Chapter 41 - Good Question
The next morning, I had a girlfriend.
Apparently.
I woke up.
Stared at the ceiling.
Remembered.
Girlfriend.
Normal word.
Very ordinary.
Millions of people had girlfriends.
I had apparently needed seventy-eight remembered years and two deaths to acquire one properly.
No.
Not acquire.
Fuck.
Jane had infected me.
My phone buzzed.
Tori.
morning girlfriend
I stared.
Then smiled.
Annoying.
morning
Three dots.
no girlfriend?
I laughed.
Of course.
morning girlfriend
Immediate.
good
There it was.
I put my phone against my chest.
Stupid.
Then another thought came.
Celeste.
Less sharp than yesterday.
Still there.
I closed my eyes.
Fuck.
No regret.
I checked again.
Still no regret.
That mattered.
But apparently knowing I made the right choice did not magically remove the part of me that knew I had hurt someone I really cared about.
Excellent.
Human emotion remained badly designed.
My phone buzzed again.
you okay?
I stared.
Tori.
How the fuck—
yes
Pause.
Then I deleted it.
happy. still a little sad.
She replied almost immediately.
okay
That was it.
No—
about celeste?
No—
are you sure you're ready?
No request that I reassure her.
Just—
okay.
Then:
breakfast
I frowned.
what
eat
I laughed.
bossy girlfriend
efficient girlfriend
Fuck.
I got out of bed.
Business did what business always did when my personal life became complicated.
It continued existing.
Rude.
Julia arrived carrying numbers.
I looked at the folder.
"No."
She put it on my desk anyway.
"Yes."
"What?"
"Volume."
I opened it.
Fuck.
Orders were up.
Again.
Printing capacity—
getting tight.
Packaging—
worse.
Storage—
annoying.
Dispatch—
starting to require creative stacking techniques I did not approve of.
I looked toward the production area.
Then back at the numbers.
"How long before we need more space?"
Julia stared.
"We needed more space last week."
"Dramatic."
"I moved three boxes so I could open a cabinet."
"Temporary."
"I moved another box so I could move the first three boxes."
I paused.
"Okay."
"Thank you."
I pulled up the lease details.
Current unit.
Adjacent spaces.
Nearby warehouse.
One building I had already quietly looked at.
Julia saw the screen.
Her eyes narrowed.
"You've been looking."
"Research."
"Of course."
"I like being prepared."
"You like expanding."
"Also true."
She sat.
"How big?"
I showed her the building.
Julia stared.
"Lia."
"What?"
"That is not a bigger workspace."
"It technically is."
"That is a small building."
"Semantics."
She looked at me.
"You need that already?"
"Yes."
Maybe.
Probably.
Future me knew I would.
Current business—
less certain.
Fuck.
I hated when experience and impatience wore the same outfit.
I looked at the numbers again.
"I'll decide."
Julia nodded.
"Before we start storing paper in the bathroom?"
"Yes."
"Good."
There it was.
I froze.
Julia frowned.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Apparently the word had spread.
Tori invited me to dinner Thursday.
Her place.
First time.
As girlfriends.
That last part felt weirdly significant.
I arrived six minutes early.
Not because I was excited.
Traffic was cooperative.
Obviously.
She opened the door wearing a shirt and shorts.
Hair tied loosely.
Bare face.
No work clothes.
No product-manager armor.
I stared for maybe half a second too long.
Tori noticed.
Of course.
"Hi."
"Hi."
Her eyebrows lifted.
I remembered.
"Hi, girlfriend."
She smiled.
"Good."
I stepped inside.
Then smelled something.
Stopped.
Looked toward the kitchen.
Then at her.
"What happened?"
"Dinner."
"That smells like an incident."
"It is under control."
I walked toward the stove.
There was pasta.
Technically.
Something had happened to it.
Something irreversible.
I picked up a strand with a fork.
Tori crossed her arms.
"I disclosed."
"You said you cook badly."
"Yes."
"I assumed modesty."
"Why?"
"Social convention."
"That sounds like your mistake."
I ate it.
Paused.
Tori waited.
I chewed.
Very thoroughly.
"Interesting."
"That bad?"
"You've removed resistance from pasta."
"Overcooked."
"Deeply."
"I answered an email."
I stared.
"You?"
"What?"
"Miss Work Ends At Six?"
"I never said I was perfect."
I took another bite.
She frowned.
"You don't have to keep eating it."
"I know."
"It isn't good."
"I know."
"Then why?"
I shrugged.
"I like you."
Tori stopped.
Fuck.
That came out very casually.
Probably because it was true.
Her expression softened.
Then—
"That is not enough reason to eat bad pasta."
"Apparently it is."
"You have terrible risk management."
"I chose you."
Tori stared.
I smiled.
"Wow."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"No, say it."
"I walked into that."
"Yes."
She took the fork out of my hand.
"Stop. I ordered backup."
I stared.
"You ordered backup before I arrived?"
"I know my capabilities."
