Girl Meets Billionaire

by Brenna Aubrey et al.

  This isn’t a Period Errand.

  This is an Asshole Boyfriend Summit.

  Worse—it might be both, combined.

  I choke a little as I chug the first half of my beer down in one great gulp. The last Asshole Boyfriend Summit I was forced to attend was back in college, at Harvard. I was not the Asshole Boyfriend (note: the actual man is never, ever in attendance for these summits, and thank God).

  The purpose of an Asshole Boyfriend Summit is to gather together as many friends, preferably female, to rip apart the ex to the point where the woman comes to see that she really is better off without him.

  It’s like being stoned to death in absentia.

  I wonder who the asshole is.

  “It’ll be fine,” Amy murmurs to Amanda.

  “I can’t believe I’m still thinking about him.” Amanda’s giving me wary looks. I retool my mission. Gone is the goal of a few beers, some Rock Band, and reluctant sex in Shannon’s bedroom with three pieces of furniture shoved against her door to prevent a Marie invasion, no matter how unintentional. I say I won’t ever have sex with her again in her apartment, but I say lots of things that aren’t true.

  Turning down a shot at sex? I never put principles above my sex drive. That’s for monks and Duggar children.

  That said, I’m not about to be the only man in a bowl of estrogen soup when one of them is processing a break-up. That’s like being a Socialist at a Tea Party rally. Sure, you can be there, but when the crowd gets blood lust in them, who do you think will be scraping tar off their pecs and plucking feathers out of their ass?

  Hmmm. Kinky.

  Anyhow...I finish my beer and put the empty in the recycling bin in the apartment’s kitchen, which is about the size of my mailbox.

  Amy and Amanda are whispering and every so often shooting me inscrutable looks. Shannon beckons me to snuggle on the couch and share the spare carton of noodles. I get three bites in before I hear it.

  Andrew.

  Amy says his name and I realize with a gigantic thud that my brother is the object of this summit.

  Holy shit.

  A tingling at the base of my skull begins. Pure evolutionary biology. As I share DNA with said asshole, I am now prey among the hunters. Soon I will be asked questions about my brother’s romantic activities. I would rather gnaw off my right testicle than—

  Okay. Retract that.

  I wouldn’t.

  But talking about Andrew and...seriously? Amanda?...in a romantic sense is about as interesting as discussing my dad’s latest piece of—

  “Quit hogging all the shrimp!” Shannon complains.

  I frown. “I’ve eaten exactly two pieces.”

  She huffs. “Still...”

  I hand her the carton.

  Tears form in her eyes.

  Oh, man. A Period Errand and an Asshole Boyfriend Summit and my brother? What kind of messed up karma did I earn in a prior life to deserve this?

  I wrap my arms around her and whisper, “Should I go? Amanda seems upset.”

  “She’s just...” Shannon shudders with a half-sob, a sigh of relief poking through. “It’s, um...”

  I put her out of her secret-keeping misery. As Winston Churchill says, when you’re going through hell, keep going.

  “This is about Andrew.”

  She jerks in my arms. “Has he said anything about her?”

  “What? No.” The only thing worse than talking about my brother’s sex life is being pumped as a conduit for information about his sex life. I need a shower. In a vat of napalm.

  She shoots her eyebrows up and wipes her eyes. All business now, she interrogates me like I’m a perp in an episode of Law & Order.

  “You’re sure he’s never talked about her?”

  “I am.”

  She glares. Ten seconds pass. Twenty. Fifty. Countless more. I can win staring contests. I can.

  My eyes shift to her boobs.

  There. The staring contest is so much easier now.

  She waits me out and crosses her arms over her boobs. Boo. I hold fast, though, and it’s Shannon who speaks first.

  “They should definitely hook up,” she says.

  “Yeah, Andrew’s always been a boob man.”

  Silence. Oh, shit.

  “You stare at Amanda’s breasts, too? It’s bad enough Andrew does, but—” Shannon interrupts herself, her face contorted into a mask of agony. She’s looking at me like I decapitated a baby panda on live television and had Gordon Ramsey turn it into carpaccio.

