Trillion

by Renshaw, Winter

  His eyes light in the dark interior of his coupe. “Of course I did.”

  My heart thumps hard in my ribcage. For a moment, I wonder if I wore too much perfume tonight. If the lip gloss I nervously slicked on will keep him from wanting to kiss me. If he thinks I look just as pretty in jeans and a sweater as I did in that vintage dress.

  “Open it,” he says.

  I tug the ribbon loose and gently pry the lid off.

  A sparkling diamond pendant rests on a white silk pillow. In the movies, women gasp when presented with jewelry, but all the air seems to have been sucked from my lungs.

  I don’t know what to say.

  No one’s ever given me something like this before, not even close.

  “Do you like it?” he asks.

  What kind of question is that? Who wouldn’t like a diamond necklace?

  I swallow the stunned lump in my throat and force myself to nod. Of course I like it. It’s beautiful. Almost too beautiful to wear.

  “Try it on.” He takes the box and carefully removes the necklace. A moment later, it’s fastened around my neck.

  I flip down the passenger visor and inspect the way it shimmers against the backdrop of my fuzzy brown sweater like a sharp juxtaposition of my humble life against his, my eighteen years against his forty-some. My nervous hope against his impeccable confidence.

  “I love it,” I tell him. I’d lean across the console and kiss him, but I doubt he wants to be covered in sticky vanilla lip gloss.

  “Three flawless carats,” he adds. “I’ve always loved the number three. Signifies past, present, and future.”

  Is he saying he has a future with me?

  I don’t ask.

  “You ready?” He gives my hand a squeeze before lifting it to his lips and depositing a kiss that sends butterflies twirling in my middle.

  “Where are we going?” I fasten my seatbelt as he pulls out of our apartment complex. I told my mother I was seeing him again tonight. She protested with what little energy she had, and I promptly reminded her I was eighteen.

  I rarely pull the sassy teenager card on her, but tonight I had no choice.

  I wanted to see Nolan.

  I needed to see Nolan.

  “There’s a little place just outside the city,” he says. “We should be able to see the stars from there, once we’re farther away from the lights. Thought maybe we could get to know each other a little better.”

  He takes my hand in his, holding it the way you would a boyfriend or girlfriend, and a blanket of warmth envelopes every inch of me, head to toe.

  “Sound good?” he asks, peering at me before checking his rearview.

  The fact that he wants to get to know me is a good sign. I’m an adult. We can date. Maybe something’s going to come of this after all?

  I nod, whispering a quiet “yes” as I gaze from behind the pristine glass of his lightning-fast sports car. We weave through traffic, the engine growling at times and purring at others, the ride as smooth as ice. It’s quite a change from my Honda that picks up every bump and crack in the road and overheats every time the temperature hits the nineties.

  I think of the cash hidden under my mattress. The price tag on this sports car. The diamond dangling from my neck.

  According to Google, his father is a steel magnate and his mother is sole heir to an oil fortune. The internet listed their family’s net worth in the hundreds of millions of dollars. A few images showed Nolan with various beautiful women on his arm, all of them clearly in their twenties. All of them worldlier than me. Their hair and makeup professionally done. Their outfits impeccably styled.

  With his vast wealth and the entire world at his fingertips, I can’t help but wonder: why me?

  “Did you quit your job yet?” he asks. In the blink of an eye, the scenery changes from city to suburban sprawl.

  I shake my head. “I can’t.”

  “Of course you can.” He removes his hand from mine as he changes lanes.

  “I like my job.”

  He shoots me a quick smirk and then he chuckles. “Nobody likes being a waitress, Soph.”

  I do.

  “My family needs the extra money,” I say. “My mom’s not able to work right now and my sister has muscular dystrophy. We have a lot of expenses.”

  In fact, we’re drowning in them …

  “I told you, I’m going to take care of you,” he says.

  “I know. But I take care of my family, so …”

  “Let me know what you need. I’ll help you any way I can.”