I laughed.
"Excellent self-awareness."
"Thank you."
"Still terrible pasta."
"Yes."
"Good."
Her eyebrows lifted.
I grinned.
"Oh, I understand the appeal now."
"Don't steal my thing."
"Too late."
The backup food arrived.
Actually edible.
We sat at her dining table.
For the first ten minutes, we talked about nothing important.
Running.
She had gone that morning.
I asked why voluntarily causing suffering before breakfast was considered a hobby.
She said I voluntarily opened spreadsheets.
Fair.
Books.
A show she was watching.
A restaurant she wanted to try.
Then—
"How's work?"
I looked at her.
"That is a dangerous question."
"Why?"
"I have a problem."
Tori put down her fork.
"Tell me."
So I did.
Orders.
Capacity.
Current space.
Storage.
Machines.
Staff.
Possible building.
She listened.
Actually listened.
No phone.
No interrupting.
No pretending she understood before she did.
When I finished—
"Do you need the building?"
"Yes."
"No."
I stared.
"What?"
"You answered too quickly."
"I have data."
"I believe you."
"Then yes."
"I didn't ask if you can justify it."
I paused.
"What did you ask?"
"Do you need the building?"
"Yes."
Tori took a drink.
I narrowed my eyes.
"That face is irritating."
"What face?"
"The face where you think I'm answering the wrong question."
"You are."
I leaned back.
"Fine. Explain."
"What do you need?"
"Capacity."
"Okay."
"Storage."
"Okay."
"More equipment."
"Okay."
"Staffing room."
"Okay."
"Therefore building."
"Why?"
I stared.
"Because physical objects require physical space."
Tori smiled.
"Very good."
"Don't patronize me."
"I'm not."
"You are a little."
"Maybe."
I laughed despite myself.
Then she asked—
"What other options?"
"Expand adjacent."
"Available?"
"One unit opens next month."
"How much space?"
I told her.
"Enough for six months?"
"Probably."
"Twelve?"
"No."
"Then?"
"Then I'll move again."
"And you hate that."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because moving twice is inefficient."
"More inefficient than committing early to significantly higher fixed cost?"
Fuck.
I stared at her.
She kept eating.
Casual.
Like she hadn't just irritated me professionally.
"I can afford it."
Tori looked at me.
"That wasn't my question."
Fuck.
Again.
I smiled unwillingly.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"No. What?"
"You're annoying."
"Good."
"There it is."
I pulled out my phone.
Opened my projections.
"If we're doing this, we're doing it properly."
Tori laughed.
"You brought spreadsheets to dinner?"
"I carry my business in my pocket."
"That sounds unhealthy."
"Occupational competence."
"Sure."
I handed her the phone.
She looked.
Scrolled.
Asked—
"What's this assumption?"
"Repeat corporate orders."
"Confirmed?"
"Some."
"How many?"
I told her.
"And the rest?"
"Probable."
"So twelve-month forecast isn't firm."
"No forecast is firm."
"That's evasive."
"It's accurate."
She looked at me.
I looked back.
Then she smiled slightly.
Fuck.
I liked this.
Not the disagreement.
Well—
also the disagreement.
But mostly the fact that I did not feel the need to win immediately.
I wanted to know what she saw.
That was different.
Tori pointed at one number.
"This part—I think you're right."
I blinked.
"What?"
"External overflow won't work."
"You were considering outsourcing?"
"Yes."
"Quality variation."
"I see that now."
She handed me the phone.
"That defect rate is ugly."
"It is."
"And losing control of turnaround defeats the point."
"Yes."
"So I was wrong there."
I paused.
"You just said that."
"Yes."
"Voluntarily."
"Yes."
"No seventeen-minute defense of your original opinion?"
"Why would I defend something the data disproved?"
Fuck.
Very attractive sentence.
I looked away.
Tori noticed.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Liar."
"Continue."
She leaned back.
"I still wouldn't take the building yet."
"Why?"
"Because I think you want the building."
I frowned.
"Obviously."
"No."
She shook her head.
"You want the expansion."
"Same thing."
"No."
I stared.
She continued.
"You see demand growing. You know how to build the next stage. So your brain is already living there."
Fuck.
"And?"
"And I think you're solving the business you expect to have instead of only the business you currently have."
Silence.
That one landed too close.
Historical knowledge.
Not prophecy.
Current data.
Fuck.
I looked down at the projections.
"The building will eventually make sense."
"Maybe."
"It will."
Tori smiled.
"There."
"What?"
"That."
"What?"
"The certainty."
I paused.
"You're treating eventual growth like a fact."
I said nothing.
She didn't know.
Couldn't know.
But—
correct.
Again.
I sighed.
"I've seen businesses at this stage before."
That was technically true.
Many.
Including mine.
"I know the pattern."
"I believe you."
"So—"
"But pattern doesn't guarantee timing."
Fuck.
I stared at her.
She continued eating.
I looked at the phone again.
Adjacent unit.
Shorter commitment.