5. Ryan
RYAN
O n the one hand, the internship is incredible.
Charlie is a fucking genius. He’s funny, a good teacher, and he’s great about encouraging me to ask questions.
I tend to clam up and try to figure things out on my own, and he saw right through it day one.
“I can’t teach you shit if I don’t know how you think. ”
So now he knows, and working with him feels like I won the mentor lottery.
On the other hand, I have a hundred dollars and no fucking clue what to do with it.
I’m about a week away from asking Calyx to go thrifting for vintage t-shirts with me.
I’m currently considering re-formatting some of my college essays, putting them into a book, giving it a catchy title and self-publishing it online.
The more I look into publishing a book, however, the more bogged down I get with the marketing end.
That alone looks like a full time job, and I have zero social media presence.
A hundred dollars would barely make a dent in a marketing budget, and it takes some authors years to break even on a single book.
Still, it’s the best idea I’ve had that uses a skill set that seems manageable.
The t-shirt thing? I’d need help with that. Between work and the gym—working out isn’t optional for me—I don’t know how the hell I’d find the kind of inventory I’d need to get started, much less scale up.
The good news is Malcolm is occupying at least twenty-five percent less of my brain space.
I have noticed how miserable he looks every morning in our huddle and how much he’s itching to get the hell out of the office in our debriefs, but while I’m working with Charlie, it’s heads down, total focus.
Next week, Charlie’s planning to give me two of his accounts to start managing on my own.
One small business, one personal. I’ve been brushing up on risk assessments in my spare time, hoping if I don’t think about the challenge so hard, an idea will suddenly come to me in the shower or something.
But I won’t lie—the group of interns who teamed up together are starting to look pretty fucking smug when they leave work together and file into the bar across the street for happy hour.
Miguel texted one last time to convince me to join their team, but I declined without putting a lot of thought into it.
Piper and Lisette rub me the wrong way. I don’t know if they were both cheerleaders or prom queens or what, but they give mean girl energy, and while Jia might be able to tolerate it, and guys like Nathan likely dig it because it’s their crowd, too, I don’t like it.
Piper, whose mentor is probably the best investment banker in the firm—a woman named Sadia—is already acting like she’s head intern or something, which is plainly ridiculous. There’s no way I could take direction from Piper, even if their group has the best idea in the world.
Jia’s cool, though. We realized we live in the same neighborhood, so we walk to work together, and home if she’s not going to happy hour.
At first, I wasn’t a fan of the company.
It’s a lot of pressure. But she talks enough that I barely have to.
She surprised me on the walk home last evening though by asking me out.
Our date started at my gym where I got her in with a guest pass.
She kept pace with me on the treadmill for six miles.
It ended in her apartment with both of us proclaiming we weren’t looking for anything serious and then having sex on her couch.
I had to use my wallet condom. I didn’t sleep over, and our walk to work this morning was more relaxed—joking about how strong the wine was, among other things.
Without going into too much detail, she’s not planning to have sex with me again, but there are no hard feelings.
It’s been an unexpectedly good two weeks, and I’m lowkey proud of myself for being able to rise above the fact that I have to see Malcolm five days a week.
It’s not that I don’t think about him. That’d be impossible.
But I’m not miserable around him, and that’s an improvement.
If anything, he’s the one who looks miserable.
I try not to think too much about how that makes me feel, but it always seems to happen when I’m closing my eyes to go to sleep.
It’s this stupid yet totally familiar desire to ask him if he’s okay.
I end up dreaming about how the conversation might go more nights than not. Sometimes it’s a fistfight. Sometimes, it ends in a long, endlessly confusing hug where the words I said to him on accident the one time build up in my chest until I feel like a volcano about to burst.
Once—Wednesday night—the dream turned into one of those dreams where I woke up with cum-stained underwear. I was physically unable to look at him on Thursday, certain he would know if he took one look at me and then announce to the whole office that I’m a pervert.
On Friday, though, he looks particularly messed up.