  I don’t know what to say other than it sounds too good to be true. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

  I just want him to love me …

  “I’m going to be in the city every weekend for the next year.” He turns to me in the dark. “I’d like to spend my free time with you, but if you’re working … I’m not sure how that’s going to happen. I want to know that I can call you and you’ll be there. I don’t want to wait until the end of your shift, when you’re tired. I don’t want scraps of you, Soph.”

  He takes my hand again, kissing the top of it.

  Our surroundings grow darker as we reach the countryside, the roads winding with every passing mile. The stars are brighter out here and the moon is as big as I’ve ever seen it. A wooden sign says we’re in Harrington Park.

  We stop at a little pull-off with a guardrail and a million-dollar view. He kills the engine and unfastens his seatbelt. I do the same.

  “I don’t know what this is or where this is going to go,” he says. “And maybe it’s a little unconventional. But I want to find out.”

  My mouth is dry and my heart gallops so fast I think I might faint. “I want to find out too.”

  “What do you make at the café?” he asks.

  I lift a shoulder. I’ve never told anyone what I make before except my mother. “On a good day, a couple hundred. On a slow day, half that?”

  “I’ll give you a thousand dollars a week.” He doesn’t so much as hesitate when dropping that offer in my lap. “I only ask that you answer my calls and texts, and that you make yourself available to me when I need you.”

  When he needs me …

  I think of those pretty girls in the pictures with him. Did he pay them for their time, as well? Aren’t there other women who would be with him for free?

  “That’s extremely generous of you,” I say, “but it seems weird … don’t you think?”

  Accepting the fifteen hundred last time was enthralling at first, but the more I thought about it, the dirtier I felt.

  “That’s a lot of money,” I add. Though I suppose it’s pocket change to a millionaire. “I don’t want to feel like I owe you something.”

  He chuckles, his hand cupping my cheek and his head tilting. “You owe me nothing. I want to be with you, and your time is valuable. That’s all.”

  The warmth of his cologne invades my senses as it emanates from his wrist, and before I have a chance to respond, he silences me with a kiss—lip gloss be damned.

  I melt against him and quiet the storm of questions swirling in my busy little head.

  Something tells me my mind might win the battle, but it’s going to lose the war.

  It’s him my heart wants.

  Eleven

  Trey

  Present

  The infinite expanse of my home greets me with my own echoing footsteps after dinner. The housemaid left a note by the backdoor, telling me the dry cleaning has been hung and that the gardener had a family emergency and wasn’t able to prune the boxwoods this afternoon.

  I crumple the paper and toss it in the garbage.

  The caretaker’s cottage is dark, Mr. and Mrs. Petroff are likely visiting their grandkids tonight, as they do most Friday nights.

  I stop by the study on my way to bed and pour myself two fingers of Four Roses bourbon, a quick nightcap to take the edge off my thoughts.

  Collapsing in my father’s old wingback chair, I retrieve my phone and
check a few emails. And by a few, I mean at least ninety-six—most of them sent in the past couple of hours.

  I delete the majority of them and file the important ones that can wait until I’m in a clearer state of mind. Friday evenings are when I unwind, shut my mind off to give it a break after a long week. I don’t like to think too hard because thinking is all I fucking do every minute of every hour of every other day of the week.

  When I get to the bottom of my inbox, I find the message from Broderick sent earlier this week—one containing Sophie Bristol’s personal address and cell.

  It’s not quite ten o’clock.

  I’ll bet she’s still up.

  I toss back a mouthful of bourbon and let my impatience and minor lack of inhibition get the better of me. Composing a text, I hit send before I change my mind.

  ME: Did you finish your wine yet?

  Three dots fill the screen instantly before disappearing. A moment later, a message fills the screen. Any other woman would’ve taken their time replying so as not to seem desperate, but not her.

  She has zero interest in playing any games and no reason to impress me.

  SOPHIE: Texting my personal cell on a Friday night? Boundaries must not be a thing with you …

  ME: Limitations are for the weak-minded. Again, did you finish your wine yet?

