10. Malcolm
MALCOLM
F or the third time this morning, Ryan laughs, and once again, it’s got me turning my head. Isla follows my gaze.
“Trouble concentrating?” she asks, annoyed. “I know this finance stuff can get boring, but you did sign up for it.”
“It’s not the work,” I tell her, doing my best to ignore her tone. “I think I had too much caffeine today.”
It’s got nothing to do with coffee, though, or “this finance stuff.” It has to do with Bailey’s stupid joke that cracked Ryan up during the morning huddle, and then Miguel showing him something on his phone and making him laugh again.
And after that, they’d leaned their heads together and Miguel had talked directly into his ear making Ryan grin like a dope the entire time.
And Charlie must really be a joy to work with because he’s had Ryan smiling since he sat down with him.
Now he’s laughing loud enough to turn heads.
Fine. My head.
I can acknowledge it’s just my head. No one else seems to notice or care that Ryan is in a good mood. That his teeth and tiny dimples have made multiple appearances today, and no one has pointed out that he’s breaking character .
This morning in our huddle before Georgie arrived, everyone was talking about our TikTok videos. Piper lowkey accused us of some version of prostitution. Bailey was quick to rebut. “They made it onto your feeds didn’t they? Hashtag thirst trap.”
That was Bailey’s joke and Ryan laughed .
And blushed. All I could do was grind my teeth and try not to tell them to stop staring at him.
To be fair, they were looking at me differently, too, but he’s the one taking over my brain.
He was in every fitful dream I had last night in varying capacities, and almost all of them were shirtless.
One of them featured his cat curled around Stephanie, and she was all peaceful snuggled up against Bud’s black and white fur.
Doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s going on with me.
The jealousy is new, though, and I wasn’t expecting it. I made him cry—they make him laugh. I feel awesome about that. Fucking super.
The spreadsheet I’m fixing is coming along, but at the same time, I’m plotting how to get Ryan alone.
Not because I have a plan, but because I don’t.
It’s a test. I want to know what I’ll do.
It’s like when I’m watching a reality show and I’m thinking, what would I do if that were me naked and alone in the jungle?
What would I do if I only had five ingredients to work with and one of them was grape jelly?
What would I do if I were stuck on an island with six hot girls and six hot guys? And now—what if one of them were Ryan?
My imagination is like the best club in town. Always hopping.
At lunch, he’s at the microwaves, staring at the clock on it, humming something that faintly sounds like “The Final Countdown” by Europe.
It was one of my dad’s favorite songs to play air guitar to.
I brought a sandwich, but I’ve got half a cup of coffee that could be warmer, so I stick it into the microwave next to his and set it to heat for a full minute—a totally unnecessary amount of time.
When I glance at Ryan, he’s got an eyebrow arched at my timer.
“I like it hot,” I say in my TikTok voice. Not on purpose. It’s just how it comes out. Overly suggestive. I mean it as a joke. I think.
He meets my eyes. “That should do it,” he says, also in his low fuck me because I know smart shit voice.
“You’re in a good mood today,” I blurt.
I get a scowl for that. “Am I?”
“You’re smiling a lot.”
Did I really just say that? Admit I’ve been watching him?
He’s not smiling now. Those aren’t for me, apparently. I hate that.
I scramble for a segue. Something to say that will lead to a conversation we can’t finish here and need to continue outside of work, because the shit I want to talk to him about is deep.
Things he all but ran from Saturday night.
None of them are office appropriate, though.
I settle for, “What are you thinking in terms of transitioning over to a subscription model?”
He doesn’t stop scowling, but he keeps his attention on me as he leans a hip on the counter, crossing his arms. “I said YouTube originally, but I looked into it and now I’m thinking of either a Patreon or a Kickstarter—like say we want to start a podcast, but we need equipment?—”
“Which we would if we wanna do a podcast,” I say.
“I was talking to Bailey on the way to work about a Patreon. Her idea was to pair it with a Discord so people can ask questions, and we give video responses if you subscribe to a certain tier. She said she could handle lower tiers—like with written answers, but the exclusive videos would come with the highest tier.”
I’m following, grateful to be talking about something I actually understand. “If we did a podcast, how would we monetize that?”
“According to ChatGPT, there’s like a hundred ways to do that,” he says. His timer goes off, and he opens the microwave.
I grab the coffee out of mine and follow him to the booth he slides into. He looks across at me, surprised, but doesn’t tell me to get lost. “Ads, paid subscriptions, sponsorships, merch.”
“How long do you think until we can start doing that?” I ask. These are all questions I could probably think through and answer for myself, but my brain’s not firing on all its cylinders today.
He shrugs as he stirs his plastic tray of pasta. “Depends on if we peter out or keep gaining traction. Bailey thinks we need to start stitching other people talking about finance—like people with bigger followings.”
“Do you agree with her?”
He gives me a blank look. “Do you? You’re on the team, too.”
I don’t even remember the question. He’s got his sleeves rolled up, which he rarely does at work, and his forearm tattoos are on vivid display.
It surprises me how pretty they are. Vines and florals.
Ivy and thorns. It’s all blackwork, but the shading is so dimensional, I can tell it was done by a true artist.
His father’s watch, which used to be too big for him, now fits snugly on his left wrist. Our parents met in a grief support group.
His dad died from a sudden heart attack when he was much too young, and my mom died of an accidental overdose.
Sort of accidental. I mean—with how much she drank, all the pills she took, and how depressed she was, it was really only a matter of time.
But whereas Ryan barely remembers his dad, I remember my mother: the good, the bad, and the deeply disturbing.
