Chapter 33
Caroline
The return to New York grounded me after being in the Caribbean for a week.
I slept in my own bed, waking to the sounds of the city.
I fell back into my exercise routine, walking to the gym two blocks away for yoga class, then spinning on the exercise bike for an hour after.
Stopping at my favorite bodega for a garden salad and a Diet Coke and eating them on a bench in the south-east corner of Central Park while watching the college kids play ultimate frisbee.
Then I went to a coffee shop, ordered a Matcha Latte, and worked on Harrison’s biography.
I decided I wanted to be a journalist while writing for my high school newspaper, but I fell in love with writing when I was in college.
There was a three-year period where I was certain I would become a world famous author, writing novels rather than articles.
Seeing my books in airports and coffee shops.
Eventually, I abandoned that idea when I realized I grew bored with subjects after a few days.
I would write a few pages, then my enthusiasm would fade and I would want to jump onto a new project.
That was a weakness that made it impossible to write a full-length book, but it made me perfectly suited for journalism.
Harrison’s biography was different.
I had been working on this project for almost two months now, and my motivation hadn’t waned.
If anything, I was more focused than ever.
The typical word count for a non-fiction biography was eighty thousand words, and I was already a third of the way there without ever hitting any roadblocks.
I still needed to go back and fill in some aspects of Harrison’s childhood—namely, his relationship with his parents—but overall, I was cruising along pleasantly.
I was even considered a regular at the coffee shop, the smiling non-binary barista now greeting me every day by name.
Maybe being forced into a sabbatical was a good thing.
Lucien texted me one day while I was eating lunch. It was a selfie of him in Paris, with the Eiffel Tower glowing yellow behind him. Night had already fallen there, and there was a glass of wine in his hand and a knowing smile on his lips.
“The air tonight reminds me of our first dinner together,” his text said. “I hope you are well.”
The unexpected text from the man filled my core with warmth. My hair was a mess from the gym, and I wasn’t wearing any makeup, so I didn’t send a selfie of my own. But I did respond by telling him I thought of that night fondly, as well as the sushi night on his yacht.
Thinking of Lucien made me think of Rafael.
Since returning to New York, we had only hooked up once, but it was an unforgettable night.
He appeared at my apartment unannounced, saying, “I have to have you now,” and then throwing me around the bedroom until I was breathless and satisfied.
We stayed up until four in the morning making love and talking about everything and nothing.
Our schedules hadn’t matched up since that night, but I remembered it fondly.
And every couple of days, he texted me to let me know he still thought about it, too.
Harrison’s work schedule had become more chaotic, so we began meeting at his Upper East Side loft three times a week.
That was another reason I hadn’t seen Rafael as much.
Harrison usually didn’t get home until late, and since I wasn’t going into the office in the mornings, I stayed up late with him.
He seemed more comfortable at home than he did at his office, or maybe he was just at ease around me now.
He told me about his first girlfriend, and how her spending habits affected his outlook on money.
He explained that he could wrap his head around math at a young age, but women—and love in general—were totally foreign concepts to him.
One evening, after splitting a bottle of wine that cost as much as my rent, he described the night he lost his virginity, fumbling around with her bra until he eventually gave up and they left it on during sex.
And we discussed how he was always planning his future.
Even when he was a teenager, he was thinking in terms of ten-year plans.
Where he wanted to be at age twenty, and thirty, and forty.
Of course, he had exceeded all of those plans, rising quickly as a data analyst at his first Wall Street firm, earning millions in trading bonuses—and billions for his firm.
Soon, we fell into our own nightly routine together.
I would pepper him with questions until the late night talk shows came on.
He’d make a bowl of popcorn while we watched Colbert, the same chemical-flavored bag of Pop Secret that I microwaved at home.
It was weirdly comforting that a billionaire had the same basic tastes I did.
We shared a nightcap during Seth Meyers, and then I went home after the monologue.
On Saturday nights, we watched SNL all the way through, even the skits that came on after Weekend Update. Like an unspoken agreement, we didn’t discuss his book those nights.
I told myself that getting close to him would make him open up to me more for the book. I told myself it was part of the job.
“No way,” I argued one evening. “How can you possibly think they’re the best?”
“They’re who I grew up with,” he insisted, returning from the kitchen. We were on our second bowl of popcorn tonight. “Mike Meyers, Dana Carvey, Chris Rock, Adam Sandler.”
“So, you’re admitting they’re not the best,” I said like a prosecutor. “You only like them because of nostalgia.”
“It’s both!” Harrison said passionately. “It’s nostalgia, and the fact that some of the best writing was done during that early-nineties era.”
I shook my head as he sank into the couch next to me. “You cannot honestly say, with a straight face, that they’re better than the Tina Fey era cast.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
A flabbergasted noise escaped my throat. “Amy Poehler! Will Ferrell! Maya Rudolph!”
“They had better female cast members, absolutely,” he conceded. “But still not better overall.”
I grabbed a handful of popcorn and tossed it in his face. “You’re just trying to piss me off.”
“And succeeding, clearly!”
I reached for another handful of ammunition, but he yanked the bowl away. Like two teenagers play-fighting, I tried grabbing his wrists while he slapped and elbowed my hand away, eventually hopping up and running away while I chased him through his eight-figure penthouse loft.
In spite of everything, it felt like we had become friends.
That realization hit me one afternoon. I liked Harrison. I enjoyed being around him, and looked forward to our evenings together. He wasn’t the evil billionaire I had imagined, softened by a life of luxury.
He was… something else. A swirl of a feeling just behind my ribcage.
It was the cardinal rule of being a journalist: you weren’t supposed to get too close to your subject. Objectivity was the most important thing to someone in my position, and it was impossible to be objective if you were friends with the person you were writing about.
I told myself this was different. That I needed to get close to Harrison to get him to open up, that writing a biography was different from writing an article in a financial paper.
Harrison and I had begun hugging when I left his place each night.
He never made any kind of move on me, and was always perfectly respectful, but the hugs lasted a little bit longer each time.
I felt so safe in his arms, and savored the way his fingertips gently stroked the back of my head before he let go.
But I occasionally caught him looking at me.
His gaze lingered when he’d had two glasses of wine, and I began admiring how he looked when he walked into the kitchen to make our evening bag of popcorn.
Harrison was young, and charismatic, and really fucking hot.
And I was spending late nights at his place.
Soon, I had a weird feeling every time I left. Like it was a date where the guy didn’t kiss me at the end of the night, leaving me feeling unfulfilled and confused.
I should have known what was happening. All the signs were there. But sometimes, the most convincing lie was the one you told yourself.