Alan’s watching me, waiting. “Can you do it? You don’t have a reservation on a rocket ship or anything, do you?”
“Oh,” I say. “No, I’m thinking…no, it’s good.”
“I’ll have our guy shoot your guy a text,” Alan says. With that he takes off.
I spot Spencer with something dubious in his mouth and I go over and deal with it. Spencer runs off. I rinse my hands in a fountain, then wander over to the railing, staring out over the water. I need some space. I don’t know why.
“He’ll have their guy text to your guy?” she teases, coming up to me. “Do he and Danielle have a butler-assistant too? Do all of your friends have butler-assistants?”
“No, not all my friends have them, but Danielle is one of the most high-powered financial gurus around, and Alan’s a bigshot graphic designer. It helps to have somebody managing household and admin. It just does.”
I turn to watch Spencer and she mirrors me. We stand there with our backs to the water, watching Spencer play with a German shepherd.
She says, “So this is what it would be like.”
“What?” I ask, as though I don’t know what she’s talking about, as though I didn’t have that same thought. I like her by my side, but I know better than to let this feel too real.
“Us. If we were really married,” she says. “And we walk Spencer and meet people we know and we have little exchanges. And they invite us over.”
“Well, we are a married couple,” I say.
“You know what I mean. A real one.”
“We are a real one. In the eyes of these people. In the eyes of the IRS.”
“Whatever you say, Poshface,” she says.
“Seriously, I can’t even begin to imagine the kind of tax trouble you’re in, filing single all these years.”
“Wait, what?”
“Tax trouble. The IRS.”
“But I didn’t know!”
“Ignorance is never a valid defense for breaking a law,” I say.
She looks at me alarmed. “You think I’m in tax trouble?”
“You’ve been filing as single,” I inform her.
She has the good sense to look alarmed. “Shit. A lot of trouble?”
“You need to fix it, let’s just say.”
“How?” she asks. “Ten years of tax trouble that I need to fix?”
“Get a good accountant.”
“Right,” she says. “Okay.”
I cringe inwardly, imagining what kind of accountant she’d dig up. Francine may not be capable of identifying a good accountant. She’ll get a shitty accountant if she gets one at all. Maybe she’ll just apply her famous wishful thinking. Nobody’s said “boo” for a decade about it, after all.
I imagine informing her that I’ve got it under control. I’d tell her I’ll handle it, and she’d be standing there with this grateful gaze, eyes full of energy. Things like taxes are hard for her, and I’d imagine she doesn’t get a lot of competent help out there for the endless binds she gets herself into.
She’d be so relieved.
This weird feeling of weightlessness flows through me and I look away. I suppose I still have some of that in me—that gullible, dim-witted kid who’d do anything for her. That kid isn’t running the show anymore, though. Thoughts like this are sad artifacts, I tell myself, only useful in reminding me of how far I’ve come.
All Francine wants is a divorce. That’s all she wants from me, now.
Spencer’s come back around, panting. It’s time. I put his leash back on and we head out back onto the sunny walk.
She really could end up in trouble. It really is mind-blowing that she didn’t know. And god how she’ll bungle it, trying to get out of it.
I could put people on it. I could.
The braid-haired twin sisters who sell tiny paintings off a bench near the dog run entrance call out to Spencer. Spencer is one of their favorites, though I imagine it all might have started because one of them might have been a favorite of James’s. James was a fierce and idiosyncratic thinker who always went for the nose-ring beauties. With a painful hit of sadness, I flash on him flirting with a woman at a falafel stand, Spencer as his partner in crime.
The woman who I always think of as the leader of the two asks how Spencer’s doing.
“He’s great,” I say, willing her to not say anything more, because I don’t need Francine in my business now. Missing James is hard enough without having her playact compassion and make me feel worse. Having Francine in the mix will just confuse everything.
Too late—I can feel her attention on me. She senses she’s being shut out of something.
“You’re such a lucky boy to have him looking out for you,” the lead sister says to Spencer massaging his neck. “You’re gonna be okay, buddy!”
I roll my eyes, as though annoyed. Why can’t people mind their own business?
I still feel Francine’s attention. It’s not just that she zeros in and pulls your threads; she makes you want her to pull your threads.
You’re an awkward misfit and she’s suddenly joking with you and pulling you into her world, and you want her to unravel you.
And then she does.
And it’s the best thing in the world until it’s the worst thing in the world. God knows how many hapless casualties she’s left unraveled in her wake.
“I’m so glad,” the other twin says. “You’re a lucky boy! Yes you are, yes you are,” she repeats as Spencer licks her face.
I finally pull Spencer away, getting us away from them.
“Was something wrong with Spencer?” Francine asks me.
“Nope,” I say.
“Then what did she mean, asking how is he? She sounded concerned.”
I shrug.
“Fine,” she snaps, hurt now.
We keep walking. She can think what she thinks, feel how she wants. This is a transaction, not a kumbaya circle.
But I can’t stop thinking about her taxes, now.
I could just put an accountant on it. Handle the whole thing. It would take half a day and some fines I’d never even notice. It would be a simple matter, but then I’d have to deal with her gratitude, as if I’m riding in there like a savior or something, all swelled up like an idiot.
