Page 2 of Dirty Nasty Billionaire: Part 4

With no job and no Nixon to distract me, I have oceans of time to think about Nixon. Which sounds like a paradox, but trust me, it’s not. Because when we were having wild sex every single day and night, I didn’t have time to wonder why his apartment was devoid of furniture or why his office was like a big blank sheet of paper. I didn’t have time to dwell on his lack of assistants or the way he ran from that crowd at the gala. In my web searching shame spiral, I’d read up on all the various updates about Nixon ducking out of various speaking engagements. According to my research, he hadn’t spoken to a crowd outside of Scour world headquarters in almost five years.

That coupled with his intractability when it came to any part of his private life becoming public, and I was really starting to worry about him. There’s clearly something very wrong there, maybe even something broken. But of course, there’s nothing I can do about that now.

I don’t even know where he is.

* * *

New England Collegelies on approximately 300 acres just to the west of Boston, along the banks of the Charles River. I remember the first time I visited, as a junior in high school who was busting her ass to qualify for a spot. My parents pulled our old Toyota Corolla up in front of the iron and stone gates, and there was a moment where I was scared I wouldn’t be able to walk in. Surely everyone there would see that I didn’t belong.

But my dad booted my mom and I out of the car while he went to find parking, and I found myself on the sidewalk staring up. And surprisingly, I wasn’t scared.

I was ready.

I was hungry.

I knew I belonged.

Because I was smart, and I’d worked hard. I knew that in 18 months I’d be walking through the gates as a freshman.

NEC was exactly what I hoped it would be: a school full of smart, ambitious students, brilliant faculty, and opportunities for me to reach new heights. Everything I wanted, I got out of it. I absolutely loved the four years I spent on that campus and everything it gave it me.

So walking through those same gates now, I can’t help but feel as if I let it down. It lived up to its bargain, giving me the best education and opportunities, leading me all the way to a top internship at a world-renowned company. And what did I do?

I fucked it all up. Literally.

The last time I was here was back in early May, for graduation. It was cold, but sunny, so everyone sat in the audience shivering while pretending it was a beautiful spring day. My parents were out there, my dad taking pictures with his iPad like a grade A dork. Elise and I stood in line in our caps and gowns, waiting to cross the stage and accept our diplomas from President Levi (or, in Elise’s case, an empty red leather folder with a listing of her library fines inside). Everything felt so exciting, like we were on the edge of something great. I hadn’t yet had my disastrous first day at Scour, or made any of the terrible decisions that would follow. When Elise and I stood next to the Lawrence Fountain and had our picture taken holding up our New England College diploma folders, I felt like I’d walk out of here and take on the world.

But now here I am, just two months later, skulking back onto campus, my future foggy and murky. Part of me hoped that maybe stepping onto campus would help me come out of it a little, so see some hope. Maybe feel a little bit of that mojo I felt back when I first visited NEC. But nope, I still feel completely lost.

I have a stack of transcripts waiting for me at the registrar, stamped and sealed for my future (hypothetic) graduate school applications. I should probably see if I can still take advantage of on-campus career counseling as a recent grad. Lord knows I’m going to need it.

The registrar’s office is in the old administration building, a gothic stone beauty with arched windows, creaky old wood floors, and brass nameplates. It looks like the kind of place a Hollywood location scout chooses when the scene calls for something that “looks like college.” I go in and hand the secretary my ID, and I wait while she goes to the back to get my transcripts. I wonder, as I do with every interaction I’ve had since the story broke, from my Scour coworkers all the way down to the cashier at Starbucks, if she’s heard my story. She’s got my name, so maybe it’s ringing a bell to her right now, she just can’t remember how to place it.

I hope eventually these horrible thought spirals will stop. Elise tells me the more I get out, and the more time passes, the better it will get. I sure hope so, because this feels so shitty I can’t even.

“Delaney?”

My heart drops into my stomach at the sound of my own name. I turn and see Dr. Costanovich, the New England College Dean of Students, standing in the doorway. Shit. I completely forgot that his office is just down the hall.

Dr. Costanovich conducted my scholarship interview for NEC back when I was a lowly high school senior. Right away I could tell I liked him, and when I arrived on campus, I made it a point to sign up for a class with him. Though he spends most of his time overseeing departments and counseling students as Dean, he does take time to teach a class or two each year. He’s well known journalism professor, with a specialty in science and technology reporting.

Oh, the irony.

“Hi, Dr. Costanovich,” I say, trying to arrange my face into some semblance of a smile.

“What are you doing on campus?”

“Just picking up some transcripts,” I said, pointing to the secretary, who’s making her way (very very slowly) back to the front desk, a manila envelope in hand. “I’m thinking about grad school, so I need to get my applications together.”

“Is that so?” He says, though I can hear the skepticism in his voice. He knows I’m full of shit, thinking about grad school. We had a talk about it during the fall of my senior year, during which I told him I was ready to get out of school and the confines of the classroom and actually do things.

Oh, I did things, all right. I did someone. And look where it got me.

“Why don’t you stop by my office when you’re done here?” He says with a smile that seems full of pity.

“Oh, I couldn’t take up your time,” I say. I really don’t want to find myself sitting across from him at his desk, just like I did during advising meetings. It would be too painful. “I’m sure you’re very busy.”

“It’s summer, Delaney. You know I’ve got nothing going on. Just stop by, ok?” He poses it as a question, but I know his tone well enough to know it’s hardly a request. And even though a little part of me thinks that I don’t owe him anything, I know that there’s no way I’m going to ditch out on Dr. Costanovich.

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