Just Not That Into Billionaires

by Annika Martin

  I’m going at the same problem I’ve been going at all year—one tiny problem in a whole series of dominos.

  People tend to get annoyed with me when I won’t stop going at a thing, when I won’t stop hammering at it. There have been many times where I’ve kept at things long after everybody else has given up; usually it’s wasted effort, I’ll admit, but every now and then I’ll get a result, just from pure dogged persistence.

  This particular project will likely amount to nothing and no sane company would continue to fund it without results by now, but I feel like I can solve it, and I can spend the time. For now. That’s one of the beauties of owning your own company.

  Needless to say, I’m getting it out of my system; once I sell, I’ll need to spend a year sticking to Protech corporate goals, and I’ll have to work these kinds of projects on my own time and in my own space. I tell myself that I’ll have the money after that to fund my own lab.

  Though I do already have my own lab. That’s the thought that’s been creeping into my head ever since Francine pointed out my hatred of working for people.

  It’s funny—I’m constantly questioning assumptions in the world of robotics and technologies and nanoparticles, but I rarely turn that questioning toward myself or the larger picture of where I’m going.

  James used to tease me about my lack of introspection. “You never stop and think about what you’re doing or feeling, you just soldier ahead.”

  Maybe it’s true. What I do know is that with his leadership abilities gone, selling is the logical next step. Yes, he was dead set against the sale when it came up, but he’s not here, and I can’t be both him and me. I can only be me.

  Much as I don’t want to work in somebody else’s lab.

  I get to work and the hours melt away; I don’t even break for lunch. Suddenly it’s four in the afternoon and my neck is aching and my body needs to move, so I leave the sterile cleanroom environment for the world of dusty shoes and bagel crumbs and uncontrolled humidity and temperature.

  Aaron’s outside my office when I get there. “You look terrible,” he says, referring to my irritated eyes.

  I blow him off with a grunt and lead him into my office, sneaking in a few discreet puffs on my inhaler.

  “That shit’s not good for you to take that so much,” Aaron warns.

  “It’s fine.”

  “You promised you’d take care of him, not that you’d personally take care of him,” he says, referring to Spencer, of course. Aaron’s a big one for the path of least resistance.

  “I’m not pawning Spencer off on somebody he doesn’t know. It’s hard enough on him as it is.”

  “You find him another nice owner and he’ll never know the difference.”

  “He’s a dog, not a fish,” I say. “He’ll completely know the difference.”

  Aaron grumbles his dissent.

  I sit. “What’s up?”

  “Look, about that Protech dinner. The girl came through for us, I’ll be the first to admit it,” he says, though actually the last to admit it. “You were right to pull her in, but it’s time to cut her loose. Every day that you don’t sign those divorce papers is a day that we’re exposed to her taking a piece of the sale. She could hurt both of us.”

  “It won’t come to that,” I say.

  “What if it does? I don’t trust her.”

  “If worse comes to worst, you said you could handle it. Did you not say that?” Not that it would ever come to that.

  “Of course I could handle it,” Aaron says. “Probably. She does have a claim, though. And she’s playing some kind of game here, I can feel it in my bones. You need to cut her loose.”

  “That’s not gonna happen until I’m good and ready,” I say, firing up my monitor.

  Aaron sniffs unhappily.

  Aaron was angry that James was so against the Arcana Protech offer. Naturally, I sided with James.

  Aaron is way too focused on his portion of the money, treating the sale like a done deal whereas it’s anything but assured. Sales like this frequently seem to come together only to evaporate like clouds in the wind.

  “In fact, I have her living at my place,” I add.

  “What?” he says. “Why the hell would you do that?”

  “Because she’s playing my wife,” I say. “Because I can. Take your pick.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” he asks. “You’ll give her a taste of the billionaire lifestyle and then send her back to her hovel? And expect her not to go after a piece of your fortune?”

  “She won’t,” I inform him. “I doubt she even balances her checking account.”

  If anything, this deepens Aaron’s distress. I suppose somebody who is so money-focused can have a hard time comprehending somebody as art-focused as Francine.

  There’s nothing profitable about a moment of beauty, and that’s what Francine’s gunning for. She would literally give up her freedom of movement—has given up her freedom for three weeks—because she wants to dance in front of some ancient ruins.

  I think it’s an admirable way to be. Inspiring, even. I’ve spent so much time in the world of business, I’ve forgotten about the artist’s mindset. It’s a refreshing way of moving through life.

  “Francine’s main goal in life is to see this ballet come into being,” I inform Aaron. “To create this moment in time. That’s worth more to her than any tangible thing either of us could come up with.”

  “That’s funny,” Aaron says. “I thought Francine’s main goal in life is to get free of you.”

  I shrug. He’s not wrong about that.

  “You don’t think she’s laughing at you?” he asks.

  “I don’t give a shit either way,” I say.

  “She’s asked you for one thing and one thing only,” he continues. “A divorce. And here you are, forcing this charade on her, going on about arty spectacles. Is this some kind of punishment? Some kind of test? Are you trying to prove once and for all that you’re immune to her?”

