Page 86 of Return Billionaire to Sender

“Why wouldn’t it be?” I ask.

“Showing up here. Not that you’re not welcome.”

“Maybe I’ve come to plunder the secret to your relationship success,” I say.

He gives me a look and I think that he realizes that is my question. “A relationship is just about showing up,” he says. “It’s all you can really do. Show up. Say things. Hang in there. Do your best.”

As advice goes, it’s fucking vague. “That’s it? Don’t go into relationship coaching, my friend. Showing up is what gets people into trouble.”

“No, showing up emotionally,” he says, as if I’d know what the fuck that means.

In the back of the car on the way home, I think a lot about that platter, and the game that the girls made out of it. It meant something to them and it made them feel closer to me—or it would have if I had known I’d given it to them.

I call my personal shopper on the way home in the car. It’s late, but I don’t care. She makes a mint upcharging me for the shit she finds. “I need a gift,” I say. “I need it tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she says. I can hear rustling. “I just need the occasion, price range and social media leads on the recipient.”

“It’s a thank-you gift, but I want to be involved. It’s for a woman.”

“Great! Okay…” she says.

I’m never involved in the gifts, and I doubt she thinks it’s great. “Let’s brainstorm something. Where do we start?”

“Usually I do some research to see what the woman is into.”

“She loves people. She has a quirky fashion sense,” I say. “Hedgehogs. She’d go for homemade over designer labels. Anything having to do with the US Postal Service. Earth tones. Nothing showy.”

“How personal? If it’s jewelry, I need to study her style on social media.”

“No jewelry.” I think about Elle’s bag. She once called it boring. Not really her style. What if I got her a bag that was her style? “She needs a new bag for her notebooks and iPad and things.”

“Purses and bags are hard,” she says. “High risk for women.”

“Can we get some kind of postal-themed bag? But it can’t be cheap or…inauthentic.”

“What do you think about a vintage postal carrier bag? There is a market for those out there. Hold on.” She starts sending me links to images. None are right. “I’m confined to vendors who can deliver overnight,” she says.

“Money is not an object,” I say. “Everybody delivers overnight for a price.”

“Shit,” she says. “Homemade?”

“Yes.”

“Motherfucker. This is going to cost you, but I just sent you a link of a vintage postal carrier bag with a hand-done monogram and stitch flowers.

I take a look. “I don’t know.”

“Think about her stuff. You’re matching her stuff.”

“She wouldn’t want a monogram,” I say. “What are the chances I can get a few hedgehogs on there?”

“So the job is, overnight the bag to an artisan in San Francisco who will sew or stitch a hedgehog on it and courier it to your hotel by lunchtime.”

“Can you do it?”

“It’ll cost you,” she says.

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