Return Billionaire to Sender

by Annika Martin

“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “You didn’t see the devastation in his eyes. He’s not a man who lets people in. But he let me in, and I hurt him.”

  She nods. Later on, there’s a baggie of caramel corn tied to our doorknob.

  Sometimes I sit around crying. I’m sad about the building, yes. But really, it’s Malcolm. The whole world felt better when I was with Malcolm.

  Francine and I spend the week packing everything up—quietly, not even playing music. Usually we would have something fun on, but not now.

  When I’m not packing or desperately scanning rental listings, I’m back on my route. It’s never been more comforting to be a letter carrier than now, because it’s a task I can perfectly and fully achieve. Every envelope and package in its right place. No room for error. No room for destroying others or being destroyed.

  32

  Malcolm

  * * *

  It doesn’t take long to find Allen Junior, aka AJ.

  Three days later, he’s in my office. It’s not that my guy forced him to come up, but he makes it clear what a dim view I take of employee embezzlement, and how, if I were to become annoyed, I could bring charges against accomplices. But for now I simply want to talk, and he assures Allen Junior that it would be in his best interests to indulge me.

  I could bring charges of all kinds, but I’m kicking her out of her home early and that’s more than enough. Far too much, but I can’t keep thinking like that. I can’t keep waking up in the middle of the night thinking about that.

  I need to see what kind of person Noelle would send money to, that’s all.

  I need to see what kind of man she is so infatuated with that she would go without food—literally go hungry—so that she could send him gift cards. Maybe it’s masochistic, but I just need to see, and as we’ve already established, I’m a billionaire who satisfies every ridic whim that flies into his head.

  Allen Junior has perfectly blow-dried hair that forms a kind of a helmet around his pretty-boy face, and he wears several woven bracelets. He’s trying to pass the blame off onto Noelle before he’s even sitting down.

  “I didn’t know, man,” he repeats. “I didn’t have anything to do with her whole stupid scheme. None of it was even my idea.”

  “But you were working together, were you not?” I say.

  “We weren’t working together at all,” he insists.

  “You are a boyfriend she’s sending money to,” I say. “I think that qualifies as working together.”

  “I’m not her boyfriend—I never even met her!”

  I stroll around my desk and over to his chair. I grab the arms and lean down, get right into his face. He’s denying knowing her? Noelle prizes bravery and loyalty—how could she be with such a coward?

  “Lie to me again,” I say, “and you won’t like the result.”

  “I’m not lying!” he exclaims. “Why are you mad at me? She’s the one who was committing fraud all over your ass. She’s the one that took my girlfriend’s place. In fact, I am as much a victim as you are. She was impersonating my girlfriend. She’s a complete scam artist. And then when I found out, and informed her that I didn’t think it was cool, she offered to buy my silence. I was like, seriously? But she wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  I stand. “She offered to buy you off?”

  “I confronted her on her deception when I found out about it, and she said, ‘look, this rich guy is paying me a sweet per diem—I’m going to turn it into gift cards for you.’” He shrugs. “I honestly didn’t even know it was illegal.”

  I stand, pulse racing. I take a few paces, thinking. This doesn’t sound like Noelle.

  True, she was passing herself off as something she’s not, but other than that, she was honest, conscientious. I think of her in those meetings, salivating over the pastry tray. Not wanting to take more than her due.

  Paying somebody off with gift cards? Not Noelle’s style.

  But this guy?

  I give him a hard look. “Keeping in mind that I had a private investigator on you, I’d like you to answer that question again, and this time truthfully.”

  “I am being truthful.” He pops right up out of his chair, as if he’s outraged at the very thought. But his denial is thin. Weak. I’ve been in enough business negotiations to know a weak denial when I hear one.

  “Come on, she thought it up?” I ask.

  The look on his face tells me I’m on the right track.

  “Look, I just want to know,” I continue in a friendlier tone. “Be honest with me about what happened, and we can part ways. Lie to me, and I will press charges. Now, which one of you came up with the idea that she should be handing over her stipend in exchange for your silence?”

  He takes a few beats too long to think about it; that alone tells me what I need to know.

  “Well, maybe it was my idea,” he says. “But she was the one pulling the scam on you, and I had nothing to do with it.”

  “So you figured it out,” I say.

  “Purely by accident.”

  I nod. And he calls her. Blackmails her. Noelle is such a Girl Scout, she was probably scared to death of this guy. My accountant had said she used only little bits of her per diem at first, far less than any of the rest of the team; some days she used none of it, and then suddenly she was sending him gift cards. The timing makes sense now. She was trying not to take too much at first, and then this one blackmailed her. Scared her enough that she gave him all of her lunch money.

  Something dangerous stirs in my gut.

  “And what was she to live on?” I ask. “Did you inquire as to whether she had any money for food? Did it ever occur to you that she might’ve spent every penny she had on a sick relative or something, and that the per diem was all she had to live on? Did it occur to you that she might be going hungry because of you?”

