Page 12 of The Billionaire Is Back

I sought out a life in New York because my natural rhythm had always been at a higher RPM than Beacon Harbor’s. New York’s matched that. Growing up, I had been frustrated that my surroundings didn’t move as fast as I wanted them to.

But this feels good now.

Like catching my breath after a long run.

I should call Jake to let him know I’ll be in town.

But I’m not going to.

I let out a frustrated breath. It would be weird. I hate that it would be weird, but it would.

I have no idea if it would be a good time to call him or not. Because I have no idea what his or anyone’s life is like now. I deactivated my Facebook account after I made my first million because random people started DMing me to ask for money. It’s been fun to stroll down memory lane on this drive. But those home movies in mymind end suddenly at the point when I moved to New York.

I’ve been too busy. Too focused. I’ve been an amazing CEO. But it’s made me a bad son, a bad brother, and a bad friend.

I feel like I should call Claire too. But even if I hadn’t fallen off the face of New England once I got to New York, that would still be weird. I never called her when I lived in Beacon Harbor. Doesn’t change the fact that I want to hear her voice, though.

The option of calling anyone is taken away from me when my sweet girl finally shows her age and my neglect. The AC dies, and I have to crack open all four windows in the car. The interior is now filled with the roar of wind traveling at highway speeds. My carefully styled billionaire hair that was strategically designed for maximum negotiation intimidation is windblown to shit.

We are in the hot, humid center of early July in the Northeast. I start sweating immediately. Unbuttoning my dress shirt, I strip down to my undershirt. It takes all my training in yoga and jujitsu to do this while driving, but all that practice allows me to accomplish it without crashing or swerving.

I enjoy the drone of the wind drowning out my thoughts. Until my mind starts spinning about all the work I’m not accomplishing. I need music. I glance at the stereo. The second owner of this Mercedes had installed a stereo system that was state of the art—for the 1990s.

My friends all found it hilarious that I had a CD player, so for Christmases and birthdays they would buy me old CDs they found on eBay.

I glance at the stereo again, knowing what I want to listen to.

It can’t be in there—can it?

I push the CD button and then hit Play. Mumford & Sons blasts through the speakers, exactly as I was hoping it would. I turn up the volume, and the music overtakes the wind.

Claire gave me this CD the Christmas before I left. We were in the Sweeney kitchen. Alone together, for a moment.

“I thoughtyou were only supposed to give me CDs that are ironically nineties.” I had received enough Weird Al, Green Day, Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and various ska bands to know the rules.

Claire furrowed her brow and crossed her arms over her chest. I looked away when she did that. Always. There was so much I couldn’t allow myself to see or think about now when it came to Little Sweeney. “Well yeah, it’s from the late aughts, not the nineties. But it is ironic. That’s new music for young people that sounds old. Kind of like you.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “What do you mean, kind of like me?”

“I mean you have to act young because you have an old soul.”

I liked that she thought about my soul. “So, you’re saying I’m the Mumford and Sons of high school kids?”

Claire rolled her eyes. Damn was she getting good at that. “Something like that.”

“And it’s not called the aughts. It’s the noughties.”

She laughed. “Nobody calls it that.”

“Nobody calls it the aughts either. Except actual old people. Plus, the time we grew up being ‘naughty’ is way more fun, don’t you think?”

“So we can talk about how naughty we were to our future kids? I mean…notourkids, like yours and mine… I meant…” She seemed slightly mortified but also a little excited by something.

I was equal parts embarrassed for our terrible joke but also wary of this thing that was crackling between us.

“See? Isn’t this something a young person would joke about?” I added quickly.

“No. That’s the kind of joke an old person makes to try and sound young.”

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