Just Not That Into Billionaires

by Annika Martin

  Noelle snorts. “What do they care too much about?”

  “Shut it,” I say. “I’m not gonna sit here ranting on your menfolk.”

  Mia throws a pillow. “Tell us! What is the problem with billionaires?”

  “Well, seriously!” I say, laughing. “I mean, a billion dollars? That’s how much money you had to make? This is what you’ve spent your time on?”

  Noelle’s laughing and clapping.

  “Have you ever heard of charity?” I continue. “A simple and honest day’s labor? Working with your hands? However” —I turn to Noelle— “you know I always make an exception for Malcolm. In spite of his rocky start, he is clearly one of the good guys. And fine, Theo. Max. Rex. The billionaires you have chosen, clearly they’re awesome. In fact, their good taste in choosing you somewhat redeems them.”

  “But just somewhat,” Tabitha teases.

  “Just somewhat,” I say.

  Noelle is grinning. “Poor Francine. Every time you look away, a billionaire grabs up one of your friends!”

  “It’s true! Is it too much to ask that maybe one of my friends picks a thousandaire? Thousandaires are amazing! Sexy bartenders, hot musicians, sweaty construction workers, amazing veterinarians. I mean, pullllease. Millionaires and billionaires.”

  Everybody’s laughing. “That’s why we love you, baby!” Mia says.

  Kelsey says, “I’m still having a hard time picturing you with a guy in a limo.”

  “Seriously, I didn’t know which way was up! I’d been in strict ballet boarding schools since the age of ten.” I point a baby carrot at them. “While you all were going to prom and football games and keggers and sleepovers. The only music I knew by heart was written two centuries ago by men in powdered wigs. Suddenly I’m on my own in the city of sin without a ten-hour-a-day regimen? And there are no weigh-ins? I was ready to go to clubs and date glamorous men and eat whatever I wanted.”

  “Like Rumspringa,” Lizzie observes. “When Amish kids go into the real world and sow their wild oats.”

  “I guess, yeah,” I say. “And the dancers in Beau Cirque were so hip and fun and I wanted to belong, and suddenly I did. Unless of course you asked Benny, sitting there zeroing in on me, all scowly and judgmental. I knew I could crumble or could turn it up to eleven right back at him.”

  “You know he was probably in love with you,” Mia says. “You know that, right?”

  “No way,” I say. “You had to be there.”

  “You’re the beautiful, vivacious, wayward dancer. He was the sullen misfit, desperately in love with you.”

  “Totally not how it was,” I say.

  “The nerdy frenemy, pining for you,” she continues.

  “He was not thinking along those lines, I promise you. His all-consuming focus was on his little inventions and his nerdy pursuits.”

  “And you,” Lizzie puts in.

  “And then like a fool I get drunk and throw myself at him. Because I guess I love being rejected by him.”

  “And don’t forget marrying him,” Kelsey says.

  I’m shaking my head.

  “I still can’t get over you riding in limos,” Mia says.

  Lizzie looks up from the laptop where she was doing her research. “You just would die a grisly death before you’d date a billionaire, wouldn’t you?” she asks. “Did you not say that once?”

  “Well, it’s true,” I say. “I would die a grisly death before I dated a billionaire.”

  Lizzie fixes me with a huge grin. “But would you marry one?”

  “Hardly!” I snort. “Again, nothing against your guys!”

  “Would you die a grisly death before you married a billionaire?” she asks me weirdly. “A grisly and horrific death?”

  I shrug. “What can I say?”

  “Well, Francine,” Lizzie crows, “not only is this your wedding shower and your bachelorette party, but I’m afraid it’s your funeral as well!”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Benny Frederick Stearnes, born in Detroit, Michigan...” She fixes me with a big grin.

  “Right, that’s him!” I say. “He was from Detroit.”

  “Here’s Forbes Magazine, an issue from five years ago—Tech entrepreneur Benjamin Stearnes unveiled his new microrobotic particle scavenger last month to a frenzy of excitement. The reduction of its energy source is a significant advantage for the tiny robots, which are designed to clean particular matter in manufacturing and industrial environments. This new innovation is sure to cement the billion-dollar company’s market share over the next five to ten years.”

