Girl Meets Billionaire

by Brenna Aubrey et al.

  “Congratulations,” Andrew says, shaking my hand.

  “She hasn’t said yes,” I point out.

  “You haven’t even proposed yet!” Shannon growls.

  “Shhhh!” Marie and Jason say to her.

  “She can’t say yes,” he replies. “Literally.”

  I try to hide my smile. “You’ll be my best man?”

  “Sure.”

  “Farmington Country Club?” Amanda asks, looking at Shannon, who just shrugs.

  Marie bursts out with, “Yes! An outdoor wedding!”

  “I take it back,” Andrew mutters. “Terry will be a good choice.”

  Amanda whacks him in the shoulder. “You are such a jerk! Get over your stupid phobia about being outdoors! You seriously would refuse to...”

  He holds his palms up in surrender and leaves. Amanda follows him, berating him. Their arguing voices fade as they get farther away. I’ll deal with my stupid jerk phobic brother later. Right now I have a ring-filled, not-quite fiancée who has to give birth to her own engagement ring. Through her butthole.

  A medical assistant walks in with an assortment of supplies, but the most noteworthy item in her hand is a giant stack of empty French fry trays. The red-and-white patterned kind.

  “What are those?” I ask.

  She looks at me and smiles, so chipper she could be a punk cheerleader. Long blue hair in pigtails. Bright blue eyes. She has a bandage over a tattoo and a hole in her lip where a piercing obviously normally goes. Braces. She looks young enough for Dad to date.

  “Oh, that’s to catch the ring!”

  “The—”

  “You’ll use those when you eliminate, Shannon,” Dr. Porter says to her. “Felicia here will give you a list of foods that will help speed up the process.” She pauses. “And tiramisu is not one of them.”

  “Then you assume this is the best course of treatment,” I ask. Marie, Jason and Amy have fallen silent, jaws slightly open, minds blown like mine.

  Dr. Porter looks at Shannon’s chart, hooks it to the end of the bed, and pats her foot, speaking directly to Shannon. “Let’s get you into X-ray and go from there, but most of the time just eliminating the foreign object and letting the digestive tract do its job is the least invasive course.”

  “You are going to shit diamonds,” Amy says to Shannon. She starts to clap.

  “A gold brick,” Marie adds with a knowing grin.

  “Platinum.” My correction goes unnoticed. I’m imagining Andrew right now, texting Dad, and the laugh they’re about to have about this.

  It’s not like dropping a phone in the toilet.

  “This will be the most expensive poop in history,” Jason adds.

  “Diamonds are forever,” Amy jokes. “Until you eat the prunes.”

  The medical assistant, Felicia, picks up the French fry trays and an instruction sheet. “So, Shannon,” she starts.

  Marie interrupts her. “Brings a whole new meaning to the phrase, ‘You want fries with that?’”

  I look at Marie, who starts to giggle. Jason joins in, followed by Amy. While it’s funny—it really is, on the face of it—the look of pure, unadulterated horror on Shannon’s face makes me realize my place in this world.

  Time to be the asshole.

  “Get out,” I demand, the words booming in the room, as if my voice is the only sound that matters.

  And it is.

  “You can’t make us just—”

  I cut Marie off. “Yes. I can.” Amy, Marie and Jason stand their ground.

  “Shannon’s a grown woman who can—”

  “Shannon is a weeping pile of gorgeousness who is traumatized by swallowing the ring and now doubly traumatized by having a Keystone Kops family humiliating her, so you all need to leave!”

  My lovely future wife gives me a grateful look.

  Marie shoots Jason a look that might as well say Show your balls.

  He opens his mouth and says, “Declan, I know this is upsetting, and you feel guilty for being so reckless with your mother’s ring, but—”

  “OUT!”

  He flinches. Marie just gets angrier.

  The medical assistant now checking Shannon’s oxygen stats hands gives me a thumbs up.