  SOPHIE: Every last drop. You realize I’m hourly, not salary, right? This could cost you in overtime.

  ME: It would if this were work related. This has nothing to do with your current position in Payroll. This is a private, non-corporate matter.

  I top off my bourbon and swallow another mouthful. She wants to flirt. This is good.

  ME: Tell me what it’s going to take.

  The screen is blurry. I’m buzzing and mentally exhausted, but I re-read my message to make sure there are no typos before sending.

  SOPHIE: You’re not giving up, are you?

  ME: I’m a man who knows what he wants.

  SOPHIE: I appreciate that, Trey. I do, but you don’t want me. You only think you do.

  ME: How could you possibly know that?

  SOPHIE: Because you saw me in the hallway and immediately decided you wanted me to marry you and have your babies?

  There were hints of this version of Sophie earlier today in her office. Flirty. Slightly feisty. Office Sophie is proper and poised and she keeps her cards pressed firmly against her ample bosom. Wine Sophie is brazen and doesn’t speak to me like I’m some sixteenth century guillotine-happy king.

  I picture her tossing back her unpretentious wine, grinning drunkenly as she taps out her messages. No one but Broderick has ever spoken to me with such blatant casualness before, and I fucking love it.

  ME: I didn’t randomly choose you. You stood up for me in the break room. You got my attention, whether you wanted to or not. And when I looked into your file, I knew there was something different about you. You’re not like anyone else. Also the fact that you turned down seventeen million dollars, tells me you know your worth.

  She still hasn’t officially accepted my second offer, but the clock is still running. Broderick gave her seventy-two hours on this one. We wanted her to have the weekend to think it over.

  SOPHIE: Thank you for the flattery and the kind words, but I’m still not going to marry you or be your fake fiancée or have your baby. Also, I’m exactly like everyone else.

  A second later, a photo comes through—a selfie of Sophie with her blonde locks in a messy bun piled high on her head, a lime green mud mask covering her pretty face, and a wine chalice pressed against her fuckable, full mouth.

  I chuckle.

  Smart ass.

  I’ve received millions of “selfies” in my day—never anything as wholesome—or unsexy—as this.

  ME: You have no idea how turned on I am right now … please send more.

  SOPHIE: Despite my education and extensive list of accomplishments and references, at the end of the day, I’m as basic as the next girl.

  ME: There’s nothing basic about you, Sophie Bristol.

  I love her name, the way it rolls off my tongue when I say it out loud. But Sophie Westcott sounds even better. There’s a ring to it. A rhythm.

  SOPHIE: All joking aside, you only see what you want to see when you look at me. And my resume? It’s a small drop of water in the ocean of my complexities.

  ME: Poetic. Also, how can you be basic and simultaneously complex?

  SOPHIE: I write poetry. See? That’s not on my resume. And plenty of basic women write poems. Sometimes we sketch too. And listen to music that makes us cry. It’s a whole thing. Also, we have a group that meets on Wednesdays. At Starbucks. We get matching pink drinks.

  ME: Send me some of your work.

  She sends me three laughing emojis—the ones with tears.

  ME: I mean it. I’ll forward it to our publishing division.

  SOPHIE: Your publishing division doesn’t publish poetry. Only commercial fiction. The kind that makes insane money … $$$$$$$$$$.

  ME: Then I’ll add a poetry imprint.

  SOPHIE: You’re too much.

  ME: And apparently not enough.

  My phone stops buzzing with texts. Either I’ve got her tongue or she passed out from all that “dessert” wine.

  I wait a while longer before heading to bed. It’s enough for tonight.

  We’re making progress.

  It’s only a matter of time.

  Twelve

  Sophie

  Present

  Oh my god.

  I wake on the couch Saturday morning with a throbbing head and immediately reach for my phone, poring over the drunken text messages I exchanged with Westcott last night.

  “No.” I clamp a hand over my mouth when I realize none of it was a dream.