I genuinely thought my father would stay married to Ryan’s mom Jill forever—their romance was a whirlwind, and they seemed obsessed with each other for a solid few years, which left me and Ryan alone to become each other’s worlds for a while.
I wonder if Ryan knows why they called it quits. My dad only says stuff like “it wasn’t working out for us.” To my knowledge, he hasn’t dated anyone since Jill. He seems fine, though. Always in a good mood whenever I talk to him. He lives in Los Angeles now, so I don’t see him as much as I used to.
“Mal?” Ryan prompts.
“Um…we were talking about the podcast?” I ask, trying to replay the conversation that led to my sitting here.
“I was talking about stitching creators with bigger followings. You all right?”
“Yeah, yeah. No, I think that’s a good idea. Builds momentum. Did you ask that friend of yours?”
“Calyx?” he asks.
“Such a weird name.”
“I can ask him. I’ll see him at the gym today.”
Do I hate Calyx? I think I might hate Calyx. “What gym do you go to?”
“It’s by my apartment.”
“Where’s that?”
“Lower Haight,” he says with a scowl. “Why?”
“Yeah? Cool neighborhood. Is it a good gym?”
“It’s fine,” he says, but I get the sense I’m veering dangerously close to a firm none of your business .
I change course. “Does your cat get along with dogs?”
Ryan arches a brow.
“I was just thinking if we need to meet up again—the three of us, we could maybe do it at your place since you both hate mine, and I don’t blame you. But Stephanie gets weird when I leave. ”
“What does she do when you’re at work?” he asks, masterfully sidestepping the apartment topic.
“Day care,” I say.
He grins, but it’s not the kind of smile he was handing out like candy to other people. This one’s more mocking.
“She’s Kaylin’s dog,” I say. “I just follow the routine whenever I watch her.”
“Got it. Well, Bud weighs almost twenty pounds so Stephanie would be taking her chances.”
“She can hold her own,” I say.
“Can she?” His look has a challenge in it that I’m not sure is meant entirely for Stephanie.
I answer in kind. “She’s more open minded than you might think.”
He takes a sip from his water bottle. “Sure, we can use my place next time, if you don’t mind my roommate hanging around.”
Roommate? “Are they like—always there?”
“No, but I don’t know his schedule.”
I don’t know how to feel about Ryan living with another man. I have questions.
“When should we meet up again—do you think?” I ask, trying not to think about Ryan and his roommate .
He sighs like I’m fucking exhausting, and he’s not wrong. I’m fucking exhausting myself with this mess of a conversation. “I’m not the team leader, Mal. If you want us to meet up, suggest something. We’ll work it out. If you want something else…”
My spine goes rigid. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. You’re acting weird.”
No shit. Because this is weird. You’d think he’d get that. Still, I deny it. “I’m not acting like anything. I’m having a normal conversation with you, and you’re acting like we barely know each other. ”
“We don’t,” he says with that firm edge I was trying to avoid butting up against.
In retreat mode, I fall back into old habits. “Whose fault is that? At least I’m not pretending you don’t exist.”
“ Today ,” he says cuttingly.
I should have said more when I was hugging him and his guard was halfway down. I should have apologized. Now isn’t really the time and place, but since I have his attention… “Look, I’m trying. I might suck at it, but this is me, making an effort?—”
“Why, though?” he asks.
“Because—” Okay, I can’t say the real reason. “Because we have to work together.”
“That’s it?”
I hesitate, looking directly into his eyes. Very much on purpose. “That’s it.”
I can see him processing, ruminating on my hesitation, which is a big win in my book. Because what if ?
What if he grabbed hold of my sweater and made me stay after Bailey has to go. What if he shoved me into a wall and got in my face again? What if the scent of spice was just a top note, and there’s something even more appealing beneath it? What would I do?
I’m known among my friends as someone who dabbles.
While they’ve all got hobbies or sports they’ve dedicated themselves to, I keep trying new things.
Pickleball, basketball, frisbee golf, biking—which I do not recommend in this town—rock climbing, and once—cliff diving.
I don’t scare easy except for this one thing.
This one thing that I’ve been running from since I was fourteen.
And I might hate it as much as I hated biking uphill, but I honestly don’t think anything could be that bad.
“I say we try and meet up tonight or tomorrow night and make a concrete plan for the week. Isla’s got me pretty busy during the day, but I’ve got plenty of free time in the evenings to work on next steps.
I don’t want to go off on some tangent we’re not all in agreement about. ” There—how’s that for a contribution?
His hazel gaze is still suspicious. “All right. I’ll check in with Bailey before debrief, then.”
“What’s your address?” I ask.
His head moves with a subtle shake, and it hits me again how good looking he is. So fucking good looking. “I’ll text it to you when we have a time set.”
I nod and sip my coffee while he finally takes a bite of his lunch. “You’re not eating?” he asks after he polishes off half his pasta.
I have zero appetite today. “I had a big breakfast,” I lie.
“What’d you have?”
Fuck. Now I have to really lie.
“Biscuits and gravy.”
“You make that yourself?”
I shake my head. “Delivery.”
“You must wake up early.”
I couldn’t sleep after I stopped texting you . “Yeah. Stephanie, you know? She’s got places to be.”
He laughs and covers his mouth so food doesn’t come flying out.
I smile because finally— I did it. Me . I feel fucking high off the blush reddening his cheeks and the laughter shaking his broad shoulders.
I wonder what I’d feel like if I made him come?
Whoa. What the fuck?
I clear my throat, my own flush creeping up my neck. On that note. “I’ll wait to hear from you,” I say before my semi gets any firmer. I leave him at the table, the sound of his fading laughter still ringing in my ears.