  A muffled scream from one of the other women in the bedroom tells me I’ve crossed a line, but my flailing Man Mind can’t figure out quite what that line was. Amanda will be part of the wedding party assuming I didn’t just destroy the proposal and our entire future together by commenting on Shannon’s best friend’s breasts. I need to fix this. Now.

  In business meetings I am the calm one under pressure. Surrounded by a horde of hormonal women I am nothing but a pile of masculine fail.

  Which means I have to pretend to be all dominant and confident. It’s my only hope. Cocky and arrogant work when you need them most, as long as you’re okay with looking like an asshole.

  I’m comfortable with that.

  Selective lying helps, too.

  “I stare at everyone’s breasts,” I announce in a loud voice. “I’m a man. We’re programmed to do so. It’s an evolutionary trait.”

  “Because of breastfeeding?”

  “Because....breasts.” I look at her like she’s crazy, because she is. I mean...breasts. That’s all you need to know, right? Breasts are the female body equivalent of those little curved muscles at the hip on cut men’s bodies (and I have those, you know). You can’t explain why they’re hypnotic because....

  Breasts.

  No cry of outrage accompanies my statement, so I think I’m safe. I grab Shannon’s arm and pull her gently, but firmly, to the front door.

  “Look, I don’t want Amanda to hear any of what I said, not because it’s wrong to say it, but because I don’t need a group of hysterical women about to pump themselves up on a rewatching of Return to Me—”

  She gasps. “How did you know that’s the movie we’re planning to watch?”

  So much for Rock Band. I knew this was a trap.

  “—to berate me for saying the obvious. Andrew likes Amanda’s rack,” I finish.

  “He is also driving her nuts with mixed signals,” Shannon hisses furiously.

  “They’re grownups. Let them work it out between the two of them.”

  She looks at me with utter confusion, like I’m...

  Breasts.

  “What are you talking about?” she asks.

  “Stay out of it,” I suggest, my voice slow with intent. “Whatever attraction they have for each other will work its way out.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t get involved.”

  She throws her hands up in the air. “It’s like you’re speaking another language. What do you mean?”

  A cold gong rings through my body.

  Shannon is half Marie, right? This is the Marie part coming out.

  I grab her shoulders and try a different tack, locking my eyes on hers. “What, exactly, did Andrew do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Huh?”

  “He did nothing.”

  “He’s in trouble for doing nothing?”

  “Exactly.”

  My tiny little raisin balls ache with confusion. “I do not understand.”

  She makes a derisive sound in the back of her throat. “Men.”

  “‘Men’? What the hell does my being a man have to do with the fact that you’re skewering my brother for doing nothing with Amanda?”

  “That’s the whole point!”

  “Who’s on first?” I joke.

  Her jaw drops as if I’ve slapped her. Shannon’s lower lip quivers and she looks away, her head bowed down.

  “I think you should go, Declan. Now’s not a g
ood time.”

  That gong chimes louder inside me.

  “I—” I really don’t know what to say. No, seriously. This entire hour is like something out of a Tommy Wiseau movie.

  The only thing that would make this any weirder is if her mother appeared and—

  “Hello!” calls out a familiar voice, the front door behind me opening.

  In walks Marie.

  “You on your period, too?” Shannon snaps at her mom.

  “My period? No. Honey, that ship sailed a long time ago. Your poor father rode the red tide for three decades, and he can retire the crimson pirate mustache now.” Marie stands on tiptoes and gives me a kiss on the cheek after leaving that statement hanging in the air like a silent-but-deadly bit of flatulence.

  She really knows how to make an entrance.

  The tension between me and Shannon must be palpable, because as she reaches to give Shannon a hug, Marie says to no one in particular, “Lovers’ spat?” She finishes embracing Shannon and turns back to look at me, her arm around her daughter.

  “We’re fine, Mom,” Shannon says through clenched teeth.

  Marie cranes her neck around Shannon and looks back where Amy and Amanda are whispering. She sniffs the air. “Ooo, Thai!”