“Hey, can we head up to the habitat garden after this?” She points to a sign. “We could just loop up there. It wouldn’t be out of our way—”
“No,” I say.
“Why can’t we loop up there?” she asks.
“Because this is the route Spencer likes to go.”
“But we could walk up after the dog park and then go down to your place after,” she tries.
“Spencer doesn’t like to deviate.”
“So Spencer gets a say and I don’t?”
“Yup.”
“How is that fair?” she demands.
“That’s how this marriage works,” I say.
“Seriously? Man and dog are numbers one and two in our pecking order, and I’m three?”
“That’s the pecking order,” I say.
“So I’m the accessory,” she says. “Been there, done that.”
“That’s not this,” I say, because I won’t be classified with her Vegas boyfriends with their casino flash. I want to say more, to make her see I’m not like them, but then I remember I don’t give a shit.
“Was Spencer sick?” she asks.
“People ask after other people’s kids and pets. It doesn’t mean anything.” I pull Spencer away from a bush he was sniffing at.
“How about you just tell me that you don’t want to talk about it instead of trying to gaslight me about there not being an issue with Spencer? I’m the help. I get it.”
I feel my cool composure draining away. I’m bad at emotions. I’m bad at people. Why do I care if she’s upset? I don’t need to explain myself to Francine. It’s ridiculous that I would want to. “It’s not that,” I say. “It’s just…hard—”
“Wait.” She spins around to face me. �
��Was Spencer James’s dog?”
“Yes,” I sigh. “I promised I’d care for him,” I say casually.
There’s this silence where I brace for her to accuse me of clinging to Spencer in some pathetic and hapless way. Or maybe some recriminations or expressions of hurt feelings.
“You’re a very loyal person,” she says.
I look up. That was the last thing I expected her to say. “It wasn’t a deathbed promise or anything, but it’s important to me.” I say. “I didn’t get the chance…” To say goodbye.
“I’m so sorry.”
“But I did say I’d care for Spencer at one point,” I say.
“Spencer really is lucky to have you,” she says.
“I’m lucky.”
We stroll on past tulips in riotous shades of pink, red, and yellow. New tree buds dust winter-brown branches with vibrant shades of green. There’s something about early spring in Manhattan—things feel almost soft for a moment before the hot, smelly slog of summer sets in.
Her limp is pretty pronounced at this point. “Should we stop at a bench?” I ask.
“Why?” she says.
“You know why.” I angle my gaze down to her knee.
“Oh, please,” she says strolling on, more successfully concealing the limp now. Which probably taxes it even more.
“We’re going to stop at that bench up there and call Alverson,” I rumble, “and that’s that.”
“This isn’t the kind of marriage where you can boss me around,” she says.
“Actually, it is that kind of marriage,” I say.
“No, it’s not,” she says. “As a matter of fact, this is a marriage where you hang on my every word and want to make my every dream come true,” she says. “Including my cherished dream of walking home without your dumbass opinion.”
“However, as your husband, I’m invested in your cherished dream of having dance in your future, as well as a stupid little thing known as walking around. So when I suggest we rest on the bench and wait for Alverson, you understand that husband knows best.”
Spencer picks this moment to enthusiastically sniff a lamppost, and that brings us to a halt.
She turns to me, there at the side of the walkway, eyes blazing. People and bikes flow past. Somewhere in the distance, a folkie plays folk guitar, bright notes mixing with the din of traffic.
“Actually, this is the kind of marriage where you value my opinion,” she says. “And if I say something’s not a problem, you take me at my word.”
“Except this is the kind of marriage where I happen to know that you can fool a lot of people, but you’re not fooling me. And I know that you’re hiding a very grave injury.”
“A very grave injury, Benny?” she asks. “Have I been shot with a bullet?”
“You know what I mean—it’s very grave…you know…” I almost say, very grave to your career, but I don’t, because apparently I’m in the business now of protecting her wishful thinking. “Grave enough,” I amend, but it’s too late; I can see the distress in her eyes.
I can feel my practiced smoothness draining away.
I want to make it better. I want to kiss her.
I’m sure that would be hilarious to her, to bring out the awkward, worshipful nerd in me.
It won’t be happening. That kid isn’t in the driver’s seat. Not anymore.
Twelve
Francine
* * *
“I know my limits,” I say to him, willing him to stop talking about my knee. I can blow off Kelsey’s concern—she overtrains as much as I do.
Same with my fellow dancers—don’t throw stones at glass houses and all of that. The company powers that be have no idea how bad an injury it is. And Noelle believes me when I minimize my injuries. And my parents on their Zoom calls from the back of the tourist shop in North Dakota—they don’t know.
But Benny seems to have figured it out what with his weirdly intense way of zeroing in on people and things to the exclusion of everything else in the world. It’s not just that though; his concern feels dangerous, and for whatever reason, I want him to believe it’s okay. Maybe even need him to believe it.
“And like you told Alan,” I continue, “we are both very focused on our own careers; you steer clear of giving opinions on my career the way I steer clear of giving opinions on yours.”
