Page 94 of Return Billionaire to Sender

“Personally, it was one of my favorite sessions so far.”

“Not funny,” she whispers. She looks like she’s going to cry. This really is serious.

“It wasn’t literally sex in exchange for anything. We were just joking—”

She shakes her head, having none of it. Her eyes begin to fill with tears. My heart hitches.

During negotiations, I always know what to say to pull a person toward a given goal, a given destination.

What do I say when a person herself is the goal? When she is the destination? Her feelings, her well-being.

I should reassure her and comfort her, but I’m not sure how. Comforting and caring about a person might be one of those use-it-or-lose-it muscles. Howie would know.

“I know this program isn’t important to you, but it’s important tome,” she says.

“Elle.” I sit up, brush a bit of hair from her forehead. “It doesn’t matter what you do. Your empathy program was doomed from the start. You have to know that.”

She starts to cry.

My gut clenches. Why is she crying? I don’t want her to cry. Crying rarely moves me, but Elle doing it feels like a knife. I try to think how I can get her to stop. I settle a hand onto her shoulder. “Hey,” I say. “It’s just a job.”

“It’s not just a job,” she sobs. “Haven’t you been paying attention? It’s more than just a job. It’s a whole…” She waves her hand, as if it defies description. “The whole building and the people and everything.”

“Buildings come down,” I try, “and they go up.”

She presses her hands to her face. “I just always let everyone down.”

“How can you say that?” I ask. “You’re one of the most diligent, hard-working coaches anybody could ever imagine. You passed up a million dollars.”

“You don’t understand,” she sniffles.

“Make me understand,” I say. “I can’t imagine you letting down anybody. If anything, you’re too conscientious. If I ever needed anybody fighting for me, I’d want it to be you,” I add. It’s the truth, and surprises me. “It would be you,” I say.

“You wouldn’t say that if you really knew anything,” she says. “I have let people down. You have no idea.”

“I can’t imagine it,” I say.

She shakes her head. Somehow I just know she needs to tell me.

Usually I goad people into telling me things because the knowledge gives me power. This is different. I want to be with her in it.

“Tell me, I won’t judge,” I say. “You couldn’t have done anything worse than what I do on a daily basis. And you know what they say about confessing things to terrible people, people far worse than you? It cleanses the soul way better than confessing to priests. Terrible people won’t judge you for your transgressions. Terrible people get it.”

“For one thing you’re not terrible. Also, you don’t know anything about me,” she sniffles. “I’m not what you think.”

“You’re saying that you’ve done worse things than I have? That’s what you’re saying? Because I’m going to go with a ‘highly unlikely’ rating on that.”

She snorts through her tears. She seems about to speak, but then she stops. Then, “For starters, did you let somebody die?”

“No,” I say softly.

“My mother died of cancer,” she continues. “You probably know that already.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“What it doesn’t say is that I let her die.”

“When it comes to cancer, we usually don’t have a choice,” I say.

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