Girl Meets Billionaire

by Brenna Aubrey et al.

  “Who’s Elena?” Becky asks.

  “Shut up,” Dad and I say in unison.

  Becky storms out.

  “And you,” I say to Jason. “You are making a fool of yourself. Dad and Marie aren’t having an affair. Dad doesn’t date anyone under thirty and he never dates married women.”

  “Their expectations are too high,” Dad explains.

  “I really dodged a bullet with you, didn’t I?” Marie says to Dad, then turns to look at Jason with a contrite expression.

  “Then why were you joking about marrying Declan’s father the other day? And why are you here in James’ office, so angry and passionate?” Jason asks, bewildered.

  “The joke was mine,” I say gruffly. “Poor taste.”

  “That’s easier to believe than the idea that I would sleep with her,” Dad says with a sour face.

  “You’d be lucky to sleep with me, buddy,” Marie shoots back.

  “That’s right,” Jason mutters. “Wait. No,” he backpedals.

  “Everyone’s having sex but me,” I say under my breath. Shannon kicks my ankle.

  “Hold on, hold on. Go back. Why was Marie talking with you at your mother’s grave?” Dad asks. There’s a look of genuine concern in his eyes, at least, the part of his eyes that I can see. His right eye took some kind of graze and it’s swelling up.

  “I went to talk to Mom,” I say, keeping it simple.

  “You mother is dead,” Dad says with great skepticism.

  “I never said she talked back.”

  Silence.

  Broken by—who else?—Marie. “Declan told me the story of how Elena died. How Andrew nearly died. And how Declan had to make an impossible choice. Defy his mother’s wishes or let his brother die.”

  Everyone seems stunned. They are stunned. She summed it up quite well.

  “And how does that relate to my ‘cruel parenting,’ as you called it?” Dad asks Marie in a cold voice.

  “You made Declan feel like he killed his mother,” Marie says, chin up, eyes locked on Dad’s. “He didn’t. He saved his brother. He did what he was told by Elena, who loved her children so much she sacrificed herself for Andrew. That’s what a good, loving parent does.”

  Dad looks like someone slapped him. He actually does—there’s a red imprint of Jason’s hand on the side of his face, but his expression is also one of shocked reflection.

  Andrew slips quietly into the room, the two security guards and Becky behind him and a gaggle of office workers huddling in the hallway, rubbernecking.

  “Of course you didn’t kill your mother,” Dad says quietly, turning to me. “I know that. The wasps did.”

  Shannon winds her arm through mine, as if she needs to hold me up. She doesn’t, but the warmth of her body reinforces me. Like having backup troops appear at the height of battle. You probably don’t need them, but just in case...

  Dad’s bemused look teleports me back eleven years to a very different expression on his face. Back when his eyes were dead and the only feeling he seemed capable of expressing was anger.

  I’m eighteen again (this is getting old...) but in the space of a few breaths I realize that’s wrong.

  I’m a grown man.

  “You told me,” I say with deliberate elocution, as if saying each syllable perfectly will drive home the emotional truth, “that it was my fault Mom died.”

  The room becomes an icehouse. Jason’s head jolts and he looks first at Dad, then at me. His eyes fill with compassion.

  The hardest part is accepting that.

  “I never said that,” Dad protests.

  After closing the door behind him and waving Becky away, Andrew says softly, “Yes, Dad. You did.”

  Everyone is looking at Dad. I try to catch Andrew’s eye but he won’t even glance over here. Showing any emotion now, or giving a tell that makes him vulnerable, can’t be allowed.

  But he can be my ally. Testify. Validate.

  “I don’t remember ever saying that,” Dad says slowly, looking at the floor as if trying to recall a memory. “Perhaps I said something else and Declan misunderstood.”

  “Declan didn’t misunderstand anything, Dad. I remember. I was in the hospital and was recovering and you were making funeral home arrangements for Mom’s body.”

  Dad goes pale. I feel my own face go cold. Moments like this don’t happen in our family. We don’t reminisce, or process events, or talk about feelings. There’s no playbook for how to act. We’re all winging it.

