Chapter 2
Everything’s shit. Everything’s the worst. And nothing, absolutely nothing is peachy.
Because here’s the deal: If I had to transcribe the list of interpersonal issues between Nephilim and FlyButter employees, I’d use up one of those forever toilet paper rolls—and fill an interaction graph worthy of a Dostoyevsky novel.
Otto once called our tools programmer a “nincompoop” in front of an audience of thousands.
Ethan quit three months into his tenure at Nephilim because of differences of opinion on what constitutes “humane working conditions”; Shannon got drunk at GameCon and provoked a physical fight with an AI programmer who called her a “spaghetti coder”; Kai—one of our programmers—saw his mail start to mysteriously disappear when a Nephilim producer moved into his apartment complex, and this overview is not even remotely comprehensive of the varicolored ways in which our studios are pretty-feuding.
For instance, it pointedly disregards what happened between me and Jesse fucking Andrews.
Then again…did anything happen? As the days count down to the skiing retreat, I try to talk myself into believing that the reason behind the tension between Jesse and me is just some good old competition.
After all, he and I are both video game designers, both damn good ones.
About the same age, trying to bring new, creative stuff to the industry.
We’ve won awards, gotten to lead teams, made names for ourselves.
It would be weird if there weren’t a touch of rivalry.
Except, that’s not it. As much as I’d love to pretend that the awkwardness between us is born of joy-thieving comparison, Jesse’s specialty is action and adventure, while I shine at creating characters and storylines.
We occupy different places in the industry, and if I’m aware of that, so is Mr. Point and Click.
We originally met six or seven years ago, when I was up for my first industry position.
As far as I can recall, that interaction wasn’t bad.
All I remember is being fresh out of college and walking into the last phase of an interview for a small software company here in Seattle.
Jesse was already working there as a developer, and he stood to shake my hand the second I entered the conference room.
Initially, I barely paid attention to him, registering nothing more than a fuzzy impression of dark hair and thick-framed glasses.
I had a migraine from staying up all night to prep, and Jesse’s role seemed to be assisting the company CEO, who asked all the questions.
I was there to prove to my mom that it was indeed possible to make a living, as she liked to put it, “playing Mario Kart,” so I did my best to charm Jesse’s boss, which did not work.
And ultimately, I didn’t care. Not after the asshole said something about my portfolio being too “girly” to get me anywhere, gave a good chuckle, and then asked if I really enjoyed video games, or if I was just trying to impress my boyfriend.
Jesse, to his credit, stuck up for me. “This is unprofessional. And unnecessary,” he told his boss firmly, speaking for the first time since the interview had started.
But I was already standing to leave, and a gift of the golden wool shed by thirty magic llamas would not have persuaded me to stay and work for this shitty, shitty man.
So I walked out. And Jesse followed—I do recall that.
He jogged after me, quick and long-legged, and once he caught up, he stood over me with concerned eyes.
He made sure that I was okay and apologized on behalf of…
men, presumably? I accepted—and may have vented at him for the next twenty minutes.
But Jesse took it in stride, giving me some great advice about my portfolio and pointing me in the direction of this new game studio that was hiring at the time—FlyButter.
A decent human being in this blighted industry, I told myself.
I thanked him, said goodbye, and didn’t think of him again until a year or so later, when we crossed paths at a local game expo.
By that point, the company I’d interviewed for had gone bankrupt—proof that a just god might, in fact, be milling about.
I was now with FlyButter, while Jesse had gone on to become lead designer at Nephilim, with a growing reputation as a third-person action-adventure superstar.
On the second day of the con, I spotted him at a panel on backward compatibility.
Watched him rise from his chair to offer the seat to an older man in the audience.
Immediately recognized him.
The glasses were still there, with the same dark, square frames.
His black hair, though, was styled in a shorter, low-maintenance cut.
He was tall, even taller than I remembered, wearing jeans and a dark hoodie—the uniform of every other guy in attendance.
He stood in the back of the room with his arms crossed, and as I studied him, I realized something that I hadn’t been in the position to pay attention to during our first meeting.
Jesse Andrews was cute.