  “And ice cream,” I add. Shannon just looks at me, the neutrality in her stare unnerving.

  “Marry a man who brings you period food and who....oh.” Marie’s voice drops off and she leans closer to me, waving Shannon in. We huddle.

  “Are you two fighting because Declan doesn’t like to—”

  “No,” I snap.

  “I just meant were you—”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? Because I understand that some men are squeamish—”

  “No.”

  “Do you mean no, you don’t, or no, you—”

  “No. I’m not going to talk about this with you, Marie. No, I draw a boundary around certain topics with you. No, I refuse to let you bulldoze over my privacy, no matter how good your intentions.” The whispering in the other room has stopped.

  My voice rises as I add, “And no, I’m not going to talk about my unwillingness to talk about it.”

  I engage Resting Asshole Face.

  Marie blanches.

  Then she blinks slowly, turning to Shannon with a pale face but resigned eyes.

  “Any Pad Thai left?”

  “Declan’s half,” Shannon says, pointing to the abandoned carton on the table.

  Ouch. Now I feel like a jerk. How can I go from being the Period Errand Savior to a jerk in an hour?

  Because I’m in a relationship. That’s how.

  I lean over and give Shannon a kiss on the cheek. “I love you. I’ll...we’ll talk later.”

  “Yes. We will.” She sighs. “Love you, too.”

  “Oooooooo!” Marie squeals as she holds the carton of noodles in one hand and a DVD case in another. “Return to Me. One of my favorites!”

  That’s my cue to leave.

  Chapter Twelve

  A few phones calls on the way home and by the time I get there, Andrew’s made himself comfortable on my couch, feet up on the leather, a beer sweating in his hand.

  “Make yourself at home,” I grumble.

  “Always,” he says with a smirk. His hand fishes around a bowl of chocolate-covered pretzels and...cheese curls.

  Combined.

  “You on your period, too?” I ask.

  “What?” he calls out, distracted by the baseball game on my television.

  “Never mind.” Beer sounds good. Great. Give me ten of them and a memory wipe and maybe I can salvage the night.

  The first cold swig turns into gulping half the bottle and I plop down next to him. “So what the hell’s going on with you and Amanda?”

  Have you ever seen a spit take in the movies? Yeah, me too. In the movies.

  I’ve never been the recipient of a spit take.

  Until now.

  Andrew sprays my legs with beer.

  “What?” he chokes.

  I grab a fistful of his snack monstrosity and dump it in my mouth. A few chews later and I have to grudgingly confess it’s damn good. If I were a woman with monthly cycles I’d chow this stuff down.

  Andrew has no hormonal excuse.

  “The estrogen crew were having an Asshole Boyfriend Summit and you were the guest of honor. In absentia.”

  If he had another mouthful of beer it would shoot across the room and spoil my screen. “What are you talking about?”

  I shrug. “No idea. But Shannon and I are fighting now and your DNA is infecting me.”

  “Speak English.” He finishes his beer and snatches the snack bowl away from me.

  “I am an asshole by association. You’re a McCormick, I’m a McCormick, and you pissed them all off.”

  “I’m not—I just—I...hell. What did they say I did?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, that explains everything doesn’t it?”

  “What kind of ‘nothing’ did you do?”

  He shifts on the sofa, suddenly uncomfortable. Uh oh. This is deeper than I expected. If Andrew were shtupping Amanda he’d make a joke, or brag about it. The quiet discomfort is unsettling.

  He’s going to talk about his feelings.

  I’d rather talk about riding the red tide with Marie.

  “I never called. That’s all.”

  “Since when?”

  His face tightens. “June.”

  “Two months?” Ouch. Poor Amanda, but...

  “Wrong June.”

  “Fourteen months? You slept with my girlfriend’s best friend and didn’t call for fourteen months? You sick bastard. I’m ready to go back to Shannon’s with a tray of crab rangoon and three dozen chocolate-dipped Oreos to beg forgiveness for my genetic waste of a brother on behalf of all men.”

  “I didn’t sleep with her.”

  Oh. Huh.

  “Why not?”

