Billionaire's Second Chance

I sighed. “And you’re not at all concerned that there’s this psycho following your daughter around?”

“You know,” my mother said, “I had someone who you might be able to call a stalker.” I wondered if she had even heard my question. “This was a long time ago, back in college.”

“You never told me that.”

“It never really came up. But he’d hang around my dorm, or he’d coincidentally be there right as I was getting out of class. He knew which classes I had, and when, and at first I tried to be nice to him because I didn’t want to come across as rude, but then it started to get annoying. So I eventually had to tell him in no uncertain terms that I was not going to be fucked with and he better leave me alone. And he did.”

It was weird to hear my mom say “fuck.” And I had a feeling that there was more to the story, that this person hadn’t been as into her as she was claiming, because it didn’t seem like it would be so simple to just tell someone to leave you alone and have them do it.

“You weren’t afraid at all?”

“No, I wasn’t. And while I understand that fear is a perfectly natural reaction to have in a situation like this, from the sounds of it, you don’t really have anything to fear, either. What this sounds like is you’re dealing with someone who has low self-esteem, who you’ve possibly led on with your actions or what you’ve said—”

“I didn’t lead him on! If saying hi to someone and trying to be a decent human is leading them on, well . . . that’s just ridiculous!”

“I’m not saying you did that, or that you consciously did it. Sometimes we do things we’re not aware of, and people can be sensitive to that. Especially if this is someone who doesn’t feel very good about himself to begin with. Perhaps you should talk to Carl about this, too. It might be worth mentioning.”

“I don’t think it has anything to do with a quarter-life crisis.”

“Well, in your case it might.”

“I’m not even necessarily saying that I think it’s something I’m going through . . . I just . . . I don’t know. I feel confused about some stuff.”

“That’s perfectly understandable. But you do realize this isn’t going to be a talk therapy session, right? That’s not what this is. This is someone who is trying to collect data for a book.”

“Yes, Mom,” I said, sighing. “If it starts to border on a talk therapy session, I’ll tell him to start billing me, okay?” There had been times when I’d wondered if I should be expecting a bill in the mail from her. It honestly wouldn’t have surprised me.

“Well, I’ll get his contact info over to you, and then the ball’s in your court. But Carl is very nice, and he takes his work seriously.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said. “I’ll talk to you later. We can figure out a good time to get together for coffee or something in the next couple of days.”

Her email came through a few minutes after we got off the phone. I looked at his phone number on the screen, but I hesitated in calling. I decided to wait; maybe I’d do it tomorrow. For now, I would continue my job search.

At work, though, it was hard to pretend that everything was normal. I could feel him watching me, whether it was when he was sitting at his desk, the door to his office slightly ajar, or when he was across the room, talking with Dan or Jonathan, his eyes landing on me, almost daring me to look over at him.

I wanted to. I wanted to look over at him so badly, even though another part of me didn’t want to see him again. I felt like I was getting pulled in two directions; the rational part of me demanding that I stand my ground and not let myself be pulled back in by whatever force had drawn me to him in the first place. But the emotional part of me was aching with desire to just be near him again, to have him look at me the way he did.

The whole day passed like this, intensifying to the point that I felt like I was going to explode. The air felt like it was crackling and I wondered if anyone else in the office could sense it. How could they not? I knew Ian could. Jonathan, though, seemed oblivious as he went about his business. Toward the end of the day, he stopped by my desk and asked when I wanted to get together for my first lesson in self-defense.

“Maybe this weekend?” I asked. “I don’t have too much planned.” I could feel Ian’s eyes on me.

“Sure,” Jonathan said. “Saturday afternoon would be good. I was thinking you could come down to the mixed martial arts gym I go to. There’s a space we can use.”

“Okay,” I said. “I think that’ll be good.”

He grinned. “Great. I’ll text you about timing and everything, but I’m thinking maybe two or three.”

“You two making plans without me?” Ian called from his desk. His tone was light, joking, but I could tell he was forcing it.

Jonathan looked at me and winked. “We might be,” he said, speaking slowly, as though deliberately taunting him. “Daisy’s interested in learning some self-defense. We’re going to try to get together to work on it this weekend.”

“I see.”

He didn’t say anything else besides that, and when I snuck a glance into his office, he was looking down at his desk, writing something.

A little while later, Jonathan left. I went to the bathroom, and when I was coming back out, Ian was there, standing by my desk.

“So, you’ve got plans with Jonathan,” he said.