  “Look here,” Marie blusters. “I know you think you’re this dominant—”

  That’s it. I move swiftly, my blood on fire. Shannon’s crying, Dr. Derjian is rubbing her shoulder, and the jokes are out of control. Amy gets to the threshold and hovers.

  All that’s left are Marie and Jason.

  “I am Shannon’s husband,” I declare.

  “Not yet,” Marie hisses. “And I’m her mother, and I need to make sure she’s okay.”

  “You are all that’s left that is making her not okay.”

  She looks like I slapped her.

  “Once we’re married, I’m her legal next of kin,” I stress. There is no way they’re winning this one. Tough shit, lady. I love you and your crazy family and your wonderful daughter, but I have had it up to here.

  And here, ironically, is where the ring got stuck in Shannon.

  “You’re not married yet.”

  “We can fix that easily within twenty-four hours.”

  Marie is horrified. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Try me.”

  Jason cocks one eyebrow.

  Shannon looks at him, then her mother, and just nods, pointing to the door.

  “You wouldn’t really just go to the courthouse and get married, would you? Without me there? Without the flowers and the dress and the cake and the helicopter and the President and—”

  At some point Shannon gets her hands on a notepad and a pen. She scribbles furiously and holds it up.

  It says:

  VEGAS

  “Noooooooooooo!” Marie moans.

  “Todd and Carol may have been onto something,” I say.

  Jason’s silent, just watching us all, eyebrows turned in with concern as he settles on Shannon. I look at her and she reaches for my hand.

  “I want to be alone,” she rasps. “With Declan.”

  “But—”

  Jason slides his arm around Marie’s waist and turns her, like a square dancer. Allemande left and out the door....

  “Let’s go, Marie.”

  “He can’t just—”

  “Yes, he can. He just did.”

  She turns around and gives us both a red-rimmed look with pleading eyes. “Don’t really run off to Vegas. Can you imagine if you pooped that ring out in a public toilet in a casino? You would—”

  I cross the room and yank the curtain closed. It’s not nearly as satisfying as slamming a door. Too bad there’s no lock.

  Shannon sags against the bed, her entire body relaxing.

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t talk. No need to thank me. It’s my job now.”

  “But you were kind of an asshole.”

  I blink. “Excuse me?”

  She motions for my phone and types:

  Remember how you’re supposed to think about other people’s feelings before you pound your chest and call yourself silverback?

  My jaw could shovel sidewalks.

  “You’re making me the bad guy here? They were being jerks to you.”

  That’s just how they are, she types. They joke because they love me. They’re family.

  “Then I don’t know how to family!”

  “What?” she gasps.

  “You heard me. I have no idea how to do this family thing.”

  “No, no,” she rasps. “I heard you. I understand. I just can’t believe you turned the word ‘family’ into a verb.”

  I stare at her. That’s what she got out of what I said? That I broke a grammar rule?

  “I don’t know if I can be with a man who turns nouns into verbs. I just can’t even!” She starts to laugh, then gags a little. I pour her a cup of water and add some crushed ice, then sit on the bed next to her, urging her to drink. The cold water should reduce the swelling. />
  She sips slowly through the straw, then says, “I am the worst person for you to pick as your wife.”

  “Stop talking! And I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “You can withdraw your offer.”

  “My offer? This isn’t a merger, Shannon. It’s a proposal. Or, at least, it will be once we get the ring back. For marriage. And love.” I frown. “Unless you want me to withdraw...”

  The world as I know it becomes a frozen void. Time is meaningless. Space is optional. Molecules don’t have purpose.

  She shakes her head no, and life resumes. “Don’t withdraw. But don’t be so mean.”

  I sit down and hold her hands, capturing her eyes. “I love you, Shannon. More than I think even I realize. And when people—even your parents—make you suffer, it makes me crazy. They push your bounds and my buttons and I’m not putting up with it. I’m just not. You have to understand that.” We’re in dangerous territory now.

  “And,” she rasps, pausing to take a sip, “you’re the kind of man who needs a woman who doesn’t flush her phone or swallow heirlooms.” Sip. “Or nearly die from a bee sting.”

