Page 52 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

“That’s not this,” I say, because I won’t be classified with her Vegas boyfriends with their casino flash. I want to say more, to make her see I’m not like them, but then I remember I don’t give a shit.

“Was Spencer sick?” she asks.

“People ask after other people’s kids and pets. It doesn’t mean anything.” I pull Spencer away from a bush he was sniffing at.

“How about you just tell me that you don’t want to talk about it instead of trying to gaslight me about there not being an issue with Spencer? I’m the help. I get it.”

I feel my cool composure draining away. I’m bad at emotions. I’m bad at people. Why do I care if she’s upset? I don’t need to explain myself to Francine. It’s ridiculous that I would want to. “It’s not that,” I say. “It’s just…hard—”

“Wait.” She spins around to face me. “Was Spencer James’s dog?”

“Yes,” I sigh. “I promised I’d care for him,” I say casually.

There’s this silence where I brace for her to accuse me of clinging to Spencer in some pathetic and hapless way. Or maybe some recriminations or expressions of hurt feelings.

“You’re a very loyal person,” she says.

I look up. That was the last thing I expected her to say. “It wasn’t a deathbed promise or anything, but it’s important to me.” I say. “I didn’t get the chance…”To say goodbye.

“I’m so sorry.”

“But I did say I’d care for Spencer at one point,” I say.

“Spencer really is lucky to have you,” she says.

“I’m lucky.”

We stroll on past tulips in riotous shades of pink, red, and yellow. New tree buds dust winter-brown branches with vibrant shades of green. There’s something about early spring in Manhattan—things feel almost soft for a moment before the hot, smelly slog of summer sets in.

Her limp is pretty pronounced at this point. “Should we stop at a bench?” I ask.

“Why?” she says.

“You know why.” I angle my gaze down to her knee.

“Oh, please,” she says strolling on, more successfully concealing the limp now. Which probably taxes it even more.

“We’re going to stop at that bench up there and call Alverson,” I rumble, “and that’s that.”

“This isn’t the kind of marriage where you can boss me around,” she says.

“Actually, itisthat kind of marriage,” I say.

“No, it’s not,” she says. “As a matter of fact, this is a marriage where you hang on my every word and want to make my every dream come true,” she says. “Including my cherished dream of walking home without your dumbass opinion.”

“However, as your husband, I’m invested in your cherished dream of having dance in your future, as well as a stupid little thing known as walking around. So when I suggest we rest on the bench and wait for Alverson, you understand that husband knows best.”

Spencer picks this moment to enthusiastically sniff a lamppost, and that brings us to a halt.

She turns to me, there at the side of the walkway, eyes blazing. People and bikes flow past. Somewhere in the distance, a folkie plays folk guitar, bright notes mixing with the din of traffic.

“Actually, this is the kind of marriage where you valuemyopinion,” she says. “And if I say something’s not a problem, you take me at my word.”

“Except this is the kind of marriage where I happen to know that you can fool a lot of people, but you’re not fooling me. And I know that you’re hiding a very grave injury.”

“A very grave injury, Benny?” she asks. “Have I been shot with a bullet?”

“You know what I mean—it’s very grave…you know…” I almost say, very grave to your career, but I don’t, because apparently I’m in the business now of protecting her wishful thinking. “Grave enough,” I amend, but it’s too late; I can see the distress in her eyes.

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