Billion Dollar Stranger

I have to get my shit together.In the morning, I have a board meeting to attend and then a financial review. AHP is doing well. Over the last six years, work has been my life, and to succeed in it is very important to me. But for the first time, my success feels hollow when I realize that I don't have a single person in my life, family, or friend, who I want to call to share the good news with. I made my rule to keep myself isolated from attachment, but it feels empty to have so much and not to be able to share it with someone special.

Back in my office, I pull up Nicole's LinkedIn profile and stare at her picture. My hands itch to pick up the phone, but I don't have her number. Her picture looks at me from the screen, expression thoughtful, and I imagine sharing my news with her. I know she'd be interested and would ask me insightful questions. She's a clever girl with a good business brain and not afraid to put her point across. I'm surprised to realize that I have noticed those traits in her and to find that they are important to me. I've been so driven by appearances in recent years that the shift in my thinking is startling.

About halfway through the morning, Robert calls on my cell phone. We haven't spoken since his round of applause caused Nicole to bolt.

"Hey, brother," he says, sounding very cheerful.

"Robert," I reply tersely.

"Hey, you're not still pissed at me for watching you get kinky with that British girl, are you?" He laughs, as he's always done since we were kids. Our parents encouraged us to be competitive.

"I think I have a right to be," I say calmly, not wanting to show how riled I am. It would only make him worse.

"I talked to Mom, and she says you went to London. Was it to see Little Miss Submissive?"

"Fuck, Robert. Don't call her that."

"So it was. Man, you must have it bad to go all that way to get laid. Isn't there enough home-grown pussy for you to choose from?"

"All that education our parents funded and listen to you."

"You know, I didn't call you for abuse, Aaron."

"Then stop trying to rile me up."

"Where's the fun in that? So you really did go to see her in London?"

"Yeah, I guess I did."

"How'd it go?"

I think about our day and how good it had been to spend time with Nicole. The sex had been intense, but the part I remember most is coming inside her while she held me close and whispered soothing words in my ear. Everything was good until I walked away. I'm ashamed of that.

"It was good," I say, but it my tone doesn’t match my words. Robert doesn't seem to notice, though.

"Wow. You're seriously thinking about leaving your playboy days behind?"

"I don't know, Robert. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. There's just something about her."

"Ah, the 'something’."

"Yeah," I laugh. "Somethings are fucking dangerous."

"Life is dangerous," he says, suddenly serious, and I wince, thinking about the shit he's been through in his own life. The Harrington men have a rough time when it comes to love.

"Are you okay?" I ask, remembering it was Robert who called me.

"Yeah, fucking A," he says in a ridiculously exaggerated accent.

"So, how come you're calling?"

"I don't know. Just wanted to shoot the breeze." I imagine him shrugging and rubbing at the hair above his ear, the way he always does when he's stressed. I don't like that he's so far away. I know from experience that being alone when you're feeling low can be hazardous. It's all too easy to give in to temptations that do nothing to make you feel better in the long run.

"Well, I'm always available for that. Hey, you know I might be in Rhode Island on Friday. Are you around on the weekend if I come to New York?"

"Yeah. Saturday or Sunday?"

"Sunday, maybe. I'll let you know."

"Okay…and Aaron, you should try with that girl if you like her."

"What about life being dangerous?"

"Fuck it, Aaron. It's dangerous, but it's also too damn short."

"Yeah," I say, thinking about Robert's girlfriend and how young she'd been. "I'll call you, okay?"

"Yeah, brother," he says, and hangs up.25

NICOLEI’m feeling ridiculously nervous as I arrive at the airport with my small wheelie suitcase handle clutched in my sweaty palm. It isn’t like I’m traveling out to America specifically to see Aaron, but that’s how it feels, and I still have no idea if he will come to the hotel as I’ve suggested.

My company felt sorry for me with two transatlantic trips in such close succession, so I’ve been booked into Virgin Upper Class. I can understand why rich people pay for the service. Who wouldn’t want to be picked up at their front door by a driver in a luxury car, transported to a special entrance at the airport, whisked through a designated security channel, and then directly into the swankiest lounge you had ever seen? I’ve arranged to have my hair trimmed and styled, which is all part of the complimentary service, and still have time for a delicious lunch complete with a glass of champagne. I should be relaxed after such a pampering, but I’m on edge, feeling the sting of rejection before it has even happened.