  “You are so full of shit,” I say. “You are making that up!”

  “I’m not making it up! You think I could make something like that up on the fly?” Lizzie turns the laptop toward me.

  I scan the article. “Maybe there’s another Benjamin Stearnes from Detroit.”

  “There may be another Benjamin Stearnes from Detroit,” Lizzie says. “But no other Benjamin Stearnes shares your Benjamin Stearnes’s Social Security number.”

  “No way,” I say. “I’m gonna need to see a picture. This is just...no way. Benny?”

  “Gasp!” Tabitha says, staring into her phone. “Heart-eyes!”

  “What?” Mia goes over and sets her chin on Tabitha’s shoulder. Her eyes go wide. “Erp!”

  “Let me see!” I say.

  Kelsey crowds in. “Francine! You’ve been holding out. Your secret billionaire husband is quite magnificent. He might be hotter than Antonio himself.”

  “Stellina, you kill me,” Antonio says, clutching his heart.

  I hold out my hand. “Come on, lemme see.”

  Tabitha keeps it hidden, clutching her phone to her chest, eyes sparkling. “Francine, my friend, I shall now present your husband, billionaire industrialist Benny Stearnes.”

  I take the phone with a harumph.

  And time stops.

  There in front of me, glowering out at me from the sparkly frame of Tabitha’s phone, is my long-lost frenemy, Benny.

  He holds himself erect, gazing down at the camera lens with his same old annoyed scowl, his wonderful lips in their annoyed configuration, which means they’re extra-plumpy in the vaguest of frowns. He’s all filled out—strong jaw, thick, corded neck, jaw set hard. And where did those cheekbones come from? Did his entire face undergo a tectonic event? Those glasses that were too big for his face, giving him the look of a beetle—a large, gangly beetle—have been right-sized and switched to pale brown clear frames that look amazing on him. He’s managed to tame his dusty-brown hair. He’s…objectively hot.

  Benny.

  “What’s an industrialist?” Kelsey asks, as if from faraway land. “Wouldn’t he be more of a microroboticist or something?”

  “I don’t know, I just wanted to use that word,” Mia says, also from a faraway land, possibly a faraway planet.

  “Entrepreneur,” Lizzie suggests. “Tech entrepreneur.”

  At this point, I’ve basically stopped processing language. I don’t know what to make of this Benny that I’m seeing before me. I can’t quite square this guy with my old frenemy, pondering some little robotics thing, rambling on how he’s 72.5% sure some component will fall apart.

  Tabitha comes up behind me. “Nerd no more.”

  Lizzie reads on: “We caught up with the notoriously publicity-averse Stearnes one afternoon while he was directing the launch of a new product, marshalling his troops with the demanding perfectionism that he has become known for—a remote, driven, intensely private visionary at the helm of one of the fastest growing firms of the year. Wow,” she adds. “One of his homes is right here in New York City.”

  “Really?” I say.

  “Stearnes is based in New York City, with residences in Los Angeles, Manhattan and Lucerne,” she reads.

  “He’s right here in New York?” I ask.

  “Lucerne must be where he has the chalet,” Kelsey says, reading her own phone. “Where he keeps his mentally enfe
ebled wife.”

  I frown. “Mentally enfeebled wife?”

  “Where do you see that?” Lizzie asks.

  “The comments?” Kelsey says. “It’s all the comments are about.”

  “You’re reading the comments?” Noelle asks, aghast. “Why are you reading the comments?”

  “Because they’re the most interesting part?” Kelsey says, reading on. “It’s what everyone’s saying in the comments. Keeps his wife locked in his Swiss chalet. Why doesn’t that jackass free his wife? The photographer should go in there and free the wife.”

  At this point, we’re all gathered around Kelsey, reading the comments.

  “Ask Billionaire Bluebeard about his trapped wife!” Lizzie reads. “Journalistic malpractice!’”