  “That was entirely my fault.”

  “You can’t claim responsibility for all of those. But I’ll blame you for the spiked tiramisu.”

  I close my eyes and groan, squeezing her hand.

  “I mean, really.” Sip. “Who’s stupid enough to have a symbol of your undying love tucked away in a piece of food that is the female equivalent of—” She starts coughing and can’t stop, the rest of her sentence lost to the ravages of metal and diamond making its way through her organs.

  A guy in scrubs appears at the door. “Shannon Jacoby? I’m here to take you to X-ray.”

  For the next hour I sit in an uncomfortable chair and text with Grace nonstop, trying to figure out where this all went wrong. At some point I nod off.

  When I wake up with a neck cramp and a phone out of battery, Shannon’s back, dozing in the bed, propped up.

  “Dec?” she whispers. I jump up, disoriented. I fell asleep? I don’t take naps unless I’m naked and Shannon’s with me, and those naps don’t involve any actual sleep. Unreal.

  “You need something?” I ask.

  “I just need to know—” She coughs, the sound a weird rattle in her bones.

  Dr. Derjian walks in, frowning. Our discussion has to be tabled, and Shannon’s eyes are troubled. I imagine mine don’t look too happy, either. He grabs his stethoscope and holds it up to her chest, listening intently as her coughs recede.

  “We got the X-rays,” he declares, unsheathing them from a large manila envelope. He holds one up to the fluorescent light. Shannon and I look up, as if we’re stargazing.

  The ring is an obvious object, right smack in the middle of her chest, embedded under her ribs.

  “Ouch,” she says.

  “Ouch,” Dr. Derjian and I agree.

  “Do I need surgery?” she asks. Her face is hopeful. She really would rather have her chest sawed open than the alternative.

  The doctor points to the stack of French fry trays he and Dr. Porter gave her earlier. “Not yet. Those should be the best medical tools, in the end.”

  My inner twelve year old wants to snicker. He said In the end.

  Shannon gives me a sharp look, as if she read my mind. “So I just have to wait it out?”

  He nods. “Prune juice, apricot nectar, lots of high-fiber foods. Leafy greens. Felicia has a list of suggested foods.”

  Mom’s ring stares at us, a white object in stark relief against Shannon’s inner workings.

  “It won’t rip her as it goes through?” I ask.

  Steady, dark brown eyes meet mine. He’s sharp and calm. “It shouldn’t, but any sharp abdominal pain needs to be met with an immediate trip to the ER.”

  “Do you know Dr. Porter’s schedule?” Shannon asks.

  He cocks one eyebrow. “Any attending physician will be very competent in treating you.”

  She waves her hand. “No. I want to know when she’s working so I can avoid her. If I want to be judged with snooty haughtiness I’ll go find my ex’s mom and ask her opinion on my fashion choices.”

  “Stop talking,” Dr. Derjian and I say together.

  He gives me a look and I ask, “They can’t help themselves, can they? Your fiancée’s a talker?’

  A flash of three or four different emotions pass through his face before he replies, “You could say that.”

  The look we give each other seems to say, I share your pain, bro.

  He finishes some notes on Shannon’s chart and looks up at her. “The discharge nurse will be in shortly with instructions.”

  “That’s it?” I ask, adrenaline seeping out of my pores, exhaustion filling me.

  “For now.” He pats Shannon’s knee. “Just come in for any pains you encounter.”

  She points to me. “Does that include him?” Dr. Derjian laughs and leaves the room.

  Amanda comes rushing back. “I can take Shannon home.” She cocks an eyebrow and seems to watch the doctor walk down the hall. “Take him home, too, if he’s single...”

  Andrew better make his move. Fast.

  “I want her to come back to my place.”

  Shannon shakes her head “no” with such violence I think she’s make the ring come flying out of her.

  “What?” Alarm and confusion fill me. “Why not?” There’s no better place for her to recover than with me.

  She and Amanda look at me like I’m the stupidest person on earth. Shannon points to the French fry trays.

