Page 11 of Billionaire and the Barista

NATHAN

The kiosk scanned the boarding information from my phone, and I proceeded to the gate. Everything I did in the past twenty-four hours was through a wall of haze. My movements were slow, telegraphed. My voice sounded like ‘wah wah wah.’ So did other people’s voices.

I walked down the gangway and onto the plane. The air hostess showed me to my seat and took my carry-on bag for me. It was rare for me to feel this way, in need of assistance. But my ability to completely focus seemed to have stayed behind in that fucking cafe with Gabriella.

“Would you like a cocktail or wine while we wait to take off?”

I shook my head to comprehend the words said to me. I hated saying ‘what’ when I heard the words, and they didn’t register immediately. Half a second later the words lined up to form a cohesive sentence. A drink would be good, numb me even further. I didn’t need to think while I was stuck in this metal tube.

“Yeah, that would be great. Bourbon, on the rocks.”

“I’ll be right back.” She gave me her best customer service grin and left me alone.

Alone. Gabriella could have been in the seat next to me. She would have loved this. Living a life, she never could have imagined, but she chose to stay in the shit hole café.

I let out a heavy breath and pulled out my phone. Shit hole or not, that café held my heart because it had her.

I hit the dial on her number.

It rang.

“Pick up damn it,” I called her the second I got home, she didn’t answer. I called her when I woke up. Same.

I got it she was mad, but she didn’t seem to get that I did not want to break up. I wanted her, and we needed to figure this out. She needed to see that this was something I needed to do. I also needed to prove to my father, my family, my mother that I was the man they didn’t seem to realize I was.

Too many needs, too many directions, not enough me or time.

The call went to voicemail. I ended the call. How many times had I called? How many times had she seen my name on her phone, reaching out? She needed to pick up the fucking call.

I clenched my fist around the phone until the plastic of the protective case started to creak and pop. The case was there to stop me from breaking more phones.

“Your bourbon. If you need anything during the flight, just use the call button. My name is Cindy,” the air hostess practically purred.

I looked up and I swear she was fingering the call button. Her uniform had fewer buttons buttoned than the last time she had come by. Her innuendo was not lost on me, but I had no interest.

“I will keep that in mind,” I replied, accepting the drink with a nod. I couldn’t muster a grin. This was going to be a long flight.

When we landed hours later, I had been pleasantly distracted by Cindy’s flirting, an in-flight movie of some dumb comedy, and a nap. None of it provided the cleansing I needed to get Gabriella out of my head.

As soon as we landed, I had my bag and was striding from one life and into the next phase of my life. I tried calling Gabriella again.

As my time in Amsterdam progressed, I fell into a routine. I worked out, I went to work, I got drunk. It wasn’t a healthy routine, it was just what I did, the same thing day after day. I didn’t even take advantage of being in Europe or a new city.

I dealt with my uncle while perpetually hung over for at least six months. It wasn’t smart, or healthy. At first, I called Gabriella every week, and then every other week.

One day while nursing a hot cup of coffee, easing the pain in my head away, two things happened that I thought were a sign my life was about to get better.

Two idiots on crotch rockets flew past the few cars on the road. They darted in and out of traffic. One even jumped the curb for a second and raced down the sidewalk before getting back on the street. I was out of my seat at the outdoor café and following them on foot. Running a bit so that I could visually follow them. Racers.

I swallowed the rest of my coffee in a gulp. I needed a fucking motorcycle. The urge to race around at high speeds had been lost in the fog of— I hated to admit to myself that it was a break up, but it was— the break up with Gabriella.

I pulled out my phone and looked up the closest dealer. I wanted a Ducati under me as soon as possible. And that's when I noticed it had been weeks, not days since I had tried to call Gabriella.

I had managed to dull the pain of losing her. I had taken the mental fog that surrounded me and managed to replace it with the haze of a perpetual hangover. I was done with those, both of them. I needed a clear head to ride. And riding was what I needed. Riding and Gabriella.

I called her. I missed her sweet voice. I missed everything about her. This time when I called her, it wasn’t to be pitiful but to honestly check in, let her know that I still wanted her to come to Amsterdam and be with me. She would love it here. There was so much we could do together.

That call went to voicemail. So did the next few. At some point I think I was only calling her when I got drunk. She never answered, and I got drunk less and less and then never again.

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