Page 4 of Sexting the Boss

It’s not an enthusiastic invite.

It’s the kind of invite people give when they don’t expect you to say yes.

I glance at Ryan, who’s waiting for an answer, then back at Brittany, whose smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Maybe I should say no. Maybe I should save myself from an inevitable night of standing awkwardly in a corner, sipping a warm drink, trying to pretend I belong in their social circle.

But then I remember how truly boring my life has been lately.

And more importantly, I remember that I have nothing better to do.

I force a grin. “Yeah. Sounds fun.”

Ryan beams. “Awesome.”

Brittany’s smile stays perfectly intact, but for a split second, I swear I see something tighten in her expression before she turns back to Ryan and loops her arm through his.

“Well, don’t be late,” she tells him, dragging him away toward the breakroom.

I stand there, coffee in hand, watching them go.

And I can’t shake the feeling that Brittany really didn’t want me to say yes.

2

SASHA

New York ismagical in the way it sucks the soul out of you while simultaneously draining your bank account. Everyone comes here with big dreams—becoming the next Broadway star, launching the next billion-dollar startup, getting discovered at some artsy dive bar in Brooklyn.

I, however, moved here for a “great career opportunity” that turned out to be a glorified paper-pushing nightmare. By day, I work at Zaitsev Industries, a massive corporate conglomerate that mostly deals with something finance-y I don’t fully understand, because they only let me do the most soul-crushing administrative work imaginable.

My official job title is Junior Research Analyst. Which, in theory, sounds respectable. Professional. Like I do actual research and provide actual analysis.

In reality?

I make PowerPoint slides.

I organize spreadsheets.

I fetch coffee for managers who don’t even remember my name.

And for this incredible privilege, I am paid exactly enough to afford half a shoebox in Brooklyn, which I share with a girl named Melanie—who, for the record, does not speak to me.

Not in a hateful roommate tension way, either.

She just does not acknowledge my existence.

The first time I introduced myself, she gave me a single nod and disappeared into her room. A week later, I came home to find her, AirPods in, eating dry cereal out of the box, watching a reality show on her laptop with the volume maxed out.

I said hi.

She did not respond.

At this point, I’m sixty percent sure she’s running a social experiment to see how long we can cohabitate without speaking.

The apartment itself is about the size of a walk-in closet, which means I get to live in constant awareness of her presence without actually interacting with her.

And for this luxurious experience, I shell out $1,800 a month for my half of the rent.

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