  Mia slings an arm around my shoulder. “Married to Billionaire Bluebeard! How about that?”

  “Not. Funny.”

  “What’s Bluebeard?” Jada asks.

  “It’s a folktale,” Noelle says. “Bluebeard is a rich dude who has a closet full of dead wives. He marries them and kills them.”

  “And you question our taste in billionaires!” Mia teases.

  “I’m sure the enfeebled wife trapped in a Swiss chalet is just bull,” Tabitha says.

  “No, there’s a reporter taking the search for his wife seriously,” Kelsey says. “One of these blogs has aerial photos…lemme find it again…”

  “A Vegas wedding doesn’t count,” I protest. “You can get a drive-through wedding in Vegas as easily as you can get a cheeseburger and an order of fries.” I stare down at Benny’s picture, blood racing. “What if he doesn’t want to give me the divorce?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to sign for a quickie no-strings divorce,” Lizzie says. “I highly doubt you two signed a prenuptial. Some women would take him to the cleaners, sue him for a big chunk of his billion-dollar empire.”

  “Agree,” Mia says. “If you present him with a no-strings divorce, he’ll won’t be able to sign it fast enough.”

  “I’m gonna need a really messed-up T-shirt for this,” I say.

  Four

  Francine

  * * *

  I stand in front of Ventoux, a farm-to-table restaurant, wringing my hands. I should go in. I should just do this. But my legs won’t move. I use my phone to touch up my lipstick. I’m wearing my “I’d tap that” tap dance T-shirt with fun flowered pants and a sweet spring jacket.

  Thanks to the mad Google skills of my gal pals we have determined that Benny eats lunch here alone every Friday. It’s across the street from one of the many cutting-edge, decentralized workspaces that make up his apparently very cutting-edge company.

  I tuck a stray hair into my updo. It’s stupid to care how I look. A nice hairdo has no impact on how ashamed I feel for the way I acted back then. A perfect coat of lipstick won’t make Benny think I’m less annoying.

  Spine erect, I push open the door and sail in.

  “Do you have a reservation?” the woman at the hostess stand asks me.

  “No, I’m here to see somebody,” I say.

  “Can I check if your party is already seated?”

  “Well...” I lean in and peer into the elegant dining room, everything very mod and tasteful. There’s a sea of white-tablecloth-covered tables and a row of booths down one side.

  At the very end, alone in a corner booth near the window, I catch sight of him. Benny.

  My heart races. It’s that old fear and excitement.

  He’s frowning at his phone, light brown hair in an attractive and coherent style, but I’d know him anywhere. I’d even know his hands, what with their highly knuckly knuckles. How much time did I spend staring at those hands during interminable meetings? And of course, his lips, more beautiful than a man’s lips should be, powerful and expressive if not downright sculptural.

  “I see him,” I say to the hostess. “We’re good.” I head into the dining room before she can stop me, because I get the feeling this is the kind of place where they don’t let people walk in from the street.

  A voice behind me. “Wait, if I could just get the name of the party you’re meeting.”

  “It’s fine,” I toss over my shoulder, speeding up.

  I’m just a few tables away when Benny looks up, as if he sensed me coming. His stony gaze is a punch of awareness to my soul—a punch that has me reeling, unsure.

  I stop in front of his table, feeling weirdly vulnerable. “Okay, so you might not remember me. We worked together at Beau Cirque one summer, back in twenty…uh…”

  “I remember you,” he says.

  Still that stony expression. Really not happy to see me.

  I’m secretly panicking at this point. “He’s sooo happy to see her,” I say.

  Benny deepens his glower.

  “He’s been dreaming of this day!” I add.

  Silliness is probably the wrong approach to take, but that’s how nervous I am. I swallow and pull myself together. “Seriously, though, I come bearing news.”

  A pair of men have materialized by my side at this point. One lightly touches my elbow. “Mr. Stearnes isn’t to be bothered.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, and then I turn to Benny. “I have news. News of the weird and it’s very important, Benny. And it’ll just take a sec.”

