Billionaire's Second Chance

by Claire Adams

  My phone started to ring, and I pulled it out, telling myself that if it was Ian, I wasn’t going to answer it. Hadn’t he just said that he’d give me time to think about everything? But it wasn’t him; or at least, it wasn’t a number that I recognized. Normally I would’ve ignored it, but I decided to pick it up.

  It turned out to be Carl, my mother’s colleague. He thanked me for getting in touch with him and asked if I wanted to get together on Saturday morning, if I was still interested in being part of the project.

  “I do have plans Saturday afternoon,” I said, “but I could do Saturday morning.”

  “That would be great,” he said. He had a very calm, mild voice that made me feel at ease, even though we’d only been on the phone for about a minute. “I’ve done a number of interviews already, and some have been fairly quick. Others have been longer, but we can make sure that you’re done in time to get to your next engagement.”

  He told me where his office was located, and I agreed to meet him there at ten o’clock. When we got off the phone, I circled back toward the office, hoping that Ian would have left by then, or at the very least, I wouldn’t run into him when I was getting into my car.

  Of course, at the very moment I was pulling my keys out of my purse, the door to the office building swung open, and he strode out. I could tell he wasn’t expecting to see me right there, and that it had actually taken him by surprise. He started to smile and say something, but then he stopped, as though remembering the last conversation that we’d had. There were about twenty feet between us, and we both just stood there, looking at each other, neither one saying anything. That’s when I realized he was going to wait for me to say something first, but I didn’t know what to say. And I didn’t want to say the wrong thing, so I just got into my car and drove away.

  “Thank you for meeting with me,” Carl said. I was sitting on the couch in his office, which was a big, bright room lined with bookshelves. He was seated in an armchair that was next to the couch, and he turned the voice memo on his iPhone on and placed it on the coffee table, so the microphone was facing me. “Has your mother told you anything about the project?”

  “Not really,” I said. “Just that you were writing a book about the quarter-life crisis.”

  He smiled and nodded. He reminded me of a teddy bear, or one of those animal characters in a children’s fiction book, with a light sweater vest pulled on over a collared short-sleeve shirt with light blue checkers. He had a sandy colored beard and slightly disheveled hair. He was also wearing Birkenstocks. “Correct. And that’s good she didn’t give you too many details; I think that’s better for the subjects that I’m interviewing. Though ‘interviewing’ is perhaps too rigid of a term—this is really more of a conversation. I’d like to hear about your experience so far. I’ll ask you a few basic questions to get us started.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Sounds good.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m twenty-four.”

  “And did you graduate from college?”

  “Yes, with a B.A. in creative writing.”

  “And what has your experience been like since you graduated?”

  “My experience . . .” I paused and took a deep breath. “My experience has honestly been nothing like what I thought it would be. I can remember being a teenager and being so excited to get to graduate high school and go off to college because I was certain that was when my ‘real life’ was going to start. And I spent a good part of my teenage years just waiting for this real life to start, thinking that I’d know when it happened because I’d feel like an adult. I would know that I had arrived because I would feel different. But I don’t feel different. I feel exactly the same—only maybe worse, because now it seems like something is wrong with me. It seems like I somehow missed the turnoff for the road to adulthood, because I feel like I’m just playing pretend.”

  Carl nodded. “What sorts of things have happened that made you feel this way?”

  “The jobs I’ve had since graduating have nothing to do with what I went to school for. Though I realize that a creative writing major might not have been the most practical thing—my mother was always very fond of telling me that. But I thought she, of all people, would have encouraged me to pursue my passion, not just what might have made sense financially. So I haven’t had much success with my writing, but that’s really because I haven’t been doing any writing.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I have a lot of other stuff going on that’s distracting me from it. I know that’s no excuse. But I have a stalker and—”

  “You have a stalker?”

  “Yes. My mother doesn’t seem to think it’s anything, but there’s this guy that I met at the gym and he randomly shows up at my apartment and thinks that we’re meant to be.”

  “I’m sure that’s rather distressing.”

  “It is! But he hasn’t done anything yet that would warrant calling the police. And then I got fired from my other job because I found out the manager was embezzling money, and then the next job, this guy I knew from the gym basically got for me, but . . . I ended up sleeping with the boss there. That wasn’t my plan, but I just felt this attraction toward him that I’d never felt with anyone else before. It was unreal, almost, and then the fact that he seemed to feel the same way. These sorts of things never happen to me. Life felt really exciting for a little while, like I was excited for it to be Monday, the start of the work week, so I could see him, because all I wanted was to just be around him. I didn’t care what we were doing. I felt like I was in high school again. And then I found out that’s basically what he does with all his secretaries. I know how that sounds. I’m not really like that at all, either. I was actually a virgin until I met him. I felt like we had this connection, and to be honest, I think we still do, but he recently told me the girl he slept with before me is pregnant.”

  “That must’ve been quite the shock.”

