Page 125 of Return Billionaire to Sender

But on the upside, the Queens place has room enough for six of us; it’ll make a decent temporary place while we hunt for apartments.

Francine and I stop in at their little neighborhood coffee shop and try out their frappuccinos, which are a little bit better than the corner deli ones in our neighborhood. We agree that that’s an upside.

We pick out a nice window table and admire the excellent table availability factor as compared to Manhattan coffee shops, where you have to show up at six to get a table, and table-less people are always hovering around like vultures. It’s disconcerting when you’re trying to read or have a conversation.

I wander over to the pastry case up at the checkout counter. I’ve been meaning not to do this, promising myself not to do it, but here I am, doing it. I spot two of the biggest almond croissants and ask for them to be put on plates. I pay and bring them back to our table, setting one in front of Francine.

“That works,” she says.

I take my seat as she bites in.

“Yum,” she says. “An hour extra of dance practice? Worth it.”

I pick up the croissant from my own plate. I rip off the end of it and put it in my mouth. It’s not as delicious as the ones in San Francisco. Nothing is as delicious as it was in San Francisco.

“And I spy another upside…” Francine says, pointing out a couple of hot guys up at the barista bar behind me.

I twist around like I’m looking at the menu. “Sigh,” I say.

She holds up her phone. “Lemme get this for Jada and the gang. Highlights of the neighborhood. Lean to the right and smile.”

I lean to the right and make a lemon face.

“Hellz yah.” She sets down her phone. “The blue-shirt one seemed like he was looking at you.”

“Not interested,” I say. The idea of being with a man who’s not Malcolm makes me feel ill.

“It might be good to get back out there,” she says. “Get back on the horse that threw you.” I’m just shaking my head. Francine glares at me. “Noelle, the man is a jerk. You deserve better.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew,” I say.

“I can’t believe you still believe in him. You’re loyal. I love that about you.” She licks a smidge of almond paste off her fingers. “But not everyone deserves your loyalty.”

“He’s punishing all of you for what I did, I get it. He’s tearing down our building when he has a perfectly viable alternative,” I say. “But if you’d been there…yes, I was deceiving him, but at the same time, I was more honest with him than I’ve ever been with anybody, and I think that went both ways. Maybe that’s not an excuse. All I know is, I can’t stop thinking about him, wanting to make it right. How messed up is that?”

“Messed up doesn’t matter to the heart,” she says.

I snort. “You totally have to put that on a motivational poster.” I raise my hands, making a little frame, like that’s the poster. “Messed up doesn’t matter to the heart,” I say.

Francine jabs the air with her spoon. “I would definitely wear a shirt with that saying.”

“If he was walking through that door right now? The first thing I’d feel is happy. Just pure freaking happiness. Even imagining it right now, I want it to happen. I want to see him again.” I shake my head.

Francine smiles wistfully. “It’s a saying for a reason, you know.”

I tear at the flaky pastry.

34

Malcolm

I’m backon the West Coast the next week, managing the takeover and absorption of the Germantown Group into my operation while overseeing my New York office and a number of other projects.

My PR people want me to do interviews about this takeover and retraining program. Hell no.

I offered training to displaced workers; I didn’t get a lobotomy. I still don’t like talking to people. I really don’t like people thanking me for things. People who thank me for things—I just want them out of my face.

During one of those trips out to San Francisco, I get a very bewildering lunch invitation from none other than my father. I’m wary, considering we hate each other. But curiosity gets the better of me, and I go.

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