My Poor Boyfriend Was a Billionaire, and His Best Friend Wants Me

I left through the staff exit.

Rain had turned to sleet by the time I reached Oak Street. A black sedan idled across from my building. I recognized Julian in the back seat as it rolled past me and stopped at the corner.

So that was how Ethan always beat the subway home.

I waited in the bodega doorway until the car disappeared, then climbed four flights to our apartment.

Julian was sitting on the mattress in his old gray hoodie. He had rubbed soot across one cheek and changed into scuffed work boots. If I hadn't seen the sedan, the transformation might have impressed me.

"Maya?" He jumped up. "Where have you been? I called the store."

"The train stalled."

"You're freezing." He took my hands and rubbed them between his palms. "You shouldn't be walking alone this late."

The concern was perfectly performed.

"How was work?" I asked.

"Bad. A stack of steel pipe came off a forklift." He reached behind him and produced a ribboned box. "I almost forgot. One more birthday present."

Inside was a designer wallet. The tag—$199—had been left where I couldn't miss it.

"Ethan, how did you pay for this?"

"I skipped lunch for two weeks." His eyes shone on cue. "You've been carrying cash in a torn envelope. I wanted you to have one nice thing."

At Vesper, he had spent more than that on a bottle no one finished.

I took his wrist. A pale band circled the skin where his watch had been.

"Anything for you," he said.

I slid my thumb over the mark. "I love it."

Relief warmed his smile. He thought I still believed him.

"Come to bed."

"In a minute. I need a shower."

He fell asleep before I turned off the bathroom tap.

I stood over the sink and let myself feel exactly one minute of grief. Then I washed my face, opened the wallet, and counted everything I owned: forty-two dollars.

At six, Julian's phone buzzed on the floor beside the mattress. He woke, checked the screen, and dressed in a hurry.

"Foreman needs me early," he said, kissing my cheek. "I'll bring groceries tonight."

"Be careful around the trains."

The door closed behind him.

I packed before his footsteps reached the second floor: jeans, sweaters, birth certificate, high school diploma, and the photograph of my grandmother I kept inside an old Bible. Everything fit into one gym bag.

I had just zipped it when someone hit the door hard enough to shake the frame.

"Maya! Open up."

Frank.

My father had been gone for two years, ever since he skipped bail on an assault charge. I knew better than to answer.

The second blow split the cheap lock. The door flew inward.

He looked worse than I remembered—greasy beard, army-surplus coat, eyes red from whatever he had been drinking. He swept the room with a frantic stare.

"Where's the money?"

"There is no money."

"Your grandmother sold land in Dover. Thirty grand. She left it to you."

"She died owing the hospital."

He crossed the room and caught a fistful of my hair. "Don't lie to me."

I drove my elbow into his ribs. He swore and shoved me into the dresser. Pain tore through my side.

Then he saw the wallet on the mattress.

"Well, look at you."

I snatched it first and shoved it inside my jacket.

Frank kicked my gym bag aside. "I owe people, Maya. Serious people. I gave them your name and address."

"What did you do?"

"Signed a few papers for you." He smiled, showing a broken tooth. "Family helps family."

The landing creaked behind him. Our landlord shouted from downstairs that he had called 911.

Frank backed toward the door. "They'll be here by tomorrow. Thirty thousand, plus interest. If you don't have it, they'll collect another way."

He ran before the police arrived.

My phone buzzed ten minutes later from an unknown number.

A photograph filled the screen: me leaving the grocery store the previous night.

Under it was a message.

FORTY-EIGHT HOURS. YOUR FATHER'S DEBT IS YOUR PROBLEM NOW.