  “Maybe she should’ve thought about that before deciding to pull a scam,” he says with a sniff. “Maybe the little bitch’ll think twice next time she decides to—”

  My fist finds his jaw before his sentence is out. He staggers briefly, then comes at me with a roar. He’s about my size, but I’m a lot angrier. I block his blow and shove him off.

  He wants to come at me again. “Do it,” I taunt. “I’ll give you a free one.” I drop my hands. “Go ahead.” I want to hit him some more—I just do. It’s wrong but I can’t stop thinking about Noelle, staring at that pastry tray. Eating hotel fruit-bowl fruit. And this jackass making her give him the per diem. Squeezing my girl for her lunch money.

  I want to do some damage. And I think he knows that I could.

  “What the hell? I told you the truth,” he whines.

  “She didn’t have anything to eat, asshole,” I say. “And if you give me or her any more trouble, I am going to haul your ass to jail so fast you won’t know which way is up.”

  My security guy comes in. “Need any help?”

  “Get him out,” I say.

  The irony of my behavior doesn’t escape me. I’m the one tossing her out onto the street. AJ only made her miss a few meals.

  33

  Noelle

  * * *

  New York is a massive city. Manhattan itself—massive.

  Even so, I feel him out there. I’m sure Malcolm doesn’t live anywhere near where we live, but still.

  Sometimes when I’m looking out my window at the scroll of street traffic, I feel sure that he’s down there.

  His limo looks like anybody else’s limo, but still I sometimes think that I see his. Maybe it’s stupid, but we spent those weeks together and I feel so connected to him. It was more than getting to know each other; he brought out a new side of me; a side of me that I don’t show other people. A side of me that I don’t even show myself. Me as a woman who says real things and asks for what she wants. A woman who has the affection of the most amazing guy in the world.

  Meanwhile, my friends and I are freaking out. We don’t know where we’re going to go. All the good places are sn
apped up; who can get a decent apartment in less than thirty days?

  John’s moving in with relatives. Maisey has a sister upstate. Antonio is talking about taking a room in a house of guys that he’s not a huge fan of, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  Francine and I take the train out to Queens to investigate a large Airbnb rental for some of us who haven’t found places yet.

  We walk around it and decide that the picture on the website made it look 30% nicer than it is in real life—that’s the way we’ll put it to Jada and the others. We decide that the neighborhood is probably good enough as long as there is no nighttime walking, which sucks—in our Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood, we know everybody, and you can walk any time of night and feel safe because there’s always a whole lot of people out and about. Even at three in the morning, there are cars and people right there. Everything is lit up.

  But on the upside, the Queens place has room enough for six of us; it’ll make a decent temporary place while we hunt for apartments.

  Francine and I stop in at their little neighborhood coffee shop and try out their frappuccinos, which are a little bit better than the corner deli ones in our neighborhood. We agree that that’s an upside.

  We pick out a nice window table and admire the excellent table availability factor as compared to Manhattan coffee shops, where you have to show up at six to get a table, and table-less people are always hovering around like vultures. It’s disconcerting when you’re trying to read or have a conversation.

  I wander over to the pastry case up at the checkout counter. I’ve been meaning not to do this, promising myself not to do it, but here I am, doing it. I spot two of the biggest almond croissants and ask for them to be put on plates. I pay and bring them back to our table, setting one in front of Francine.

  “That works,” she says.

  I take my seat as she bites in.

  “Yum,” she says. “An hour extra of dance practice? Worth it.”

  I pick up the croissant from my own plate. I rip off the end of it and put it in my mouth. It’s not as delicious as the ones in San Francisco. Nothing is as delicious as it was in San Francisco.

  “And I spy another upside…” Francine says, pointing out a couple of hot guys up at the barista bar behind me.

  I twist around like I’m looking at the menu. “Sigh,” I say.

  She holds up her phone. “Lemme get this for Jada and the gang. Highlights of the neighborhood. Lean to the right and smile.”

  I lean to the right and make a lemon face.

  “Hellz yah.” She sets down her phone. “The blue-shirt one seemed like he was looking at you.”

  “Not interested,” I say. The idea of being with a man who’s not Malcolm makes me feel ill.

  “It might be good to get back out there,” she says. “Get back on the horse that threw you.” I’m just shaking my head. Francine glares at me. “Noelle, the man is a jerk. You deserve better.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you knew,” I say.

  “I can’t believe you still believe in him. You’re loyal. I love that about you.” She licks a smidge of almond paste off her fingers. “But not everyone deserves your loyalty.”

  “He’s punishing all of you for what I did, I get it. He’s tearing down our building when he has a perfectly viable alternative,” I say. “But if you’d been there…yes, I was deceiving him, but at the same time, I was more honest with him than I’ve ever been with anybody, and I think that went both ways. Maybe that’s not an excuse. All I know is, I can’t stop thinking about him, wanting to make it right. How messed up is that?”

  “Messed up doesn’t matter to the heart,” she says.

  I snort. “You totally have to put that on a motivational poster.” I raise my hands, making a little frame, like that’s the poster. “Messed up doesn’t matter to the heart,” I say.