  Me most of all.

  “The doctor came in to review my case and you asked whether I’d really needed the EpiPen. Whether Declan could have just injected Mom and if I’d have been okay with what the EMTs had once they got to us.”

  “I was trying to understand the facts, Andrew,” Dad says in a rough voice. “Trying to make sense of the whole situation.”

  Andrew acts like he was never interrupted. “And the doctor said maybe. Maybe. That no one can predict how these reactions work, and that while my throat had closed up and I’d lost consciousness, perhaps...maybe...it was possible...nothing could be ruled out....” Andrew uses a sing-songy voice that is so uncharacteristic it seems like mocking.

  Dad looks up sharply and stares at Andrew, but his face is anything but comedic.

  “And then you lost it when Dec came into the room. You screamed at him so much that hospital security called the chaplain, and she had to take you to her private office.”

  His eyes are downcast but not in submission. In anger. “You were drugged up, Andrew, full of all the medications they threw into your body to manage the anaphylaxis. I was bouncing between the morgue and your hospital bed. I’m sure you misremember.”

  “Why do you assume that everyone but you has a faulty memory of that day, James?” Shannon asks.

  “Because...I...” James McCormick doesn’t get flustered. Andrew and I look away. It’s like seeing Dad naked.

  Jason, Marie and Shannon are all looking at Dad, and while Jason’s look is still one of general annoyance, it’s Marie and Shannon who are most interesting to watch right now. They’re both calm, heads tilted to the left like they synchronized it, and they’re compassionate. Interested. Non-judgmental right now.

  Whatever has just unfolded between Dad, Jason, Marie and Shannon over the past few minutes, it appears that Marie and Shannon are ready to listen and process and problem-solve this emotional nightmare.

  What planet are they from?

  Shannon carefully sets down the water sprayer and takes a few steps closer to Dad. She reaches out with a feathery touch and rests her hand lightly on his forearm. His suit is wrinkled and his cuff link has popped off that cuff, leaving the shirt a mess.

  “James, I can’t imagine the kind of grief you felt that day.” Her eyes are warm with feeling, and I can tell there are unspilled tears pooling in them. “No one here is judging you for what you said that day.”

  Dad looks right at Marie and ignores Shannon, though I can tell from the way he holds his shoulders that she’s softening him.

  “Marie is,” Dad says.

  “I don’t judge you for what you said that day, James. But I do judge you for spending all these years blaming Declan and making him carry that burden. I’ve been incredibly imperfect as a parent—”

  Shannon and Jason’s very loud, shared snort makes Marie jump a little.

  Dad buries a smile and so does Andrew. I see it all peripherally but I’m so focused on Shannon. She’s like an emotional SWAT team negotiator.

  “Anyhow,” Marie says primly, “it’s the years of blame that you have to let go of if you don’t want to lose Declan.”

  If you haven’t already, her eyes say as she looks at Dad.

  Andrew and I say nothing but I can feel his eyes shift over to me, a quick glance meant to convey solidarity.

  Dad sighs and looks at Shannon’s hand, still touching him. “I know what I remember about that day. I remember abject horror. The crush of phone calls from law enforcem
ent and medical authorities no man should ever experience.”

  Jason’s eyes flicker with sympathy and what seems to be a quick, sick recognition that what Dad went through could happen to any man with a spouse and family. Any.

  Dad looks at me and I force my eyes to join his. “You were a panicked mess, Declan. I’d never seen you like that. Even as a child you were composed. Calm. Cool. Unflappable. Your mother and I used to marvel at your composure, and wonder if you were hatched and sent to us from some otherworldly place.” His face twists into a wistful, morbid grin.

  “By the time I found you at the hospital you were wild-eyed and messy, hands covered in dirt and face streaked with tears. You begged me to make them save her. Begged me.” He shakes his head. “I barely recognized you. My wife was dead, one son’s life hung in the balance and you weren’t you. Some unseen hand in the universe had dismantled my life as easily as one sweeps a hand across a messy desk and clears it.”