  “Yeah, it was. And it’s made me question everything that I was feeling before—like, can I even trust my own feelings? Which seems to go hand-in-hand with the fact that I have no clue what I’m doing with my life. Maybe that’s the whole reason why I don’t to begin with—I can’t trust my feelings.”

  “What is it that your feelings are telling you?”

  “That he and I have this connection. That we’re—” this was going to sound so stupid—“meant to be together.” I looked down at my hands.

  “Granted, I don’t know all the details of your particular situation, but perhaps your feelings aren’t wrong. You did say the person he got pregnant is someone he was with before the two of you first got together, correct?”

  “Yes,” I said slowly.

  “And from what you’ve told me so far, that sounds like it’s the major reason why you’re suddenly questioning your feelings to begin with.”

  “Well, that and the fact that this person also used to be on his secretaries. So I sort of feel like I’m just another in this line of secretaries that he’s slept with.”

  “That’s a valid point,” Carl said. “But it’s rooted in fear and projection. Has he been with anyone else since the two of you got together?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “But you fear that he might discard you like he did this previous secretary after he’s gotten tired of you.”

  “Something like that.”

  “That’s totally normal,” Carl said. “Whether you’re twenty-five or forty-five. That part of your problem isn’t so much unique to the quarter-life crisis as it is to simply being human.”

  “Oh, okay,” I said. “We don’t have to talk about it anymore then; my mom said that you just wanted to talk about the quarter-life stuff.”

  Carl waved his hand dismissively. “Nonsense,” he said. “You’re here now, and I think talking about this is helping you to work through it.”

  “I just feel like nothing is in my control. You know, when you’re growing up, you’re fed this
idea that if you do the right things—if you get good grades in school, if you go to college—that life is going to work out, that you’ll have some clear direction and know what to do. But that seems like it’s one big lie, because I did all that and I don’t have any clue what I’m doing, and I’m even more confused than when I was younger. So for maybe a small percentage of the population, when it comes to people my age, maybe for them, it has worked out just how we’re led to believe it’s supposed to, but for the rest of us, we’re just kind of floundering around, feeling like we were duped.”

  “You are certainly not alone in feeling that way.”

  “And that’s what makes it even harder—when you feel like you can’t trust your feelings.”

  “When you think you can’t trust your feelings,” he corrected me. “It is true that sometimes our initial feelings toward something might simply be a reaction, and that after we’ve had time to process it, we can see that there is a better choice to be made.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  He smiled gently. “I can’t tell you what to do, Daisy.”

  “You’re the professional, though, aren’t you? Isn’t that what people pay you for? Isn’t that why you’re writing this book?”

  “I’m writing this book because this is a phenomenon that interests me. This is the first time this sort of thing is happening, in this magnitude, and I admit, I find it fascinating. But so far as telling people what to do—I think the best I can do is to say keep a clear head, listen to your thoughts and feelings, and don’t lose hope.”

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  “I can tell you’re a smart girl. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. That doesn’t mean you’re not going to make mistakes, or things won’t be difficult for you sometimes, but I think you will ultimately find what it is that you’re looking for, even if you yourself don’t know exactly what it is at this moment.”

  “Well, I appreciate that,” I said. “Thank you for letting me talk about all of this.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll leave my address,” I continued. “Or do you just want to use my email?”

  “For what?” he asked, tilting his head.

  “Um, for the bill. You know, for talking to me.”

  “Daisy,” he said, smiling. “I’m not going to bill you. If this helped you, then I’m thrilled to hear it. You also helped me. I’d very much like to include significant portions of what we’ve talked about in the section of my book that goes over feelings, and how learning to trust our feelings is a crucial part of overcoming the quarter-life crisis. Any crisis, really.”

  “Of course,” I said, feeling silly. “And . . . thank you. For talking to me. It really did help.”

  I left his office, went home to change, and then headed down to the gym to meet Jonathan, feeling as though maybe I should just trust my feelings after all.

  Jonathan had a big smile on his face when I showed up at the gym. I felt a little intimidated, as most of the people there were guys and they were all in stunningly good physical shape. “Hey,” he said with a smile. “Glad you could make it.”

  I tried to ignore the looks of the other guys as I followed him through the gym, which was located in a converted warehouse, with an exposed ceiling. We went into a room near the back, which had a mirrored wall and a floor covered in green mats.

  “I think it’s great that you’re interested in learning some self-defense techniques,” he said. “I think it’s a good thing for any woman to learn. But are you interested in it because of that guy? Is he bothering you?”

  “He’s . . . been around. He hasn’t done anything yet, but it’s getting pretty creepy. I mean, I would’ve thought that he’d get it through his head by now that nothing was going to happen, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. So I was thinking that it wouldn’t be a bad idea if I learned how to protect myself.”

  “Absolutely,” Jonathan said. “And you’re right—it has been a pretty long time for him to be dogging you like that. You know, I’m thinking . . . maybe we should have a few guys watch out for you.”

