Shopping for a Billionaire 2 Read Free Page A

twenty years, I’d high-five him right back. Then again, that didn’t go so well when Amy tried, so…
    “And texting me about having a billionaire baby when I’m on a business meeting isn’t?” If I have to use much more energy to speak I’ll need more coffee.
    “I was wishing you well.”
    “You want designer grandchildren.”
    “Is that so bad?”
    Amanda is trying not to laugh, so I pick on her next. “And you! Some best friend. I refuse to hold your hand on those same-sex-marriage mortgage shops next week.”
    “What the hell did I do wrong? I just told you not to be an idiot and let your squishy inner self go soft on Steve.”
    “Too late,” I mutter. She gives me an eye roll that I take as a warning. A girlfriend lecture is coming soon, the kind where I just say, “I know, I know,” over and over and she tries in earnest to get me to realize that I don’t have to let him treat me like a doormat. Like the movie Groundhog Day , only I never actually learn from my mistakes.  
    This is why I have sworn off men.
    Mom’s face goes three shades of pale. “Same sex what ? Amanda, did you just say same-sex marriage ? I thought Shannon was dating a billionaire now! A male one!” That look of horror Mom had earlier when I made the AARP comment pales in comparison to how she looks now.  
    Let me explain: for years, Mom assumed I was gay because I didn’t like makeup, didn’t date men, and because I enjoyed visiting my friends in Northampton, the current lesbian capital of the world.
    The only reason she would disapprove of my being gay is that the Farmington Country Club technically has not allowed a gay wedding just yet. Which is why I will never get married there, even if I do marry a billionaire. Not because I’m gay. Because I think everyone, regardless of sexual orientation, should have an equal opportunity to be tortured by their mother into a wedding designed not to celebrate the nuptials of two people in love, but to allow the mother of the bride(s) to prance in all her glory and to scream hot-faced about the ribbons on the table centerpieces being the wrong shade of hot pink and to worry obsessively that Uncle Marty will ask the band to play “Stairway to Heaven” at the reception.
    If you can survive that, you are meant for each other for eternity.
    “One of the credit unions we do mystery shopping for has a bunch of evaluations where same-sex, legally married couples go into credit unions and apply for mortgages jointly. We’re evaluating for discrimination,” Amanda explains to Mom.
    “With her credit score?” Mom says, pointing and laughing at me. “Shannon’s never met a credit card she didn’t like.”
    That is so not true…anymore. I had my crazy credit-card spree days and I’m over that now. Loan payments on $50,000 in student debt will do that to you.
    “And you have to go in and pretend to be married to each other?” Mom asks, skeptical. She squints one eye like she’s sizing us up to be measured for wedding gowns.
    “Yes,” I say.
    She looks at Amanda like I’m not even in the room. “Are you the man or the woman?”
    “What?” Amanda and I say in unison.
    “You know…tops and bottoms. Are you the top or the bottom, Amanda?” Mom looks at us like she’s asked whether we prefer pink roses or red roses, as if normal people ask whether hypothetical lesbians have a positioning preference.
    “Your mother is so much better than mine,” I tell Amanda as I turn and look at her with a Please make it stop look. “She can’t even say the words ‘toilet paper’ in public conversation.”  
    “What does she call it?” Mom asks, fascinated.
    “By the brand name, whatever she’s using,” Amanda explains.
    “What does toilet paper have to do with lesbians and which one wears the strap-on?” Mom asks.
    “OUT!” I bellow. “Get out of my room!”
    “Why would you be offended by that, Shannon? Women use sex toys all the time, and I don’t mean just the