  “Francine’s commitment is three weeks and it’s my instinct to use them all,” I say. “My instincts were spot-on last night, they’re spot-on right now. Frankly, if my instincts hadn’t been so spot-on for the past ten years, you wouldn’t be riding around in the back of a Bentley.”

  “But most people who arrange a fake relationship do it for a specific event, like a wedding or a holiday or a black-tie event,” he says. “What is this for?”

  “I’m correcting bullshit rumors that the world seems to have about me,” I say.

  “You never gave a shit about those rumors before.”

  I give him an ice-cold stare.

  He holds up his hands. “I’m just saying.”

  I wait.

  “Fine,” he says.

  I pick up my phone and scroll, letting him off the hook, so to speak. As soon as the sale is over, Aaron and I will never lay eyes on each other again. Won’t be soon enough for me.

  “Legally speaking, though—”

  I raise my eyebrows. This better be legal.

  Aaron pulls an envelope from his leatherbound folder and slaps it on my desk. “I tweaked the boilerplate she came to you with. Made it a bit more ironclad in the area of claims to assets accrued…you’ll see. The changes are marked in each case with purple stickers. Sign it, then have her sign it.”

  I grab the envelope, stuff it into my case and shut the top.

  “Aren’t you going to sign it?”

  “I’ll sign when I’m good and ready,” I tell him.

  “The sooner, the better.”

  “I think somebody’s already shopping for oceanfront property, that’s what I think,” I say.

  “Damn right,” Aaron says.

  Francine’s stretching on the living room floor when I get home the following evening; she’s got her legs splayed out with an exercise band hooked around her small toe. Spencer is sitting next to her looking on contentedly.

  She hasn’t aged in the past ten years so much as grown in
to herself—that’s something I’ve noticed over the past week. Her cheekbones are more majestic, her eyes blaze with intelligence; her inner confidence has grown. She challenges me just as much as she ever did, though. She gives as good as she gets.

  The feeling of her nearness sometimes radiates across my skin. Though you could say the same thing about static electricity.

  “She would normally do this in the workout room,” she suddenly blurts. “But Billionaire Bluebeard has forbidden her explicitly—”

  “We’re gonna take Spencer to the dog park,” I grumble. “You’ll grab something there if you haven’t eaten.”

  “Is that an order? Part of my conscription?” she asks.

  “It’s part of your conscription,” I say.

  “And of course that overrides any stretching that I must do,” she says.

  “You’re always stretching,” I say.

  She frowns.

  It’s true, though. Francine always stretched at random times, always working on the project of keeping limber—during blocking, during Beau Cirque meetings, waiting for her friends after our late-night cast dinners. She uses a band when she does toe exercises. They say dancers have strong legs, but it’s actually all about the feet.

  With a harsh look directed my way, she rises from the floor in a fluid motion not once using her hands. I remember her declaring back in the Beau Cirque days that getting up from the floor without using your hands is one of the best exercises there is.

  “And is there some dress code? Since you didn’t like my last outfit?”

  “The dress code is no ridiculous outfits.” I leave to find Spencer’s collar. A few minutes later, Francine’s at the door in shorts and sneakers and a T-shirt that says “Hedgehogs: Why don’t they just share the hedge?” Because she pushes it. She always does.

  We head out toward Twenty-Sixth past the galleries. She slows to look at the paintings and then catches up to us, a small rebellion.

  “So are we playing happy married couple to any specific audience I should know about, or is it just the public at large?” she asks as we wait for the light. “Is there some point where I should be smiling and laughing and looking at you so adoringly?”

  “You should be looking at me adoringly all the time,” I say.

  “Are you being funny?”

  “I feel like everybody should be looking at me adoringly, don’t you?” I say.

  She snorts.

  “All the neighbors with dogs go to the waterside dog run,” I tell her. “That’s your audience.” Not that I really care. I guess I don’t know why I’m bringing her. Yet again I hear James’s voice in my head: What the hell?

  The light changes and we walk. Spencer’s excitement ratchets up as we approach the green space. He knows what’s coming. We head down past the willows, past people sitting on the giant stones. The water sparkles brilliant blue beyond the rail.

  It’s here I notice that she’s limping, trying to disguise it. She always was an expert in the art of disguising her limps during our time at Beau Cirque. The dancers worked injured all the time, and they’d constantly be talking about their injuries; some of them even seemed to wear braces and wraps as hard-ass badges of honor, but not Francine. She didn’t like to talk about her injuries, as if that might give them power and status.

  Exactly how bad is her knee? Are there people in her life who know she dances injured? Would they confront her about choosing this tour over her long-term health?

  Francine can get tenacious when she wants something, and not everybody has the spine to challenge her. She always fought to be taken seriously—I remember her talking about it on one of the interminable shuttle rides back and forth from the strip to the apartment complex where Beau Cirque put us all up. I don’t know why I remember so many inane little details about her; it wasn’t as if she was even talking to me when she said it. But Francine always had to be the center of attention, and like the loser I was back then, my antennas were permanently tuned in to her.

  The point is, she doesn’t know how fiercely she can come off.

  Do they know she’d do anything to be on that tour, push through any kind of pain, risk any kind of damage? Even move in with Billionaire Bluebeard? But then again, it’s not my problem, is it? Francine’s a grown adult, capable of making her own choices.

