Page 159 of Finance Bros

“Thank you,” I whisper. “So do you.”

When we part, I feel someone brush by me, a shoulder against mine.

The back of Malcolm’s head is all I get as he and Bailey walk to a booth in the back of the dining area. Bailey, however, turns to scowl at me.

“Oh shit. It’s almost one.” Norah says. “We need to get back. I have to add two more slides to my power point.”

“One second,” I say, walking quickly to catch Mal before he sits down.

He looks at me with wild eyes. “So that’s her?”

“I—yeah, but?—”

“Classy,” he says. “You look great together. A perfect fit.”

“Mal—”

“Not now, Ryan. Today’s been shitty enough.”

“We need to talk,” I say.

He looks stricken.

“Not like?—”

He shakes his head, and that shuts me up. “I left a bunch of shit at your apartment. I’ll be by later.”

“What?” I ask. Does that mean he’s coming back to take his shit? Or he wants to talk, too?

“If you don’t mind,” he says, gesturing at his menu. “I’m hungry.”

With that, he sits down with Bailey, and I read her angry expression differently now. It’s not a how dare you hurt Malcolm look, it’s more of a thanks a lot for making me deal with him like this look. Frankly, I’m surprised as hell they’re having lunch just the two of them, but I guess we’ve all bonded.

Moderately reassured that we’ll get the chance to clear the air tonight, I tell them I’ll see them later and head out with Norah.

I trust Bailey not to let him spiral too hard.

29

MALCOLM

“You need to chill the fuck out, dude.”

Either I’m not understanding something, or Bailey is fuckingblind. It took me exactly five minutes after watching Ryan walk off with Norah Butler to put together that she’s the woman in Seattle waiting for him to wrap up this internship and return to the Pacific Northwest.

I can’t fucking believe how beautiful she is. I mean—I can—Ryan’s hot as hell, but I don’t know why I pictured her being some mousy finance nerd. Maybe because he hasn’t exactly been falling all over himself to text her or call her—there’s no pictures of her anywhere. I thought she was a back-up plan—not a fuckinggoddess.

I should have pressed for more information. I should have asked him point bank if he was still planning to move to Seattle. I shouldn’t have assumedanything.

“I don’t think I can do this,” I say bluntly.

“Do what?” Bailey asks.

“If you could see inside me right now, you’d run screaming.”

“Why? What’s inside you?”

Depression. Insanity. Jealousy. Insecurity. Doubt. Fear. No—it’s not fear. It’s abject fucking terror that I am way too late and not nearly enough. “Do you think he’s straight?”

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