Page 50 of Not in Love

She muttered a word that sounded like twitch. “For the record, this is extortion and blackmail. Both felonies. And I hate you.” A sigh. “I got the contract you emailed. The one that supposedly says that the ravioli patent is yours, no matter what.”

“It’s a microbial coating—”

“Yes, you’re a nerd first and a human being second. We’re all aware. Anyway, I haven’t gotten a chance to look at that contract yet. But I did check your brother’s letter.”

“And?”

“Honestly, I’m not a real estate lawyer, but your best bet is to buy him out. Can you afford it?”

Could I? The tech industry paid well, and I did have savings. Enough to buy Vince’s half of the cabin, though? “Probably not right now.”

“You could get a loan.”

I could. Except that my credit score was still convalescing after the abuse I’d put it through during my PhD. “With my luck, the loan would end up being owned by a pack of hyenas. Or by Harkness—same difference.”

Nyota chuckled, which made me feel oddly proud. Booger eater, I reminded myself. You don’t need to impress her.

“Tish tells me things are looking up,” she said, still breathing easily. “With Harkness, I mean.”

“Hopefully. If Florence finds a better lender. Or any lender, since I’m not sure there are worse ones.”

“Don’t be so sure. Harkness is not that bad.” She noticed my surprised eyebrow and continued, “Don’t get me wrong, there are no ethics in capitalism and all that. But these guys are on the less gross end of the spectrum of it. Guess how many companies they’ve bankrupted?”

I had no idea what a plausible number was. Three? Seventeen hundred? “Twelve.”

“That’s disturbingly specific, and no. Zero.”

“What does that mean?”

“I wouldn’t go as far as saying that they’re putting social responsibility before profit, but at least they try. Or maybe I’m just mildly fascinated because I work in finance—doesn’t exactly crawl with people with a strong moral compass. Or weak. Or any.” She shrugged mid-stride. Impressive. “At least they’re not saddling the companies they acquire with debt, or cutting jobs. They’re longterm. Their MO seems to be to invest in companies they believe in and use their capital to grow them. And they seem to be very intuitive when it comes to figuring out what tech has good market potential.”

I thought about Minami and her degree. “What about what they’re trying to do to Florence? Have they ever targeted a company to obtain control of their tech?”

“Not that I know of. But don’t worry, Rue. They’re still making money out of money and all that gross shit.” She grinned. “You are allowed to hate them, if that’s what sparks joy.”

Tisha and I hadn’t been the ones to start Kline’s monthly journal club, but Florence had forced us to take over when our predecessor moved to a cushy job at the CDC and a dearth of volunteers became apparent. And yet, while we may not have been the club’s first, we were undoubtedly the club’s best.

No one wanted to read scientific papers in their spare time, let alone have roundtable discussions about them. So, after the first monthly meeting had an attendance of three (Tisha, me, and a strong-armed Jay, who did not read the paper and threatened to call HR), we decided that some changes were overdue. Among them: moving the club to Thursday afternoons, snacks, and, most importantly, a keg budget—which Florence had agreed to, “in order to incentivize continuing education.”

Attendance had skyrocketed. “Journal club” had become a synonym for “company-wide nonmandatory party.” Even I, no social butterfly, enjoyed it for several reasons: nine times out of ten I got to choose the paper (no one else remembered to submit ideas in time); it was much easier for me to interact with people within the structure of a guided discussion; and beer was a powerful social lubricant. You give out way less of a “talk to me, and I’ll fuck up your human rights” vibe when you’re drunk, Nyota had told me years before, watching Tisha and me stumble home sloshed, mistake the bathtub for a bed, and use Mrs. Fuli’s loofahs for pillows.

I had elected to take it as a compliment.

That Thursday, amid some bisphenol A soapboxing, modeling techniques slander, burps, and someone pointing out over and over that they’d been in grad school with the third author on the paper, I was several beers in.

“. . . without even considering the ethical . . .”

“. . . always such a know-it-all . . .”

“. . . is this my glass or yours?”

“. . . they completely misattributed the catalytic activity.”

The last one was Matt. Tragically, I agreed with him, but I wasn’t about to admit it under threat of anything less than radical annihilation. So I stood, gave Tisha a pointed should we maybe wrap this shit up and go home? look, and headed for the closest restroom.

I was lightheaded, definitely buzzed—but not wasted enough to warrant the apparition coming toward me in the hallway. Eli couldn’t be here, could he? He wasn’t allowed at Kline anymore.

His slacks and button-down looked like they’d been a full suit and tie about eight hours ago. His hair had been cut since the last time I’d run my fingers through it. Still messy, a little shorter. The glasses were there, too. They didn’t make him look smarter, or softer, or more distinguished, but they did transform him into Private Equity Eli.

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