  “Declan, do you seriously think there is any person alive who wants to hang out with their beloved while they wait to shit out their engagement ring?” Amanda asks. Shannon just buries her face in a spare pillow.

  “When you put it that way...”

  “Think of it like a colonoscopy.”

  “What?”

  “You ever take your dad to the hospital for his routine colonoscopy?”

  “No. My father barely has time for a handshake. We don’t take each other to places where we have someone shove things in our asses.”

  She gives me a hairy look. “You’re just like your brother.”

  I’m not sure whether to be offended or pleased.

  “My point,” she continues, “is that no one wants to be watched while they have things coming out of their butt that might be embarrassing.”

  Which is every object that was ever up there, right?

  “I see.” And I do. I guess if Shannon has to go through the unbearable humiliation of shitting out her own engagement ring, the only thing that could make it worse is to have me there.

  “I am never, ever eating French fries again,” Shannon mumbles from behind her pillow.

  A quick kiss on her cheek and a look of assurance from Amanda and I head out, wondering how I went from the perfect proposal to the perfect disaster.

  And I still haven’t even popped the question.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Poopwatch, Day 1

  Andrew’s phone call comes out of nowhere the next morning. Shannon’s at her apartment, refusing to see me until the ring comes out, busy eating bran cereal and prunes. That tiny little place is going to smell like a frat house soon.

  “You see Jessica’s tweet?” Andrew’s voice has a triumphant tone that sets my competitive streak to Engage.

  “I unfollowed her a long time ago, bro.” Grace hasn’t given me a report today. What’s this about?

  “You might want to check it out, because Shannon’s going to lose it when she sees what Jessica’s up to.”

  Remember back in the good old days, in 2010, when Twitter wasn’t a topic of conversation? Yeah. Me too. I liked it better when My Space was the in thing and we didn’t check in on Facebook to notify people which bathroom we were using in which restaurant.

  My phone buzzes with a text.

  “That’s Shannon,” I say. “Thanks for the heads up.”

  “Welcome. And let m
e know how Poopwatch is going.”

  “What?”

  “Poopwatch. That’s what Jessica’s calling it. Hashtag and all.”

  “Wait!” Poopwatch? My proposal has a hashtag? At least it’s not Poopgate. Why does everything have to end in -gate?

  Bzzzzz.

  “How in the hell did she find out?” I know Shannon’s texting me like mad, and I steel myself for the inevitable screeching.

  He snorts. “No idea, but it’s all over the Twitterverse.”

  The fact that we have something called “the Twitterverse” is an abomination against nature.

  Shannon’s text is a screenshot of a tweet from Jessica @jesscoffN. It is a picture of Shannon’s x-ray with the ring in sharp contrast to her ribs and soft organs, with the following tweet:

  Shitty proposal #poopwatch @anterdec2

  Next text from Shannon:

  Can you marry me in jail? Because I’m going to kill her. Just get me a good lawyer if you want conjugal visits.

  I have no doubt about Shannon’s homicidal tendencies right now. I have to confess to a touch of Schadenfreude, though, because it’s nice to be the one watching her anger instead of being the object of it.

  I miss you, I text back.

  See you in a few days, she replies.

  Days? I have to wait days?

  No. No wait. I’m coming over today.

  You come over today and I let my mother plan your bachelor party, Shannon texts back.

  Well, she’s got me there. I’m marrying a negotiation shark.

  How about you call me when you’re ready to see me, I text.

  How about I call you to help me bury Jessica’s body?

  She’s only half joking. That’s the scary part.

  How in the hell did Jessica get her hands on those X-rays? I’m puzzling through that one, madly texting Grace to get her on the job. Ten minutes later someone’s at my door. It’s Andrew, carrying a bag of bagels and wearing a scowl. The bagel bag slams against my wood counter and he heads straight for my coffeemaker.

  “Got any scotch?” He pours himself half a cup of coffee, finds the alcohol before I can answer, and fills the rest of the mug with spirits.