Her Billionaire Toy Boy

He woke up the next morning in the exact position in which he had spent the previous night. His back was curved in an unhealthily bent and static position. When he stood up it gave an almighty popping sound which he was sure was not the most healthy. He quickly checked his phone again. Mira had not read his text.

But he had to know. And now it was Monday morning—he could figure this out. He pulled out the card Mira had given him. It had her office contact information on it. Featured in the phone section was both her direct line and the line to her assistant.

Sam hesitated. She’d made it clear that he was not to contact her—any more than he already had. It was also likely in their best interest if there was a ‘they’ to be considered going forward, that a significant amount of time be allowed to pass between the initial argument itself and the follow-up. Not that time passing would make what he had done okay, but the passage of time does tend to soften our perception of ills committed against us and strengthen the fond memories of what, perhaps, might be lost.

He dialed the number for Mira’s assistant.

“Hello,” he said when a bright, sprightly, obviously caffeinated sort of voice answered the phone. “May I be directed to Mira, please?”

“She just stepped away from her desk, actually,” said Mira’s assistant. “Is there a message I can forward to her?”

“No,” said Sam, his heart pounding. “I’ll—I’ll reach out again later, thanks.” And with that, he hung up. He closed his eyes and sighed. At least she was okay. At least she had gotten home safe. She was still angry at him—the radio silence proved that—but anger he could deal with. He was just glad that she was alive and well enough to go in to work.

Perhaps he’d leave her another voicemail that evening. He’d never been in this situation before and did not know the protocol. How many messages was one allowed to leave before it became problematic? He thought that he had shown a rather admirable amount of restraint and respect by only phoning once and texting once the previous day. If he dug up new information, perhaps he could leave another that evening.

Sam sat down and tried to distract himself with his usual Monday tasks regarding his business. Little was able to make him think about anything other than the loneliness which was beginning to steep into his brain. He found himself staring at the window, lost in his thoughts, for a very long amount of time.

*****

Panic was beginning to set in.

Mira now had a month of free time in which to work, and no plans. The heady idea of the freedom which had seemed so attractive now seemed like an obligation, and Mira was unsure how to meet it.

She had an idea—a crazy, ridiculous idea—of traveling. She’d always wanted to travel when she was younger, but had always prioritized her career over the romantic notion of jet-setting to a far-off country and just immersing herself in another culture for no particular, pointed reason other than the pure pleasure of escapism and self-embetterment.

She could afford it. She now had the time for it. But it still felt like a huge leap, a huge risk to be taking; and Mira was not a risk-taker.

However, the past few days had instilled in her a sense of bravado and weird confidence. She pulled up an airline ticket website and, feeling reckless and wonderful, looked up the cheapest ticket to Europe she could find. Fifteen minutes later, she had purchased a non-refundable one-way ticket to Brussels and had downloaded several documents about how to travel around the continent by train.

Mira closed up her laptop. Her arms were shaking a little bit.

She had never done anything this impulsive in her life, and she had no idea how to deal with the adrenaline which was now coursing through her veins.

Deep breaths, she thought. Deep-breaths.

She let out all of the air in her lungs in a shaky hiss.

And then she looked at her watch.

Unbelievable, she thought. She now had a plane to catch. In a smattering of hours, she had to get on a plane.

This sense of urgency helped her. Her brain went once again into planning mode. There was time, once she got on the plane, to meditate and relax. That time was not now. Now was for getting things done. She had four hours.

She leaped up and found her suitcase, purchased in an earlier, younger time when she had harbored fantasies of doing exactly what she was doing now. She jumped online and looked up diagrams for capsule wardrobes for three-week European vacations. She started a shopping list and put ‘small tubes of Toothpaste’ and ‘neck pillow’ on it, then pinned it up on her refrigerator so she could add to it as the minutes sped by. She began to throw random pieces of clothing in her suitcase, and then pulled most of it back out. She could pick up souvenirs along her way and use those for clothing as well. She’d always wanted to go vintage shopping in Paris…well, now, it seemed, was her chance…

She dug her passport out of her safe and made sure that everything was up to date – a step she couldn’t believe she hadn’t taken prior to plunking down her credit card on the non-refundable ticket. She was flying by the seat of her pants, and she sensed that somewhere—somehow—the other shoe was going to drop, but she was having a marvelous time pretending that it wasn’t going to. Mira went through her small home library and fished up two tomes to drag along with her, envisioning romantic afternoons in cafes with espressos and people-watching. She went online again and perused list after list of what other people had brought for European vacations and updated her shopping list one more time.