him back in his angry and desolate ice castle.

  Because of me.

  “You have to believe me.”

  He turns around. “Do I? I have to believe you? And why should I?”

  “Because I wasn’t lying about you—how I feel about you.”