  I close my eyes but get no relief from the memory. The flash of images behind my eyelids is a movie I never want to see again. Dad’s right. I remember the begging. The bargaining. The need to be told that Mom wasn’t dead, but even more, the need to be told it wasn’t my fault.

  “And I snapped,” Dad said, looking away. “I’m not proud of it, and while I do doubt that I said exactly what you claim I said, I don’t doubt that the emotion behind my words was pretty much the same.”

  I’m holding my breath without realizing it. So is Andrew. We both exhale at the same time.

  Dad’s right about one thing: my composure level. A friend in college once told me I’d be the perfect Chief of Staff for a high-level politician because I can stay cool under any situation. And I generally can, because when other people experience stress it doesn’t rub off on me. I just watch it unfold and experience it from a distance.

  That day when Mom died, though, it was like God himself grabbed a hammer and shattered the snow globe I’d been living in for all my life.

  Somehow, I managed to reinstate the composure, but it came at a price. A really big one, involving my dad. He had to be walled off. Contained. Viewed as a benign threat (I know that’s a contradiction, but it works). I’d be friendly. Prove myself to him. Gain his admiration.

  But I’d never trust him again.

  All eyes are suddenly on me, like I’m expected to say or do something.

  No. Dad has to take the first step. Not me.

  We wait. And wait. And wait... Shannon gives Dad’s arm a light pat and then steps back, embracing me from the side. Her small act of affection conveys so much more to everyone in the room. It’s all about solidarity. Validity.

  Andrew takes a few steps closer to me, too.

  Dad notices it, and he looks at me and opens his mouth to say something at the exact moment someone knocks on his office door.

  “Come in,” he barks, blowing out a held breath that tells me how tense he really is.

  It’s Becky. “Mr. McCormick, the FTC officials are here.”

  Andrew grimaces, and he and Dad share a look. “I forgot today’s the day,” Andrew says, giving me an apologetic look. “Routine business, but we can’t delay.”

  Marie edges toward me and puts a steady hand on my shoulder, pulling up on tiptoes to kiss my cheek. “Come over for dinner tonight, you two.” She turns back to Dad, who is white-knuckling the entire situation from his desk. “You’re invited, too.” She gives him a smile without teeth and walks over to Jason, her hand linking through his suit-covered elbow.

  “You know, I’d like to take you up on that invitation,” Dad says while looking down at the papers on his desk, searching for something. He picks up a metal object and fiddles with his wrist, inserting the cuff link expertly. His demeanor has changed. Whatever chance I had at openness or basic emotional recognition is gone.

  Thanks, FTC.

  “I, for one, would like to start over,” Dad adds. He crosses the room and walks right up to Jason, who—to his credit—stands his ground. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” Dad says, offering a hand. “We’ll be sharing grandchildren someday, so the polite thing to do here seems to be a quick handshake and a memory wipe as we pretend none of this ever happened.”

  I give Dad a nasty look and he instantly realizes his mistake. Marie’s eyes light up at his words. Shannon’s standing over by the bookcase nervously spraying the same spider plant over and over.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me,” he says to Shannon’s parents. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say those words. It’s good to know he can say them.

  “Deal,” Jason says with relief, shaking back. He grabs Marie’s forearm and pulls her out of the office.

  “Can we expect you for dinner tonight, James?” she calls back. As Shannon and I walk through the doorway, a horrified Becky tracks every movement Marie makes.

  “That depends on the FTC, Marie,” Dad says, which I know is a firm no. Dad was being polite earlier. There’s no way he’s coming over to the Jacobys’ house, and not just because he’s busy.

  Dad can’t handle real people. One glance at Becky’s rack confirms that. Two kickballs suspended under a sheet of Jello shots, covered in a dress.

  As I turn to look back, my mind half focused on being a shepherd and making sure the flock is safe and away from the wolf, Dad’s eye catches mine. He looks like he has something to say, but then shakes his head with two quick snaps, as if driving the thought out.

  Right.

  It’s probably for the best.