There’s a look in his eyes I recognize. The kind of look he used to get when he was about to do something reckless—like get blitzed drunk, start a fight, or fuck his girlfriend in the laundry room.
But that particular look of his isn’t wild or desperate.
It’s calculating. Devious. It also means he’s hanging on by a thread.
Now I’m up late again, thinking about it. Weighing a scenario where I casually sit next to him Monday morning and ask how things are going with the internship. Let him know if he wants to talk, I’m around.
And how fucking pathetic would that sound? How quickly would he shut me down?
Jesus, I hate the way I feel about him. This is the problem with imprinting on someone at an early age because your dad is dead, and your mom is too busy with her new husband to give you the kind of attention you need. It makes you stupid for someone you’ve got no business being stupid about.
Since it’s Friday night, and I can’t sleep, I think about firing up my computer and trying to make an ad for the book I haven’t put together yet, but I can’t make myself get up.
I went hard on the treadmill today and even harder on the leg press.
Also, my cat is snuggled into my side, purring comfortably, and I’d hate to disturb him at this late hour.
When my phone buzzes, my eyes pop open. I might not be able to get up to make a graphic, but a booty call… I could be motivated to do that.
There’s no name on the screen—only a number. I recognize it immediately. It’s Malcolm. I deleted his contact years ago, but his number is one of the few I know by heart.
I swipe to answer, guard up. “Hello?”
“Hey. It’s me. Sorry to call so late?—”
I got a new number after high school graduation. He shouldn’t have it. “How did you?—”
“Your mom gave it to me,” he says, like there’s no need to complete my sentence. There never really was with him. We were always creepy like twins that way. Until we weren’t .
“You called her at?—”
“I called her a while back. Look, I just need to ask one question.” His tone is brusque, direct, and puts me on edge.
I rest a hand on my cat to ground myself. Bud’s purrs intensify. “What’s the question?”
“Do you still have your hundred dollars?”
I scowl. Is he calling after midnight to ask me about the stupid challenge? I mean, obviously he is, but why me? Why now? “Do you not?”
“I don’t know what you’re planning to do with it, but with the rest of them all working together, are you worried about not being able to compete?”
Of course I am. He should be, too, but I have a feeling I know where this line of questioning is headed.
“Ryan?”
The sound of my name in his low voice scrapes my ear. It makes my neck break out in chills. “Uh-huh.”
“I forgive you all right? For the thing that happened when we were kids. I forgive you.”
My first thought? Bullshit. One, because I don’t believe it for a second, and also because what the fuck? “You forgive me?”
“I mean…” He’s already hedging. I knew he didn’t mean it. He’s so full of shit.
“I never asked for that,” I say firmly.
His response is as ice cold as ever. “Fine. I take it back.”
I’m shocked. Shocked.
“About the challenge?—”
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” I sigh.
“Yeah, well, I’m not. If it’s a no, just tell me to fuck off.”
It’s tempting. Really tempting. But then I think about Piper and goddamn Nathan and their smug looks like they’ve got this in the bag.
Still—teaming up with Malcolm? I may be in a bad mood more often than not, but I’m not suicidal.
However, as the fuck off readies itself to fly from the tip of my tongue, there’s a deafening crack in my guard.
Bud twitches beneath my palm like he heard it.
“Fine,” I hear myself saying. “I’ll work with you on it, but only if you want to win.”
“I do,” he says, not sounding nearly as confident. He almost sounds— shaky .
“Then come with ideas on Monday. I’m going back to bed.” I’m also frozen in place. “Good night,” I tack on, rushing to hang up.
“Good—”
His voice cuts off. I drop my phone onto the mattress and let my head fall back on my pillow. My heart— goddamn . It feels like I just ran nineteen miles.
Monday is starting off as one of those mornings where my hands won’t work right.
It’s not because I have some hand disorder—I just keep dropping things.
My hair gel. My toothbrush. The coffee pod.
And it’s not like they’re shaking—more like they won’t close all the way—or they forget what they’re trying to do the second they touch the thing I’m trying to hold.
One thing after another slips from my grasp.