I Married a Billionaire: Lost & Found(27)
Author: Melanie Marchande

"Both?" He pulled his hand away. "And as much as I appreciate your support, you really don’t want to be dragged even further into this than you already have been."

"Daniel, I have paparazzi following me. I don’t think I could possibly be dragged in any further."

"You think that," he said. "But it always gets worse. Always."

"Okay, but you run a technology company. You’re not Marilyn Monroe." I sat up straighter. "At a certain point, you have to relax."

I could see his lip twitch, like he wanted to sneer.

"Come on," I said. "Don’t hold yourself back. Tell me how you really feel."

"How I really feel?" he said, finally letting the sneer come to life. "Fine. You’re right. I’m not Marilyn Monroe. I’m not you, either. You think you know what’s going through my head, but you don’t."

I swallowed hard.

"Fine," I said, quietly. "But just for the record, I never thought I knew what was going through your head. I’m sorry if it seemed like I did."

"Now you apologize," he said, almost laughing, bitterly. "You’ve been so ready to get involved, all the time, Maddy knows best – and now you’re pretending like you’re sorry, because that’s what you think I want to hear. What do you want to hear, Maddy? That I’ve never made a mistake? That I’ve never capitalized on someone else’s idea, not even a little? Is there anyone out there who hasn’t borrowed something to achieve success? You want a clear-cut answer, did I steal from those kids or not? Because that’s what they were at the time, by the way – kids. We all were. I hope to God you’re never called into court to account for a mistake you might have made when you were in college. Because there’s not always a clear-cut answer, Maddy. There’s not always one person to blame. I know that’s what you want. That’s what everyone wants. It’s easier, and it’s simpler, and it makes a better headline."

I stared at him. I couldn’t reconcile his behavior with the way it had been before; the way he’d been so thoughtful and kind, thanking me for taking action, giving me credit for helping him through it. I couldn’t resist taking one more jab at him. "So you did do it."

He stood, so abruptly that the stool rattled beneath him, almost tipping over. "That’s really all you care about, isn’t it?" he almost shouted, slamming his hand down on the counter – whether to accentuate his point or steady himself, I wasn’t sure. "There was nothing formal back then, no contracts, nothing written down. It was a free exchange of ideas. If by ‘exchange’ you mean they just leeched off of me and contributed nothing of their own. Until one day, when they finally had an idea I could work with. I didn’t take it on purpose. Or maybe I did. Maybe there was some part of me that wanted to get back at them for everything, for the long months of subtle mockery and using me for their purposes and calling it ‘friendship.’ But it doesn’t matter now, does it? I paid my dues. They got everything they deserve from me. But now they want more. Everyone always wants more." He was headed for the end table, grabbing his keys and shoving them in his pocket. "I’m going out. Clear my head."

"Oh no. Absolutely not," I called after him, struggling to get to my feet. "No way are you going out like this."

"I’ll take a cab," he said.

I squeezed my eyes shut, tightly.

"Fine," I said.

When I opened them, he was already gone.

***

I made a valiant effort to go to sleep after he left, but I couldn’t. After tossing and turning in bed for a while, I flicked the light on again and started thumbing through books without even looking at the covers – or the words, if I was being completely honest with myself.

Eventually, I came to terms with the fact that I couldn’t possibly focus. I got up and wandered back to the bookshelf, returning everything one by one.

As I did, my eyes drifted over to the closet. Not Daniels’ clothes closet – THE closet. He almost always kept the doors closed, and for some reason, I had never ventured to open it myself. He’d never explicitly told me not to. I just didn’t, as if it were some kind of inner sacrament that I wasn’t allowed to touch.

For some reason, in that moment, I realized that was ridiculous. It was as much my closet as it was his. I had every right to go in there, if I wanted to.

My heart was pounding as I approached the door. Even though I knew I’d be able to hear the front door open well before he could get upstairs, I was still taken with the ridiculous fear that I’d turn around and see him standing behind me, his arms crossed, and his eyes dark with anger.

I slid the door open, slowly. The sound of the runners scraping against the track was deafening in the silent room.

I’d caught glimpses of this side before, when he opened it in front of me. I knew that there were a few small floggers and whips hanging along the back wall, and several lengths of rope looped over the bar that was meant for hanging clothes. On the floor, there was a large black duffel bag that I’d never seen unzipped. I grabbed it by the handles and dragged it forward, with the intention of finally peeking inside, after all this time.

And then, I saw something that derailed me completely.

At first I thought it might just be a shadow, but leaning down further I could see there was definitely something on the wall – an outline of a square, almost like…

I reached out and touched it. I almost jumped out of my skin when that little portion of the wall popped open, displaying a small cubby in the wall. I wasn’t sure what I expected to find there – a safe, or some kind of strongbox. But instead, there was a small shoebox, slightly tattered around the edges.

