A Billionaire for Christmas

Usually I wasn’t that awful about Ellen to other people, particularly people who were practically strangers, but Audrey was a good listener, and I was not on the best terms with my ex as of late. The chance to be honest was simultaneously refreshing and concerning.

Audrey’s eyebrows rose. “A monster? So she’s the awful creature that poisoned you into believing you had to be a pessimist to survive the world.”

“I’m not a pessimist—I’m a realist. I’m sure it’s difficult to tell the difference when you’re as unrealistically optimistic as you are—”

“Hey, now!”

I smiled to let her know I was teasing. Mostly. “But I promise you that the glasses I’m looking through are quite clear. There was no poison except truth.”

“The worst poison of all.” Her cheeks were pink and her eyes bright, and I suspected she was yanking my chain, but it was hard to care. Her attention was pleasant enough to make up for any mocking.

She must have felt guilty for it, though, because she grew serious then. “I’m sorry. I don’t know her at all. Or your situation. She’s probably a terrible beast. I can’t imagine any other reason a woman wouldn’t get along with you.”

And now I felt guilty.

“No, she wasn’t a terrible beast. Not really.” Even with her affairs, even though she’d stopped loving me long before I’d stopped loving her. “She was broken and in grief, and it’s easier to believe that she was a shitty human being rather than facing the fact that I couldn’t make things better for her. That I wasn’t a strong enough anchor to hold onto her. That I hadn’t loved her enough to replace the things she’d lost.”

I’d never said that before. Not out loud. Not really to myself, even, except in the wake of consuming several glasses of bourbon.

Audrey blinked at me sympathetically. “Wow. That’s heavy. Does it feel good to be able to admit that?”

“No.” It didn’t feel good. It felt extremely shitty, but it did feel authentic, and that felt meaningful. “I’m glad I said it, though.” I threw back the rest of my champagne, hoping to cover up the awkward aftertaste of my confession.

When that didn’t work, I deflected. “And now it seems you know the source of my bitterness, what’s the source of your not-bitterness?”

“My parents,” she said quickly.

This surprised me, mostly because I hadn’t expected she’d have an answer at all.

“My father, actually,” she corrected herself. “I was only nine when my mother died, so memories of her and them together is a bit hazy, but what I do remember is how much he loved her. How he doted on her and took care of her and adored her, even after her death. He had such respect and devotion for her ghost that it almost felt like she was still there when she’d gone. He kept her present. He didn’t date after her, and he had every reason to be sad and miserable without her—raising two girls on his own, especially—but his love for her kept him happy and upbeat right up until he passed himself.”

I scrutinized her as I carefully framed what I wanted to say in my head. How could I present my view while still being delicate about treading on her childlike notions about what went on in someone else’s relationship? “You don’t think that you could be romanticizing their relationship? As you said, thirteen is awfully young…” I knew it came out patronizing even when I’d intended it not to.

Or, perhaps that’s what I’d exactly intended. Whether her parents had actually had a magical marriage or not, she obviously believed that it was the ultimate goal. She didn’t realize those relationships were not typical, and that she could love and dote and devote herself to the man of her dreams, and he would still shit all over her.

She needed saving from her fairy-tale notions.

But was I the hero for being the asshole who exposed the reality of her sweet memories?

She didn’t fall for it for a minute.

“There he is!” She pointed at me while giving me a toothy grin. “There’s the man I met last night. You’ve been almost likable all afternoon. I was beginning to wonder if your curmudgeon behavior had all been an act.” She clapped her hands together suddenly. “You know what it is? I’m good for you! I bring out the best in you. How lucky you met me!”

How lucky I met her? “Humbug,” I said. But it was impossible not to smile.

And as long as I was being authentic, as long as I was being honest, she did bring out the best in me. She reminded me of that pure passion I’d felt for life so long ago. It was nice to remember that man I’d once been, even if it wasn’t a man I ever wanted to be again.