Page 3 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

“I wouldn’t say I have pull,” she says. “More like a kinship. These are my people. And I’m good at cutting to the chase.”

I hold on tightly as she rounds a corner. “Are you saying I don’t cut to the chase?”

She gives me a quick grin, navigating efficiently around an obstacle course of delivery trucks, and double-parked vehicles, honking fiercely. “You can sometimes have a dramatic presentation, Francine, whereas a government employee is going to want thewhen what whereandwhypresented simply and without fanfare.”

“Are you calling me fanfare-ish?” I ask.

She shrugs and rounds another corner. “Court’s on the next block.”

I nod, and there’s this silence where all I can think about is the devastating possibility of me not going on this tour.

“We’re gonna fix this,” she says.

“I’ve been literally floating on cloud nine for months,” I say. “And being so careful. No just-for-the-hell-of-it cartwheels. No leaping puddles. Every time I so much as step into a crosswalk I’m obsessively scanning for speeding bikers and peds on phones. Who knew it would be some bizarre bureaucratic blunder? As if I’m married!”

“You are definitely the last person that I would ever imagine getting married. You would be like, screw this piece of paper!” she says.

“When and if I fall in love, I will not need a piece of paper to cement the deal,” I declare. “No offense to our married gal pals of course. Even if they are married tobillionaires,” I say, trying not to let the word drip with all the derision in the world.

Noelle snorts. “Tell me how you really feel about billionaires.”

I laugh. “You know how I feel about billionaires.”

“Yeah, but I want to hear you say it,” Noelle teases.

I beam at her, grateful for her teasing me and getting my mind off my problems. Whatever happens, I’ll have my gal pals at 341 West 45thStreet. “You are such a good friend.”

She reaches out and grabs my coat sleeve. “Backatcha,” she says.

It turns out to be amazing having Noelle along. She gets a front-and-center parking place reserved for official vehicles. She gets me to the exact right floor without so much as glancing at the building directory whereas I would have had to study it for an hour. She’s cheerful in line.

When we get up to the front, I really do have the feeling that there’s a kinship between her and the county clerk, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and thick glasses.

“Pinoy?” I ask him.

He gives me a questioning look.

“Never mind,” I say. Noelle gives me a stick-to-the-topic look and launches into explaining things, casting the situation as if it’s all of our puzzle to solve together, like we’re on the same team, like it’s not anyone’s fault.

“They have you as married…” he says, tapping keys.

“You can imagine how shocked I was to hear such crazy news!” I tell him, rooting through my purse. “I’m not even sure how I feel about marriage in general. I haven’t decided. I can see some advantages, of course—”

Noelle clears her throat and I hand over my many forms of identification. The clerk types some commands into the keyboard.

“Did you travel to or reside in Las Vegas nine years ago?” he asks.

I stiffen. “I lived there for a summer,” I say. “I guess that would be nine years ago.”

He swivels around, grabs a sheet of paper from a printer, and slides it across the desk. “Does this look familiar? Is that your signature?”

I blink as my mind interprets the words. It’s a Nevada marriage license. It has my name on it. And yes, my signature.

My eyes scan to the other column.

To the name of my husband.

Benjamin Stearnes.

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