I reached in and removed it, gently. Sitting down on the bed with it on my lap, I slipped my fingertips under the lid and raised it. As I did, a fleeting thought passed through my head – the box was too small to have ever held an adult’s shoes. He must have been holding onto it since he was a child.

Inside was a mess of papers, photographs, and tiny objects, disorganized in a way that ran counter to everything I knew about Daniel. I heard something rolling around in the bottom. A marble? I could see the corner of an old photograph peeking out from behind some folded papers, so I pulled them out and set them aside.

It wasn’t just one photograph, I realized, but a whole stack of Polaroids, beginning to peel and yellow around the edges, the chemicals starting to seep back into the photographs and distort the edges into a strange kaleidoscope of colors. The first in the stack was a classic. A little boy was sitting in his high chair, holding a handful of spaghetti noodles, with sauce smeared all over his face. The decor of the kitchen was distinctly late ‘80s. I flipped the picture over. Someone had written on it in a long, elegant hand – in pencil, so it was all but unreadable now – Danny, Aug ’86.

In the next picture, he was older, and a sandy-haired girl who must be Lindsey was there too. She’d just begun to reach that gangly stage of ten or eleven, and crouched between them, with her arms wrapped tightly around them both, was a woman who could only be Daniel’s mother.

Although she was obviously posing, she also looked to have been taken by surprise, mid-sentence, but still smiling. Lindsey looked like she was trying to smile, but the sun was in her face. Daniel was scowling.

I flipped through each picture, one by one. It was everything one would expect from a stack of family photos. The last one was taken in the midday sunlight, featuring Daniel’s mother sitting on the side of the pool, dangling her legs in the water. Daniel and Lindsey were swimming and splashing nearby, almost out of frame. I looked a little closer. Daniel’s mother was smiling, but that sort of faint, tired smile that you can only just manage when you’re sick. Her bikini almost looked baggy around her in certain places. And in spite of the bright sun, her skin was as pale as anything.

I shivered, and went to slide the picture back into the bottom of the box. As I did, my fingers brushed against something that felt…sharp, almost, yet delicate. Frowning, I lifted up the rest of the box’s contents and fished for the object.

As my fingers closed around it, I realized what it was. But I didn’t quite process it until I lifted it up and opened my hand, looking down at the little shell sitting in my palm. A tiny nautilus shell, as beautiful and delicate as it was the day I found it.

For some reason, as my heart twisted and my throat tightened, all I could think to do was pick up the pile of folded papers that I’d removed from the top of the box. The first one looked oddly fresh – cleanly folded. New.

I opened it.

I know you’ll likely never read this, but I have to write it. It’s the best way to clear my head, I think. I suppose we’ll find out if it helps.

I don’t know what to say to you, Maddy. I’ve been sitting here for hours just thinking about it, and I still can’t find the words I’m looking for. I don’t even know where to start. And if I can’t think of it now, how can I possibly hope to find them when I’m sitting there, looking at you? Seeing your face and knowing that there’s only one reason why you’re with me at all?

Things like this have never been easy for me. I’m sure you know that by now. But the reality of the situation is that I’m afraid. That’s all. I’ve come so close to losing you, but then again I’m not sure if I ever had you. If I tell you this, you’ll be offended. And rightfully so. Why shouldn’t I believe you, when you say you love me? Nobody wants to be with someone who doubts them. You deserve better than that.

So I err on the side of saying nothing, and most of the time it doesn’t matter much. But then things go wrong, and you wonder why I don’t confide in you. Why don’t I seem to trust you? Why don’t I act like someone who’s in love? Why do I go from lavishing you with love and attention to suddenly withdrawing, becoming cold – even hostile?

I suppose that question is bigger than just you and me. I suppose even if you weren’t just with me because of my money, I’d still find a reason not to let you in. That’s generally what I’m best at.

After a string of failed relationships I convinced myself I was better off alone, and you were the one who changed that. When I first started going through the motions, I told myself that was all it was. But I should have known I was getting in over my head, and dragging you with me. I can’t really bring myself to regret it. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I know it might not always seem like that, but it’s true.

I love you, I love you – and I think I am going to spend the rest of my life trying to learn how to act like it, how to convince you it’s real – how to convince myself. You seem determined not to leave me. I’m not going to pretend to understand why, but I am grateful.

I know that neither one of us will be able to forget how things started between us. But in time, I hope it will dissipate – the dark cloud that hangs over us, the memory of how it began as a sham. How it used to be almost a joke to us. Pretending to be in love. I hope someday I’ll wake up, see you next to me, and forget to wonder if you’re still just pretending.