  “Spencer!” A couple of kids walking a tiny dog kneel to pet Spencer and Spencer sniffs their dachshund.

  “You on your way?” the oldest girl asks.

  “Yes, is it busy?”

  She shrugs. “A little.”

  They head off.

  “Spencer’s popular,” Francine says.

  I grunt in agreement.

  The dog park turns out to be not that crowded, luckily. We head in the double gates and let Spencer off his leash. There’s a cool springtime breeze coming off the river, and an explosion of tulips all around.

  The husband of a financial whiz I work with waves and heads over. “Showtime,” I say under my breath.

  “Friends of yours?” she asks.

  “More or less,” I say. Which is true. This circle of friends came with James when we got into business together, and the group still includes me, James’s socially challenged business partner.

  Aside from working with James and the team in the lab, I never fit anywhere. I never even fit in with my lively family, to the point where people would joke that maybe I was switched at birth, that maybe there was a family of somber, crushingly serious nerds who had a rambunctious, outgoing son they didn’t know what to do with.

  So this circle; it’s not really that critical that they meet her, but it certainly cuts down on the questions. Best of all, once they meet her, she’ll be valuable as an excuse not to do things.

  And Aaron thought she’d outlived her usefulness.

  “Alan!” I say.

  Alan smiles. “Hey!” He comes over and we move our little group to the side of the trail. I introduce Francine as my wife.

  “Nice to meet you, Francine,” he says, trying to hide his shock. “So you exist after all,” he jokes. But it’s not really a joke.

  “She has a busy ballet career, what are you gonna do?” I say. “Francine is one of the most dedicated dancers on the planet.”

  She looks up at me questioningly. Does she think I don’t see it? You’d have to be an idiot not to see it.

  “Not an exaggeration,” I add.

  “A marriage of workaholics,” Alan says. “That’s a convenient thing to have in common. You can both be shitty at work–life balance together.”

  “Yeah, right?” Francine says. “He doesn’t get after me about living, sleeping, and eating pirouettes and I don’t get after him for being single-mindedly obsessed with the microrobot takeover.” She lowers her voice here. “You do know that’s what he’s up to, don’t you?”

  I smile. Her characterization is minorly amusing, I suppose. Without thinking about it, I settle my arm around her shoulder, and at that exact split second, she slides her hand around my waist, and then we smile at each other. Well, you have to admit, it’s funny we had the same idea at the same exact time. You couldn’t have choreographed us better if you tried.

  Alan snorts. “Hopefully you’ll put in a good word with the tech overlords when the time comes, Ben,” he says.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say.

  “If I didn’t pull Danielle off the stock tickers and news feeds for meals and sleep, she’d be comatose by now.” Here he turns to Francine. “How long are you in town?”

  “Two more weeks, and then I leave on a tour,” she says, curling her hand around my waist. I’m highly aware of those fingers, highly aware of her shoulder under the flat of my palm.

  Alan wants to know where the tour goes and she rattles off the cities—London, Paris, Seville, Istanbul, Stuttgart.

  Maybe it’s because we’re flush to each other, but the pleasure she takes in saying the names reverberates through me, and not just that, but the warmth of her, the shap
e of her—willowy but made of pure steel, muscles ruthlessly honed to catlike strength, ready to spring into action with outrageous athleticism.

  “It’s not just a European tour,” I say. “Francine’s working with the famous choreographer Dusty Sevigny. She’s a soloist in one of his original pieces.”

  “Congratulations!” Alan says.

  Francine’s beaming, radiant. She’s happy.

  Out of nowhere, this little voice comes to me—Why not cut her loose? Why not give her the papers she wants and let her go back to her life?

  I push the little voice back down. Because this is good—Alan will tell people that he met my wife—nothing like an eyewitness. And folks at our income level frequently live on different sides of the country or maintain multiple residences in far-flung foreign capitals. Especially when they have busy careers.

  If my past self were to see this scene—Francine and me in a dog park meeting friends—he’d die of excitement.

  Until he learned I was forcing her to play this part, in which case he’d punch the shit out of me. But that Benjamin is dead and gone. That Benjamin had juvenile ideas.

  “Well, if you guys can tear yourselves away from things,” Alan says, “Danielle and I are having a rooftop cocktail party a week from Friday. Aaron’s coming.”

  Francine and I exchange glances as if we’re a normal couple.

  I say, “Will your rehearsal—”

  “Be happening? God, I hope not! We have weekends off unless Sevigny is freaking out on something.” Francine smiles at me here.

  Is she happy? Does she like this idea?

  Francine does enjoy meeting new people. She loves to dig into people and learn all about them. Once she gets a thread of you, she’ll pull and pull and pull—that’s the beauty of her, but also the danger of her. And she has this devious sense of what threads to pull, the specific things to ask. She unravels you and makes you defenseless.

  “Right,” I say, nodding, like Sevigny’s temperament is something I know all about. Is this what it would be like? Being married? Would we be these people? Invested in each other’s careers, supporting each other like teammates?

  “Honey?” Francine says.

  I blink. “What?”