Shopping for a Billionaire 3(26)
Author: Julia Kent

I snort. “No. Though Declan was shocked when Mom gave him a big old stuffed bunny and his own basket that contained half of the Walgreen’s candy aisle.”

She nudges me. “It’s getting serious if Marie’s making Declan a basket.”

“And you’ll be proud to know I deleted Steve’s eleventy billion texts. He’s such an ass. Why did I ever date him?” Between her comment about Declan and Mom and my own feeling of detachment about Steve, I think I might be moving on. Finally. 

She uses her hands to make it clear she agrees. “We’ve all been asking that question for years!”

“All?”

“Me. Josh. Greg. Amy. Your dad. Hell, even Chuckles would agree if he could talk.”

“Chuckles is an equal-opportunity hater, so his contempt for Steve isn’t surprising.”

“He was on Twitter and Facebook chasing you down. It was pathetic.”

“Chuckles?”

She makes a face. “Steve.”

I saw the tags and tweets briefly before he deleted them. I’m guessing someone got to him and convinced him that starting hashtags like #freeShannon and #billionaireaggression wasn’t exactly good for his business prospects. I’m too aglow with the newly emerging relationship with Declan, from yoga to butter lambs, to care.

“I know.” The air is crisp and clean after a morning downpour. A cold front came in and swept out a bunch of oppressive humidity, leaving this spring day for sunshine and that damp-around-the-edges kind of world that feels like its just been baptized.

“You really like Declan.” Amanda pauses and looks closely at me. My heart soars and sinks at the same time. She’s looking at me. Not through me. Open-minded and non-judgmental, my bestie is trying to tell me something.

“I do.” How can I explain how much he affects me, the longing inside even when I just saw him twelve hours ago at Easter? The sour taste of Steve’s “date” with me is washed away by the rain. Whatever bitterness I’ve been clinging to has dissipated these last few weeks. Steve is a non-entity in my life now. He let me loose.

I should thank him, in fact, because I would never have broken up with him, and if he hadn’t set me free I would never have met Declan. Never have succumbed to this attractive man. Never made love in a limo or basked in the afterglow in a lighthouse on the harbor. Never had Declan over for Easter, or had second dessert at his apartment long after the kids’ movie ended…

Never been Toilet Girl.

She squeezes my shoulder. “I’m really happy for you.” Amanda pauses, then mumbles, “Would a lesbian wear this shade of lavender?” Her hair is still black, lips bright red, and she’s wearing a conservative suit. It makes her look like something out of a 1980s music video. Her question throws me out of my thoughts.

“Would you stop asking me what lesbians do?” I throw my hands in the air and lower my voice as passersby start to stare. “How would I know?”

She seems chastened. “Fine. I just don’t want to blow our cover.”

“We’re pretending to be two women married to each other so we can apply for a mortgage using joint income. I don’t think Greg could find a more boring mystery shop if he tried.” The shop requirements were clear. The day after I came out of the hospital last week, Amanda and Josh had gone to a different branch of the credit union and posed as a married heterosexual couple. They were treated according to the institution’s protocol. Now the question is: will the bank officers treat a g*y couple differently?

“Remember the vacuum cleaner secret shops?” she says in a voice laced with indignance.

I flinch. “Okay…so he could find something more boring.” Thirty minutes with a canister vacuum cleaner salesman demonstrating dual-level suckage action had the potential to be nice and  p**n y, but instead it was like bad sex.

You just want to grab your things and get out of there as fast as possible and avoid having your feet sucked on.

My phone buzzes. “Let me guess,” Amanda says, closing her eyes and touching her head with her envelope, like some old talk show skit. “It’s Steve.”

I check. She’s right.

We should do dinner again. Without being rudely interrupted, he texts.

Okay, I write back, then indulge in a giant wave of self-loathing. Why did I say “okay”?What else should I say? This is the umpteenth text from him about that night in the Mexican place. Declan’s timely appearance and deliciously engaging pseudo-kidnapping makes my toes tingle right now, my body on fire with the memory. Like a cat in a hot spot of sunshine, all I want to do is stretch and purr.

Steve makes me want to hiss and claw something. And yet I still say “okay” when he doesn’t get the hint. Maybe my idea of a hint isn’t strong enough.

I haven’t told Amanda everything about Declan. How he seemed jealous, so possessive, coming straight from New Zealand and tracking me down, taking me by limo to his helicopter, then riding around the city until we landed on the island. How he was so charming and controlled at Mom’s yoga. The way he emotionally disarms her, but without being rude. The way he makes me feel so secure in just being true to myself.

I slow my pace a bit, wondering if I’m walking funny. I should be. More tingles. I share everything with her, so this is new. Keeping it all to myself makes it have more meaning. Savoring what Declan and I have, and our combined desire to have so much more of it going forward, isn’t so much a secret as it is private.

Personal.

Ours.

Mine and Declan’s, something we share with no one else. I want to hang on to that for just a little longer, before Mom starts booking reception halls and ordering roses dipped in dye that matches some obscure bra strap Kate Middleton wore at her third polo game with the future king.

“Why are you seeing Steve at all?” Amanda asks.

“Masochism.” It’s an old joke, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.

She speeds up until we’re walking at a fast clip and almost at the main door to the credit union. The building looks like every other brick business building with white trim, and a discreet white sign with the name is centered above a bank of glass doors. Warnings dot the entrance:

Remove all sunglasses, hats and hoods. You are being recorded.

Sometimes I think about flashing my boobies for the poor schmuck whose job it is to sit in front of a bank of security cameras and keep an eye out for danger. A little light in a dreary job, you know? I made the mistake of saying this to Mom once. She did it.