A hint of a smile appears around his eyes, and the beauty of him takes my breath away.
He steps closer, and I know he’s going to deliver some sort of gotcha, and I don’t even care. I like having him near. Maybe I need my head examined.
“Like when you told me I was an idiot for selling the company and working for somebody else?” he rumbles. “Steering clear like that?”
I grin. “That wasn’t an opinion, it was the truth, and you very much are an idiot in that respect, but I know that I can’t save you from yourself, so I’ve stopped giving that opinion. Just as you know that you can’t save me from my very grave tax troubles.”
“Oh please,” he gusts out, like I’m the peskiest person on the planet. “I’m gonna handle your tax troubles.”
“What?” I say.
“You would just bungle it,” he says. “It’s excruciating—just absolutely vexing—to imagine how badly you’d bungle it. I shudder to think what sort of accountant you’d hire. It probably wouldn’t even be an accountant. You’d go for an insane clown. You’d get yourself into more trouble by trying to fix it.”
“You don’t have to put things so diplomatically,” I say. “Tell me what you really think.”
“I have people sitting around waiting for me to assign them tasks like this. It would be maddening to know you’re trying to handle it with ninety-three point five percent pure incompetence.”
I get in closer to him, get into his face. “How much incompetence was that?”
“You heard me the first time,” he says.
“What if I like it when insane clowns do my taxes?” I ask.
He draws in, near enough for me to be able to see the whorls of his tawny-brown brows. “Too bad.”
“The insane clowns are donning their giant shoes as we speak,” I say dimly, eyes falling to his lips. “Sharpening their water-squirting pencils.”
As if he knows I’m studying his stupidly attractive lips, he forms the words carefully, dramatically, fetchingly. “You can’t stop me.”
And this burst of affection and happiness rushes over me.
And I want to touch him—need to touch him. To kiss him. To press into him. He’s a magnet I must shamelessly glom on to. It’s a physical need, but also emotional. I feel so close to him now.
Maybe it has to do with playing his wife all week, sarcastically calling each other “honey” as we pass back and forth between the penthouse and our busy lives. Fun little snipes here and there. Being surrounded by his things, his scent.
But it’s more than that. It’s confiding in me about Spencer. Trusting me enough to be vulnerable about it, to show his heart. The little he did, that’s big for Benny. It makes me feel closer to the guy he was in Vegas, and that strange magic of us then.
And the idea of him helping me with my taxes—I really was worried about the tax thing. I’m bad at numbers-and-red-tape situations. And mostly there’s my knee.
Spencer is back, threatening to tangle us in his leash, breaking the moment. “Well…thank you,” I gust out, words ragged, as if all of my anguish gusts out with them.
“You’re welcome,” he says gruffly.
“No, really, thank you,” I say again. “I don’t know why I’m so emotional.”
“How much does it hurt?” he asks straight out, apropos of nothing.
I shake my head, desperate to get off of this subject, casting around in my mind for anything else. I focus on Spencer. I need to say something about Spencer.
“That bad, huh,” he says bluntly. Because he’s a guy who sees the important things and, of course, he’ll have some shit to say about them, because he has zero t
act.
I can’t look at him now, because it feels like my whole face is warm, like wet steam is taking over my eyeballs, tears trying to escape like horrible little prisoners. That’s what a bundle of emo I am. Like all the bottled-up worry was waiting for somebody to ask. Emo at the gates, pounding at the gates.
“Fuck off,” I breathe.
A finger on my chin. The shock of contact electrifies my skin. He turns my face to his. My heart pounds like a jackhammer. The feel of his finger—that one finger at the base of my chin—it’s blowing me apart.
He adds another, a touch light as feathers, two fingers on my chin.
I stare up into his pale brown eyes, and he’s studying my about-to-cry face or maybe I am crying—are tears actually out of my eyes or are they just bunching up in there?
Except my whole world is those fingers, now. I like them there, and I have the crazy impulse to turn my head so that his fingers would be on my cheek, too.
Maybe I’d turn my head some more so that his fingers would be in my hair or even my arm. I suddenly have all this empathy for cats with catnip toys, trying to rub their bodies all over something, all at once, because that’s how I am with Benny’s fingers.
And I feel like he sees everything, like he gets how much I care about my dreams. And he’s beautiful and so very Benny with his vexatious fractional percentages.
Two hands move abruptly in to cradle my neck in a motion that is way more Vegas nerd Benny than suave Manhattan Benny.
Something in my belly melts. My gaze drops to his lips.
Abruptly, he clutches the back of my neck. “Francine,” he whispers hoarsely. The sounds of the park become hollow and distant compared to the whooshing of my ears.
“What?” I blurt.
Everything goes still for a moment. Brown eyes regard me with a million percent intensity.
And then he kisses me. It’s not just any kiss, it’s a feverish torrent, unpolished and true. He groans, fingertips tightening on me. I pull him to me, pull his magnetized self flush against my breasts. I need more of this kiss—the delicious Benny kiss that is so devoid of coolness, of suaveness, of any game whatsoever. I need more of him.
He rumbles in that low Benny rumble. It sets off explosions in the back of my head.
Just Not That Into Billionaires Page 12