  “A few guys? You mean from work?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, that’s okay,” I said. “It’s not that bad yet. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

  “I know you don’t, but this guy doesn’t seem to be getting the hint.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I appreciate the offer. Why don’t you just teach me what you know about self-defense.”

  “All right,” he said. “But if you change your mind, let me know.”

  “I will.”

  “Great,” he said. “Let’s get started, then.”

  We spent the rest of the afternoon going through various self-defense techniques. At first, I felt completely uncoordinated and unable to get the timing down for anything, even though he was obviously slowing things down, talking me through each step. He showed me what to do if someone tried to grab me from behind, how to break a hold if someone had my arm, how to pull an attacker’s head down so I could knee him in the face.

  The last thing we worked on was how to break away if someone came up behind you and grabbed you in a bear hug. For each of the holds we’d previously done, Jonathan had pretended he was the attacker, and this one was no different, but now he was standing behind me, with his arms wrapped around me.

  “First,” he said, “you’re going to shift your body to the side, enough so you can get your inside leg behind—yeah, just like that—and you’re going to jerk your own leg forward into the back of my knee. Do it with enough force behind it so it buckles the knee and then you’ll have the person off-balance. He’ll fall forward, and as he does so, use an elbow, right to the face. Just like that. Okay, let’s try it again.”

  He positioned his arms back around me, and again, I wondered why it was that I couldn’t be interested in someone like him. I doubted that he had ever slept with anyone at the office, not because he wasn’t necessarily attracted to any of the girls that had ever worked there but because he just wasn’t like that. But there was no feeling there, for me anyway, other than a person who had his arms around me; it was nothing like the way it was with Ian, whose touch was electrifying, as though every cell in my body could feel it and was clamoring for his attention.

  I took a deep breath, trying to remember the sequence of motions that Jonathan had just told me. It was a little bit halting, and not perfectly executed, but I managed to do it, and when he told me how good of a job I’d done, for a moment, I felt as though I’d gained a bit of control back over my life.

  After the gym, I went back home and took a shower and then changed. I didn’t feel like staying in though; it was Saturday night, after all, so I went down to Failte. I left a message for Caroline and told her that I was going to be there if she wanted to meet up. I was just sipping my first beer when she texted back and said that she was on deadline and had been working all day and she had to stay at the office but she’d try to get down there if she could. I sighed and slid my phone back into my purse. I figured that I was supposed to feel a little better now that I’d had a talk with Carl, and gotten all that off of my chest. Not that it was a therapy appointment, but wasn’t that the whole point of talk therapy anyway? That you were supposed to feel better once you were able to vocalize what it was that was bothering you?

  And the thing was, I had felt better after I’d left his office, but now I felt more confused than ever, having this time to just sit here with my thoughts. Because there wasn’t going to be any epiphany, there wasn’t going to be any clear sign of what I was supposed to do. My feelings were entangled in a hopeless knot that I knew I had no hope of unraveling. I knew I could ask Caroline, or my mom, what they thought I should do and they’d have a definitive answer, but I also knew this was something I had to come to on my own. Hadn’t Carl been implying that I should trust my feelings? That what I was feeling was not inherently wrong? I tried to recall exactly how he phrased it, but now I could
n’t. The only thing I could really remember from that whole thing was the feeling I had after I left, that everything was going to be okay, even though now I wasn’t so sure.

  I finished my first beer and got another. My face was already starting to get warm. I sat there and listened to the chatter all around me. People talking and laughing and generally having a good time. I couldn’t make out any specific conversations, just bits and snippets and it seemed like everyone there was with a group or a part of a couple, and I was the only one sitting alone, feeling completely sorry for myself. It would’ve been easy enough to strike up a conversation with someone, but everyone seemed so involved with the other people they were talking to, and I felt like such an outsider, which was strange because I’d been coming to Failte ever since I turned twenty-one. It was like my home away from home.

  I was on my third beer when someone came over and sat next to me, their elbow brushing mine. I took another sip of my beer before I glanced over to see who it was.

  It was Billy McAllister.

  He was waiting for me to look at him, a smile on his face. “Well fancy meeting you here,” he said. He tapped his beer bottle against my almost-empty pint glass. “Waiting for anyone special?”

  “No,” I said. My cheeks felt flushed, and I was suddenly very glad that he was here. “You, I guess. Just someone to talk to.”

  “I’m so happy to hear that! And I’m told I’m a great talker. I can also be a good listener, too. You look a little down in the dumps. Everything all right?”

  I took a swig of beer. “Yeah,” I said. “I think I’m just tired.”

  “Your boyfriend’s not here?”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Ever?”

  “Well . . . I’ve had a boyfriend before, but no, I don’t have one.”

  “Not even a pretend one?”

  He was ribbing me a little, I could tell, just trying to get me to crack a smile. So I did—a tiny one—because I did appreciate his efforts. And just by sitting down next to me and starting a conversation, he had banished that lonely feeling that had descended upon me when I first sat down at the bar. So for that, I was grateful.