  Francine jabs the air with her spoon. “I would definitely wear a shirt with that saying.”

  “If he was walking through that door right now? The first thing I’d feel is happy. Just pure freaking happiness. Even imagining it right now, I want it to happen. I want to see him again.” I shake my head.

  Francine smiles wistfully. “It’s a saying for a reason, you know.”

  I tear at the flaky pastry.

  34

  Malcolm

  * * *

  I’m back on the West Coast the next week, managing the takeover and absorption of the Germantown Group into my operation while overseeing my New York office and a number of other projects.

  My PR people want me to do interviews about this takeover and retraining program. Hell no.

  I offered training to displaced workers; I didn’t get a lobotomy. I still don’t like talking to people. I really don’t like people thanking me for things. People who thank me for things—I just want them out of my face.

  During one of those trips out to San Francisco, I get a very bewildering lunch invitation from none other than my father. I’m wary, considering we hate each other. But curiosity gets the better of me, and I go.

  Dad is in a mood like I’ve never seen. He tells me that he’s been going to AA meetings, and he wants to apologize to me. I don’t know what I like less—people thanking me for things or the idea of my dad apologizing after all these years. It’s so much easier to hate him.

  Hate is always easier.

  I lean back and cross my legs, stir my coffee drink, contemplate walking out, not letting him have the satisfaction of even apologizing to me. I don’t want to give him anything.

  But for whatever perverse reason, I decide to hear him out.

  He tells me that he stopped drinking after our fight at the Monaco Club. Does he want an award?

  “I want to make amends to you for letting you think you had any part of Genevieve—your mother—leaving,” he says.

  I don’t want to talk about my mother. I never want to talk about her. “And this matters why?” I snap.

  “I need you to know—I pushed her away,” he says. “I was the bad guy. I told you she didn’t want us, that we were too much for her to handle, but it had nothing to do with you—it never did.”

  I act unfazed. I’ve learned never to give my dad anything, any edge, but I can barely believe my ears. This guy, apologizing to me? Claiming full responsibility for driving my mother away?

  The central story of our family was that she wanted to get away from the pair of us. That Dad and I were two awful peas in a pod. The story is a part of me, like a tree, growing around a wire, absorbing it in.

  “I made you share the blame,” he continues. “I made you an equal bad guy because I couldn’t handle it. And you took that to heart, and you had that personality change when she left, became sullen and angry. Anyone in your position would have felt like that, having the two of us for parents. A better father would have told you that she loved you.”

  “We both know that would’ve been a lie,” I say. She never tried to contact me—no cards, no calls. Not to mention an apology.

  “She had her own problems, her own issues, but I was a bully to her. A monster—not physically, but…” He shakes his head.

  I look away. As if that excuses her. It makes it worse that she left me with him.

  “And I made a ten-year-old boy share the blame, like we were a pair of assholes she couldn’t deal with anymore. But you were a good kid before all that—you should know that. I always thought it was weird that you didn’t remember, but I’m telling you now—you were an outgoing boy, a generous friend to Howie, a good boy to your mother, and I was one shitty-ass husband.”

  I suppose this is the place where I say a weight lifted from my chest, but I just feel numb. I’m not in a mood to forgive either of them. “So what is it you want from me?” I bite out.

  “Nothing. I’m not one of those losers who think making amends means everything’s okay. It won’t make me less of an asshole or change what a bastard I was to you that whole time, but I thought you’d want to know. I thought it m
ight be useful.”

  I look him hard in the eye. I have no words. I throw down some money. I get out of there and walk.

  The afternoon is foggy and cool, the streets filled with people rushing back and forth. Loud music blares from a passing car.

  All this time. Does it matter? I don’t want it to matter.

  I walk and walk, as if that might allow me to put it all behind me. The utter anger that I have at this man and a mother who left without looking back. At life.

  I took his bullshit at face value. I blamed myself. An asshole from a long line of assholes. Maybe I should feel different now, but I don’t. What do I care? Things turned out fine.

  Still.

  The time that I spent with Noelle showed me that I’m missing something, that there’s some essential way in which I haven’t joined the human, world—the whole experience of togetherness and sharing and having each other’s backs and all of that. And the darkest thing that’s rattling around in my mind is the question--what if I never can have that? What if I’m broken beyond repair?

  It’s here that I wish I could call her.

  I’d tell her everything he said. I’d tell her my fears. She’d rise to my defense and fight for me. She’d find examples that I might not have thought of. She’d fight for my heart. She’d be on my side.

  It’s too late for that, now.

  35

  Noelle

  * * *

  The lobby of our building was glamorous way back when. Nowadays you might describe it as faded glamour; possibly even seriously wrecked glamour or maybe glamour after a seventy-year bender.

  But we love it all the same.

  There are these amazing pink-and-rose-colored marble tiles lining the lower part of the walls; above it is cracked vintage plaster, soaring up to extravagant crown molding, and of course, the lovely chandelier.

  But at the moment it’s the rose tiles that we’re focusing on, or more, the tiles that Vicky is focusing on. With a crowbar.