Page 2 of Finance Bros

“Right.”

A glint in her eyes accompanies a small smile I interpret as flirtatious. Thank God. I’m not completely blowing this.

“You don’t look like an investment banker,” she says.

“No?” I already know this. “What do I look like?”

She laughs, covering her mouth with one of her tiny hands. “When I saw your profile pic, I thought you might be in a band or something. Maybe a bartender? But I mean that in the best possible way.”

“That’s a terrible picture of me. I’ve had multiple haircuts since. I should update it.”

“It’s a great picture,” she argues. “And who doesn’t like a bartender?”

“Why would you want to go on a date with a bartender?”

“Ouch.” Her next laugh is less amused, more cautious. “What’s wrong with bartenders?”

I shrug and swallow the dregs of my wine. As usual, my baseline personality is getting in the way of maintaining adecent impression. My mom calls it “caustic.” Occasionally, someone will like me despite all my rough outer layers, but I’m an acquired taste. I refill Ruby’s wine, hoping more alcohol will help blur my sharper edges.

I don’t hate the idea of skipping dinner in the future. A meal with me rarely ends well, usually goes a hell of a lot like this, and only sometimes winds up in someone’s apartment. “Nothing,” I say. “Bartenders are great. Me personally, I’m really looking forward to the internship. If it goes well it could mean getting my dream job.” Dream life. Dream everything.

“You’re peaking early,” she says.

I shake my head. “The job’s just the beginning.”

“Then what?”

My microeconomics professor Norah comes to mind. She was an adjunct at PSU before going back to work at her firm in Seattle—a satellite office of Marks & Baker. Norah swears she had nothing to do with my getting the internship at the flagship offices here, but I don’t care whether she did or didn’t put in a good word for me. The opportunity at Marks & Baker is all that matters.

Norah was married while I was taking her class, but she isn’t anymore, and she’s somehow worked her way into these visions I have of my dream life. She’s gorgeous. Single. No kids. And, more importantly, she’s one of the aforementioned people who likes my personality. I like hers, too. So much that I actively picture her with me when I say to Ruby, “Dream home, dream yacht, dream vacations.”

“Sounds like you have a whole plan.”

Damn right. “What’s yours?”

“Pass the bar exam.”

“Amen.” I lift my glass for a toast.

The rest of the conversation goes well enough that Ruby invites me back to her place. We have sex with her on topbecause I’m scared I’ll crush her, and afterward, I crash hard, exhausted from all of it—the wine, the talking, the orgasm. The effort the whole night took.

I’d take a fucked up stock portfolio to sort out overthatany damn day. No offense to Ruby. She’s great, but dating wears me the fuck out.

My Apple watch wakes me before dawn, and I slip out of Ruby’s bed in a maneuver I’ve perfected—guaranteed not to wake even the lightest of sleepers. On my way out of her building, I send her a text, thanking her for the night and apologizing for having to leave early.

Once I’m home, I intend to go straight back to bed, but when I arrive, my roommate is already at it, working out in the living room he’s turned into his home gym.

Deacon is a friend of a guy I knew at PSU. I wound up in his apartment because he was looking for a sublet after his previous roommate moved out to live with his girlfriend. I’ve been here almost a month, which more or less makes this living situation the world’s longest blind date, which is to say, he and I are still feeling each other out.

From what little conversation we’ve had, I know he writes code for some big tech company, but I only ever see him working out. It’s six in the morning, and he’s already dripping sweat, his corded muscles shiny and defined as hell. The dude’s got zero body fat. And I know because I’ve watched him check it. With calipers.

It’s not all for looks—he’s literally training for an Iron Man. He’s got goals, but in terms of looks, in my humble opinion, there’s no room for improvement. He’s out most weekends, where I assume he’s putting his looks to good use. I guess it’s possible he’s got a girlfriend, but I haven’t seen one yet.

“How was the date?” Deacon asks, out of breath.

I look blankly at him, like the fact that I’m just now coming home speaks for itself.

He grins. “Right. Cool. I got um…fresh bananas.”

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