  Meanwhile, the hostess has caught up to me. She’s apologizing profusely to Benny, as though he’s an active volcano liable to freak out and explode at any moment.

  The men are gently trying to steer me toward the exit without touching me. “Mr. Stearnes is lunching now. You’ll have to make an appointment,” one of them says.

  I spin back around. “Lunching?! He’s lunching?” I’m grinning, because is there honestly a call for lunch being a verb?

  Benny sighs darkly, like I’m being tiresome, and maybe I am, but I’m so nervous seeing him again, and of course there’s my dance career hanging in the balance.

  Benny waves a hand, all cool and composed.

  I almost can’t believe my eyes for a second. What’s up with the Mr. Suave thing? Where are his abrupt, awkward movements?

  The men scurry back to their table and the hostess returns to her stand.

  I slide in across from Benny, trying to look serene.

  “Well?” he says.

  “So nice to see you, too,” I say nervously. “Oh, me? I’ve been fine—thank you for asking!”

  A waitperson sets down a bowl of tomato soup and a plate with half of a sandwich arranged artistically on a bed of greens. “Can I get you anything?” she asks me.

  “Ummm, I already ate,” I say. Not that I could eat anything right now—my body is using all its energy to pound my heart like a bongo.

  “Carbonated water with a lemon twist,” he commands darkly, avoiding my eyes. “Berry flavored, if you have it.”

  I blink. “Wow, yeah, I’d love one,” I say.

  The waitress walks off.

  “You remembered,” I say.

  He takes his napkin off the table and settles it into his lap.

  “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, considering your famous memory,” I add.

  He watches me strangely. “It’s a beverage.”

  I pick up a napkin and twist it, and then I fold it with maniacal perfection. “Well, anyway, I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here. As I said, I have just learned some very shocking news.” I hold up a finger, feeling a smile break out on my face, because this really is so outrageous. “I do believe that there’s one thing that you did not take a very good photograph of in your famous photographic memory.” I go into my purse and slap a piece of paper down on the table between us. “And that thing would be our freaking marriage certificate.” I widen my eyes. Maybe we can be allies. Allies fighting together against the craziness that is our Vegas marriage.

  He gazes at the piece of paper for a long time, but he doesn’t pull it to himself to read up close. He doesn’t even seem curious.

  “We are married!” I say. �
��Officially!”

  I can’t read his expression, but he doesn’t seem pleased. I’m sure he’s thinking about that night where I ruined our fragile new friendship by trying to ravish him.

  I stay grinning like it’s no big deal, even though deep down I want the farm-to-table booth bench to swallow me right up.

  Five

  Benny

  * * *

  Her hair is as glossy as I remember, eyes sparkling. Attitude mischievous.

  But she doesn’t remember us getting married? Now that’s surprising.

  Not that I spend a lot of time dwelling on the past. Dwelling on the past is for losers. But at least I remember we were married.

  When I woke up to find her gone that morning ten years ago, I figured the wedding was some kind of a drunken prank of hers, the ultimate practical joke. She skipped town after that without so much as a second thought, because that’s Francine—people are simply an endless parade of amusements for her beautiful life, and she’s the river, sparkling brightly, flowing through with effortless ease.

  She doesn’t even remember.

  And now she thinks it’s weird and funny. She’s waiting, staring at me, expecting me to be surprised.

  The only surprising thing is that it took her almost ten years to realize she was my wife. Though I shouldn’t be surprised at that, either, being that this is Francine.

  “Right?” she says again. “Can you even?”

  “I knew,” I inform her.

  Her eyes widen. “Excuse me? Be serious, Benny. We are literally married.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Literally,” she repeats.

  Francine always misused the word literally. My eyes literally bugged out of my skull! I literally lost my mind! For once, she’s using it as intended.

  “Literally,” I confirm.

  She narrows her eyes, pretty features taut with pretend suspicion, pillowy lips puckered. “Soooo…you knew all this time?” She seems stunned, as if the unusual aspect here is that I remember we’re married, whereas it took her an entire fucking decade to discover the fact for herself.