  I can’t believe I was so casual with him …

  I sent him a selfie …

  And used emojis …

  Also, I think I flirted with him a little? No—there’s no “think” about it. I definitely flirted.

  Two wine bottles rest on my coffee table—one empty, one half full. I don’t always drink like that, but yesterday was the anniversary of a day that changed my life, and I wanted to zone out to silence those painful memories.

  I re-read the messages, cringing, and then I tap out a quick text, my thumb hovering over the ‘send’ button until I delete the whole thing.

  Half of me wants to apologize and explain that I wasn’t myself last night. The other half of me knows he’s going to see it as an invitation to keep his foot in the door of my life.

  And what’s going to happen come Monday when I’m back in the office? I’ve always prided myself on being professional, keeping my workplace persona top notch. He’s officially seen the other side of me. The side I share with friends and family and people whose electronic signatures don’t grace my paycheck every other week.

  I’m damned if I say something, damned if I don’t.

  I type out a second message and scan it over three times before changing my mind and deleting it all. I’m not going to say anything to him. I’ll wait until Monday and I’ll apologize in person for being so off-the-cuff. I’ll tell him I hope I didn’t give him the wrong idea about … us.

  I’ll also ask that he not contact me on the weekends unless it’s work-related.

  Popping a Swiss mocha pod into my Keurig, I wait for it to brew and hunt through my medicine cabinet for two Advil. My brain pulsates with regret, wishing I could wave a magic wand and re-do last night. I should’ve ignored his texts. I shouldn’t have engaged.

  As soon as I finish my drink, I hit the shower and then throw on a pair of boyfriend jeans and a vintage Prince t-shirt before lacing into some Converse—my weekends are all about comfort. A second later, I grab my phone and car keys and lock my apartment behind me.

  Forty minutes later, I’m at my mom’s outside the city. Saturdays are when she gets a break from caring for Emmeline. Usually she’ll use this time to grab groceries. Get an o
il change. Sometimes get her hair or nails done. She has a caregiver who comes during the week when she’s working, but during the evenings, it’s just the two of them and it isn’t always easy to run errands on a whim.

  “Hello, hello,” I call out, letting myself in.

  “In the back,” my mom calls. I follow her voice to Emmeline’s bedroom, where she’s braiding Em’s hair.

  “Love that blouse on you,” I say to my sister, bending to kiss her cheek. She smiles and places her hand over mine. “You’ve always looked so pretty in violet.”

  “Thanks, chica,” she says with a wink.

  Ten years ago, this wouldn’t have been possible. The muscles in her face were so constricted she could hardly sip from a straw. While my sister’s disease is incurable, the progress she’s made because of Nolan Ames’ connections have given her a new lease on life.

  Prescription pill bottles, vitamins, and perfumes cover her dresser, and in the corner, a small Bluetooth speaker plays Fleetwood Mac—forever her favorite. Here it’s an ordinary Saturday morning, and I almost forget about last night.

  Almost.

  “I can take over, Mom,” I say. “Go do what you need to do. We’ll be fine.”

  Mom exhales as she secures the end of Em’s braid and then she kisses the top of her head.

  “I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” she tells us on her way out.

  As soon as the front door closes, Em turns her chair and wheels down the hallway toward the living room like she’s got somewhere to be.

  “You want to watch our show?” she asks with sparkling eyes.

  I chuckle and pretend to resist. “It’s so awful.”

  “Please?”

  Ever since my relationship with Nolan—if you can call it that—my mom has become ultra conservative and hyper protective, especially when it comes to what she allows my sister to watch. Things with sex (gasp) or swearing (God-forbid) are outlawed under her roof.

  But she’s not here.

  And what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

  I grab the remote, cue to Netflix, and settle in on the sofa.

  The opening credits of Emmeline’s favorite show—one about a college-aged escort living a secret double life in New York City—begin to play. I don’t know why she loves this show with its cheesy dialogue and second-rate acting, but I suppose we all have those themes that just resonate with us for whatever reason.