The Tycoon

And Jennifer. Fuck Jennifer. For years I kept thinking about how she’d sent me to the study to hear my father and…that man…discuss their arrangement. She wanted me to be hurt. Punished. Put in my place. She divorced my father a few years ago, lived like a queen south of Galveston.

And that man…well, he didn’t reach out at all. Not once. And I told myself that was for the best. More proof in those early days when I wondered if maybe I should have given him a chance to explain.

If maybe it would have been worth it to marry him, so I could keep the foundation. The company.

Take care of Bea.

Bullshit. Bullshit fucking nonsense.

So, yes, in a lot of ways it was easy for me to say.

But it didn’t make the pain of being alone and heartbroken and scared any easier to bear.

“It will be easy for you, too,” I told Denise. “Trust me.”

“Thank you, Ronnie,” Denise said and looked around for the waitress. “I’ll just pay—”

“My treat,” I said.

“What?” she asked. “You don’t have to—”

“I know, but I’m going to have lunch anyway.”

She thanked me again. Prompted her children to say thank-you, and I exchanged fist bumps with the boy.

My heart squeezed as I shook the tiny fist of the baby in Denise’s arms. Lately, I’ve been having a lot dreams about babies and I usually wake up crying.

And it’s not like time was running out on me. I was only twenty-eight. But my biological clock must have been kicking in. Or maybe the sliding doors nature of my run from The King’s Land, and Dallas in general, created this imaginary life of what might have happened if I’d stayed. Five years was a long time. It’s hard to believe I wouldn’t have a family by now if I’d stayed.

It’s hard to just stop wanting something. Even if you know it’s poisoned.

But I did want children and I hated to think that was something I’d left behind in that other life. Bea was on me to date, and I tried, but inevitably something went wrong.

Bea called it self-sabotage. I called it self-preservation.

The assholes didn’t just declare themselves, you know?

Denise walked out the door with her kids and I rushed to the bathroom because I’d had one cup of coffee too many. In the bathroom I turned on my phone and saw four more missed calls from Sabrina. And a few texts.

SOS.

Seriously, Veronica.

Call me.

Please.

I called her, but her phone went right to voice mail. Which, since she never turned her phone off, meant she was on the other line.

After the bathroom I went on up to Melody at the counter and gave her my lunch order.

“Soup is broccoli–cheddar,” she said, because she knew my weakness.

“Excellent. I’ll have that.”

“Grilled cheese, too?”

“Yes, you devil. And could I have the tiniest piece of cherry pie, too?”

Melody looked over at the rotating pie display. “Before or after?”

I sucked air through my teeth. “Before.”

Melody cut me a sliver of pie and handed it to me. “I’ll bring the rest by.”

“You’re the best, Melody,” I said and turned to face the restaurant. It was one of those old-school diners, like a little rabbit den. Coat stands by each booth. Tables with wooden chairs in the center. I always took the back booth in the corner, because it was right by the kitchen and no one cared if I sat there all day.

“Hey!” Janice, a redhead with freckles like a sky’s worth of stars splashed across her face, caught me at the corner. She had one hand full of pancakes, a burger in the other.

Hmmm…should I have gotten the burger?

“A guy was asking for you,” she said.

“A guy?” I bent sideways to see my booth. And there was a man there. His back was to me and the rest of the restaurant. He’s wore a blue coat.

A prickly fight-or-flight impulse flooded me. Over time, a few husbands and ex-husbands have come to tell me to keep my nose out of their wife’s/girlfriend’s/ex-wife’s business. That my financial freedom mantra was fucking shit up for them.

And to them I always said “Good.” And then threatened to call the cops.

It was usually the only thing required.

“Did he say who he was?”

“No. But he knew you always sat in that booth. Said he’d wait for you. Sorry, if that—”

“No. It’s cool. Totally fine.”

The phone in my back pocket rang again, but it was the police siren ringtone—which was the one I assigned to Bea. I let it ring while I crossed the restaurant to my booth. The guy’s hair was a little long, a dark brown, almost black. Under the fine blue wool of his jacket, his shoulders were very wide.

I really hoped he wasn’t going to be trouble.

“Hi,” I said. “I understand you’re looking—”

He turned to me and the words died. They just curled up and died on my suddenly dry tongue.