Page 11 of Finance Bros

I scoff at that. He minds. He minds a lot. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be speaking to me. It’s gotta be pretty fucking inconvenient for him that my PSU degree got me the same place his fancy Stanford one did. “Not my problem,” I say, which couldn’t be more of a lie if I tried, but since I want it to be the truth, I figure it doesn’t hurt to speak it into the universe.

“Still an asshole,” he mutters like this comes as no surprise.

I shut my eyes and make myself breathe. I need the line to move and not because he’s wrong. He’sright, and I don’t need to hear it from him. Obviously I’m not going to be able to avoid the constant reminder this summer, but Icanpretend it isn’t already breaking me. At least he doesn’t have to worry about keeping his shit together the way I do. He broke a long time ago, and I know because I was the one who took a perfectly nice guy and turned him into a raging dick.

To say regret is the defining pillar of my existence doesn’t begin to cover it. I have the word tattooed on my left inner forearm in bold, block letters—a visual representation of what I carry with me along with a warning for anyone who gets too close.

“I fuckin’ hate you, man.” Malcolm says in a low voice behind me.

I fucking wish I did, too.But I do get where he’s coming from. I always have. I stop short of apologizing for my existence. I’ve tried that before. It doesn’t work on him.

I think crucifying myselfcouldwork, but I don’t know anyone who would help me out with that.

“Fine,” he goes on talking to himself. “We don’t know each other. If that’s how you want it, fine with me.”

I don’t say anything. I pretend he’s speaking to someone else. When it’s finally my turn to pay, I quickly do and get the fuck out of there.

Despite a relatively greatday at work with Charlie, I’m still in suffering mode when I leave the building. I manage nineteen miles tonight before Calyx stops me. I was trying so hard to clear my head of Malcolm and make magic happen with a hundred bucks in my usually very quick and reliable brain—I didn’t realize how far I ran. And after all that—nothing. No ideas. Not even a glimmer of one. Just Kix.

Over our lunch break today, Miguel mentioned to me that he, Nathan, Jia, Piper,andLisette are pooling their cash and working together. Evidently they already have a plan, but he said he could only let me in on it if I teamed up with them, too. I highly doubt Bailey wants anything to do with working with a partner, and I already heard Mal turn the group down, so it looks like it’s just the three of us going it alone, which sucks. I should have put more thought into joining them. I don’t hate Miguel. He seems cool.

Still, I’m about as good at teamwork as a barn cat. I need fullcontrol of my own destiny to survive. No one would want to work with me for any amount of time, much less a summer. I’m glad Charlie has me talking to clients on the phone. I don’t enjoy it, but it’s letting me play with different personas, experiment with what works and what doesn’t. Communication is one of my weaker spots, which he and I went over extensively before we started working together.

If I want to be a grown ass adult working in finance, I’m gonna need more than a good golf swing. I need people skills. Charlie has amazing people skills. I, on the other hand, have to pretend I’m some smooth-talking character from a movie and do my best impression. Today I tried to channel Matt Damon. It went okay. Maybe I’ll try McConauhgey tomorrow. Not the accent. Just the laid-back attitude.

Currently, I’m home, sitting at my desk, staring at financial news, reading any article I can find about successful startups, and trying to figure out a way to shorten the timeline on turning a profit. I’m on the phone with Norah, and she’s trying to assure me the summer project isn’t that big of a deal while also telling me about the one her internship had to do, very much romanticizing it. She’d been at the Seattle firm, and it was a team challenge—thank fuck ours isn’t—but I’m only half listening to her.

To be clear, Norah and I never officially dated. The last time I saw her, I did kiss her because it was her last day in Portland, but that was it. I’ve very much romanticized this idea I have about winding up with her. It’s a vision, but it’s a hazy vision. Still, I’ve managed to keep our tiny spark alive for the last year, and I really do intend to move to Seattle at the end of summer. We’ll see what happens when I get there.

For now, we talk a few nights a week. Sometimes our conversations are more personal and needier than others. Sometimes we talk about how great it would be if we could go grab a drink together, or—if it’s sunny in Seattle, she’ll say how nice it wouldbe to take a walk with me and show me around. It’s the phone call equivalent of holding hands, but I like it. In some ways it feels more real than any of the dates I’ve been on or other relationships I have—besides Calyx. He’s very much in my face, but only at the gym.

Other than my mom, Norah knows the most about me, but even that isn’t all that much. I don’t like to talk much about my life before I got to Portland, whereas Norah will talk about anything except her marriage.

Like she senses she’s losing my attention, she says, “You could start an Only Fans. I might know someone who would be your first subscriber.”

“Do you?” I ask, biting the tip of my pen. She’s got my attention. “And how would you recommend I scale that?”

“Um…well..easy, right? You start off with yourself and end with a harem?”

I laugh. “You’d sign up for that?”

“I didn’t sayme.”

“How would I know if I’m any good at being on camera?”

“Ah…well…you could always record a demo and send it my way. I promise to give you an honest opinion.”

I nearly snort. We’ve sent sleepy selfies, but we have not graduated to dick and tit pics. “I think I better let you go. But if I don’t think of anything, OF might be where I wind up.”

“Remember me when you’re famous?”

“Obviously,” I tell her.

We say goodnight, and I go back to my less than productive brainstorming, only halfway thinking about sending Norah a picture of my tenting pants.

I’m not sure I’m ready for that level of intimacy with her yet—not with this project looming andfucking Malcolm.

Another useless hour later, in a moment of desperation for any idea to click, I turn to ChatGPT. The smart fucker stealsthree ideas after a five second scrape of the internet. One involves buying and selling vintage t-shirts, another has to do with going viral—not unlike Calyx’s idea, and the third is a dog walking business. The only issue with all of them is that the yield over twelve weeks is only in the low thousands, not tens of thousands.

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