  Chapter Ten

  “I cannot believe I sprayed the James McCormick in the face with a spray bottle like a dog,” Shannon says, a look of frozen horror on her face. We have said our good-byes to a very embarrassed Marie and Jason and I’ve brought her into my office to cool down.

  “I can,” I say. “You took on Dad. One of the richest men in the U.S. Most powerful, too. He could ruin you, and you did the exact right thing. He and Jason were being ridiculous and you—” I gasp, trying not to laugh. Controlling my ab muscles is impossible, though, and Shannon’s looking at me with great annoyance tinged with fear.

  “He and my dad were just being so stupid! Wrestling on the ground like street punks. They’re in their fifties! They should know better! One of them could break a hip!”

  “I don’t think age automatically means you’re more mature, Shannon,” I answer. “In fact, I’m damn sure of it.”

  “I still can’t believe I did that.”

  I smile and hold her, hands sinking into her long, brown hair, which fell out of the clip she wore to work today. “That’s my Shannon. You think fast and untangle messy situations.” Shannon’s completely focused on using the spray bottle on Dad, as if that were the boldest thing she did or said just now. She has no idea that for Dad, it was the least of it. Water evaporates, but emotional truth leaves a mark.

  Taking on his perspective of the day mom died was like dropping a nuclear bomb on Dad’s internal structure of how the world works. Shannon just told him that if he’s the emperor, he’s wearing no clothes and might want to check the bottom of his foot for a stray piece of toilet paper.

  As her eight-year-old nephew Jeffrey would say, Shannon totally pwned Dad.

  “This was more than that! This took a kind of courage I don’t normally have, to take on your dad like that—” Her hushed tone tells me she’s on the verge of tears.

  “And that’s why I—” want to marry you. The words are on the tip of my tongue and I catch them before I blurt them out. A woman who can boldly take on her own father and my father like that will be the perfect life companion for the next six or seven decades.

  She pulls back and looks up at me with an expectant look. “What? Why you....what?”

  “Love you, Shannon.” And soon, she’ll know just how much.

  Her eyes soften and she reaches up to touch my lips. “I love you, too.” She shakes her head slowly. “I am so fired.”

  I frown. “No. The opposite. Men lik
e Dad respond to people who stand up to him when he’s wrong. After he’s cooled down he’ll realize you did him a favor.”

  “A favor?”

  “He’ll never admit it, of course. And he might give you a hard time here and there for the next week. If you have a meeting with him he’ll be extra tough on you. Gruff. Might try to humiliate you, but only once.” I think it through for a second. “The audience was fairly small and the stakes were, too. Dad will never forget that you sprayed him like that, but you do realize that because Becky witnessed it, word’s going to spread.”

  “Noooo.”

  “You’re about to get a nickname.”

  “Like what?”

  “The Jamie Whisperer.”

  Her face breaks into four quadrants. One part is trying to laugh. A second is trying not to laugh. A third looks like it wants to scream.

  And a fourth is just too amazingly beautiful not to kiss.

  So I do.

  Her body yields under my touch, the thick fabric of her business suit so coarse, covering the lovely soft lines of her curves. The breathy sounds she makes as we kiss transport me. My mind is too full of other people. They take up too much space in my head.

  My hands, however, can never be too full of Shannon.

  I lift her in my arms and walk a few feet to my desk, where I set her on the edge, her lovely ass on the glass top, my knee pushing hers apart as I grasp her tight, hand sliding under her suit jacket to find her silk shirt. Within seconds I’m touching her hot skin and I groan.

  “Dec, we talked about this. We’re at work, and I—”

  My other hand slips between her legs and slides up her inner thigh.

  “No, we can’t!” she peeps, but she’s putting up a feeble protest as her own fingers brush with intent against my fly.

  Yes, we can! I think, but now’s not the time for campaign slogans. Especially from people I didn’t vote for.

  I stop, halting at the top of the thigh-high nylon she’s wearing, fingers hooked in and ready to pull.

  “No?” She can stop me any time. I hold my breath and wait. Patience is a virtue. It might not be my virtue, but I can use it to meet my whim when needed.