Very cute.
Handsome, really.
I resent the stereotype that most of us gamers are basement-dwelling trolls with pee buckets under their desks—eldritch horrors with no choice but to find refuge in computers. We tend to be perfectly normal-looking. Jesse, though, might have been a bit more exceptional than that.
In my couple of years in the gaming industry I’d seen enough relationships dissolve into emotionally dysregulated drama to know that any kind of workplace entanglement should be strenuously avoided. And yet…
“Why are you smiling dopily in the direction of Jesse Andrews?” Mila asked, elbowing closer to me. “Is he like, your drug dealer?”
“I’m not…” I frowned. “Was I really doing that?”
“Yup.”
“Damn,” I muttered. I glanced at the stage, where someone was doing a mic check ahead of the panel.
Mila leaned in. “Should I introduce you?”
“Oh, no…I already met him. Once.”
“Cool. I went to high school with him. Same homeroom during senior year.”
“Really?” I couldn’t help asking, “How was he?”
“Really nice, actually. He was the captain of the soccer team, so you’d expect some douchiness, but he was a great guy. The first time I got drunk he held my hair while I puked and then sat down with me to play Grand Theft Auto while I sobered up. And he always let me copy his trig homework.”
“Yeah.” I nodded, unsurprised. “When I met him, he was really lovely to…Mila, what are you—”
“I haven’t talked with him in a while, let’s go say hi!” She pulled me by the forearm, tugging me toward Jesse. “I need to ask him how he came up with the emu Easter egg in Forbidden Forest!”
“I’m not sure…” But we were already there, by Jesse’s side, and he was bending down to hug Mila and greet her warmly, making her laugh as he explained—with a healthy dose of self-deprecation—that he hadn’t gone to their five-year reunion because he wasn’t ready to find out whether he’d peaked in high school.
Then she pulled back, and his gaze fell on me, the silent friend loitering nearby, and…
For a second, he went so incredibly still, I thought, Thank god he remembers me.
It was, paradoxically, in the way his eyes didn’t widen, his lips didn’t curl, his posture didn’t shift.
It was all too absent to indicate anything but recognition.
And yet, when Mila said, “And you know Viola, right?” his too-handsome, square-jawed face arranged into something blank.
A tense pause followed. Eventually, Jesse opened his mouth to say who knows what, but Mila must have picked up on his hesitation, because she added, “At least, that’s what Viola told me.
” Mila lifted an accusatory eyebrow at me, as though lying about being acquainted with rising industry celebrities was a notorious pastime of mine, and I wished for the underworld to swallow me and for its dwellers to stab me.
“Yeah. We met at that interview for…You know what, never mind.” I waved a hand, like it didn’t matter that I was the opposite of memorable. My heart was racing. Why was my heart racing? “I’m Viola Bowen. From FlyButter. Which you recommended I apply to when—”
I got interrupted when a serious redhead (Otto, I’d later find out) came to fetch Jesse for something or other of international tactical importance.
Jesse left quickly, with a last smile for Mila, a promise to get coffee with her soon, and not a single ounce of attention paid to me.
I stared at his straight back as he walked away, wondering whether I was self-centered enough to be offended, and didn’t tear my eyes away until Mila began making weird noises.
I turned around and found her sniffing me. “What are you doing?”
“I was just curious.”
“About what?”
“Whether you smell.”
“Why would I—”
“Jesse sure seemed to not like something about you. Maybe you stink?” She shrugged, joking, yes, but…maybe not fully.
Part of me was glad to have confirmation. The other…the other didn’t want to admit to being disliked. “What? No. We just got interrupted.”
“Uh-huh. The other time you guys met—was that by any chance when you ran him over?”
“What? No.”
“His dog?”
“No.”
“His mother?”
“No!”
“Okay. I bet I imagined it. I’m sure he does not want to staple your forehead.”
I was sure, too. Mila had a flair for the dramatic, but the truth is, assuming that someone dislikes you based on a one-second interaction requires a degree of narcissism that I’d rather avoid. So I moved on, put the whole incident out of my mind, and managed to never think about Jesse again.