  He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Andrew looks like a nervous teen.

  “It’s...um...”

  Aw, shit.

  “You’re in love with her?”

  “No!” The word is fierce and desperate. Aha.

  “You’re in love with her tits?” I shove the beer bottle in my mouth before he can scream at me. The long line of beer, like an unfurling ribbon, feels so good.

  “I, no, well...yes. I mean, you know.”

  We nod and say in unison:

  “Breasts.”

  “Right,” he adds. “We just had this moment and then it felt like it might turn into a thing and I don’t want a thing.”

  “You don’t want a thing? You have things all the time.”

  “Things without strings, sure. But not things with—”

  “Women who expect actual reciprocity and mutual respect.”

  “Exactly.”

  For the second time tonight, I’m left wondering if I’m in a Tommy Wiseau movie.

  “So you dumped her—”

  “There was nothing to dump! We shared a kiss.”

  “A kiss.” I snag a chocolate-covered pretzel from the bowl and ignore him as we watch the Sox score a run.

  “Just a kiss,” he says absentmindedly as we watch the slo-mo repeat. “And it’s all your fault.”

  “My fault?”

  “Your fault.”

  “I forced you to shove your tongue down Amanda’s throat?”

  He ponders that for a second, then shoves a handful of food in his mouth. “Yep,” he mumbles.

  He looks so much like Dad right now I’m creeped out.

  “How, exactly, did I manage that feat of physics?”

  “By being a douchebag to Shannon.”

  “When?” I’m man enough to admit that yes, I have been a douchebag to Shannon at various times. Pinpointing exactly which time is an art.

  He gives me a hard look. “When you dumped her.”

  Clear as a bell, because I only dumped her once. And technically, for th
e record, I didn’t dump her. I just, well, we had words. We had words because....

  Okay. Fine. I own my stupidity.

  “You mean after she pretended to be Amanda’s wife and...” I wave my hand. “That.”

  “Right.” He mimics me. “That. When you were a douche.”

  “We’ve established my douchebaggery. What does that have to do with you kissing Amanda?”

  “I need another beer,” he mutters.

  “Is this going to be a long story? Because I’m starving,” I add. And I realize I really am, because I shoveled three bites of Pad Thai in me at Shannon’s before I was so rudely uninvited because I talked about Amanda’s tits.

  Andrew looks at me like he’s reading my mind. He has a look of anger worse than that time I took his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle underwear and used them as a hat for the dog.

  “Grab me two beers,” he says.

  “How about a beer and a tequila chaser?” I offer. A perfectly acceptable dinner substitute. If I get him drunk he’ll spill his guts. Never underestimate the power of liquoring up your future-CEO little brother and getting him to tell you all his secrets. It’s like hacking Sony, but you don’t have to deal with North Korea to get the dirt.

  “Even better.”

  Two beers and two shots later, I’m Andrew’s best friend. In fact, I may be his two best friends. He needs a little depth-perception assistance as I slide him a third shot.

  “Her lips taste like vanilla and victory,” he groans.

  We’ve slipped into ‘bad poet’ territory here. I surreptitiously take back the third shot.

  “Like sugar and spice,” he adds.

  “Like snails and puppy dog tails,” I mutter.

  “No.” He frowns. “They really don’t.”

  “Why didn’t you call her?”

  “Why did you ditch Shannon?” He gives me an unfocused eye. “Then again, I wouldn’t date a woman who drove a car with a giant piece of shit on it, either.”

  “She doesn’t drive that anymore,” I say, tensing. Andrew made fun of that promotional car every chance he got. “Besides, your woman has a bad case of crabs on her—”

  “She’s not my woman,” Andrew argues, fierce and clear suddenly.

  I hold up my palms and give him some respect. “Sure. Fine.”

  He stands up from the tall stool at the long counter that separates my kitchen from the open-concept living room. The counter is one enormous piece of sliced tree, varnished and polished to a high shine, with evenly-spaced lamps that hang from the ceiling, elongated, hand-blown glass from an artisan out in Shelburne Falls near the Berkshires.