Page 55 of Boyfriend
“I’m going to try. I have a lead on a job at a mortgage bank, too. That's the opposite situation—it’s all interest rates and credit checks and building the loan portfolio."
“That sounds…”
"Dry," she prompts. "It's okay, you can say it. Maybe I have to pay my dues somewhere boring. I still need a paycheck and a foot in the door somewhere. And if I pick something in a major city, at least I'll be locating myself in a decent job market."
"You'll get there.'' I sound like a damn cheerleader. But I mean it. Who wouldn't want Abbi on their team? “Someone will appreciate you for more than chicken wings and beer."
"God, I hope so."
"You'll probably get a good recommendation from the flannel people, right?"
"Oh, definitely. In fact, they've asked me to come in for a few hours tomorrow."
“Weren’t you done with that internship?”
"I was. But now they want to pay me fifteen bucks an hour to straighten out the new intern. It sounds like she's super clueless. She keeps posting rectangular images in the company Instagram feed."
"Oh the horror."
Abbi grins. "The flannel people are so confused. They don’t know what to do with a millennial who can't handle social media. It’s like a duck who refuses to quack.”
I crack up. “Any chance the flannel people will offer you a job?”
Her eyes meet mine as she shakes her head. “It’s a family business. They could be so much more if they tried, you know? The quality is there. But they’ve been making the same product line for fifty years. Besides—guess what they wanted from me as an intern?”
“Social media?”
She makes her fingers into a gun and shoots me. “You got it. And only social media. They see me coming with my marketing degree—and barely old enough to legally drink a margarita—and they’re like, here is our TikTok account. Please do whatever it is that TikTok is for.”
I snort. “And did you light up TikTok for them?”
“You know it. I dressed up the owner’s dog in flannel and got three million views.”
“Three million?” I yelp.
“It’s a really cute dog,” she says from over the rim of her margarita glass. “And it’s really nice flannel.”
“But no wonder companies want you to do social media, babe. You’re good at it.”
The compliment makes her blush. “I probably just got lucky. But enough about dogs in PJs. What’s up with you?”
“First, a big test in organic chemistry. That's going to take some work. And then back-to-back games against Notre Dame.”
“You fly there, right?”
“Thank God. It's too far for a bus ride. And we always play both the season's games on the same weekend.”
“Are road trips fun?” she asks me.
“Totally fun. But Sunday night is always a doozy for me. It’s hard to catch up.”
She tilts her head and studies me. “It’s Sunday night right now. Should you be studying?”
“No,” I insist. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all week.” Things like that don’t usually fall out of my mouth. I don’t like to give anyone the wrong idea.
It is, however, true.
I see another stain of pink hit her cheeks. But she doesn’t engage the topic any further. “I’ll bet not many hockey players are premed. They don’t work as hard at the academics as you.”
