Page 85 of Finance Bros

“You know, I don’t really feel like talking either,” I tell him.

“You just want what? Me to take my shirt off?”

I grin. “To start.”

“What else?”

“Would you consider fucking me?”

His eyes meet mine sharply. His shock is obvious. “Tonight?”

I nod.

“I think that’s a terrible idea.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Because I don’t know what this is, Mal. It makes me nervous.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t seem nervous, so the words get my attention and help me understand that coming on so strong is likely what’s making him balk. But then I remember the way he apologized for his intensity yesterday like he didn’t want to scaremeoff.

Communication it is.

“Okay, let’s talk,” I say.

“And then we can make the content?”

“No, you’re right,” I acquiesce. “Let’s get that out of the way. Then we’ll talk. Deal?”

He looks relieved. “Deal.”

We spend some time clipping the videos we just made. He works from his bed, and I stay on the beanbag.

I post a clip to TikTok and add all the stickers and links to the full video that I upload to our Patreon. After I’m done with that piece, I take off my shirt, grab Stephanie, and pull her ontothe beanbag with me where we make a one minute and ten second video about starting small when you’re diving into entrepreneurship. By the time I’m finished, Ryan’s getting comfortable, lying on his side on the bed with Bud stretched out in front of him, belly up. He runs his fingers through the lazy cat’s fur while he stitches my video and talks about how risk is part of the reward of being your own boss.

He’s inspiredmeto want to risk something by the time he turns his phone face down on the bed. I mean—with him looking like that, it doesn’t take much.

He glances over at me. A long moment passes before he asks, “Do you want me to come over there, or do you want to come over here?”

I want to tell him I just want to come period, but I hold that in. “You look comfortable.” I go to the bed and lie down facing him. I prop my elbow on the pillow and rest my temple on my fist. He cradles his cheek in the crook of his arm and looks up at me.

“Can I use a metaphor?” I ask. “Is that gonna annoy you?”

“Depends. You can try,” he says.

“Okay, then I’m going for it.”

He nods.

I’m pretty sure this will make sense—if we were as close as we used to be, I know it would, but so much has happened. Still, lying here like this makes it feel like we know each other better than we actually do. “So let’s say there’s this room in my head. It’s been there since I was little. I used to hang out there a lot. I liked it there. It was interesting and exciting, and maybe a little scary, but in the good way.”

He squints, trying to follow me.

“And then the light went out inside it, and I didn’t understand anything that went on in it anymore. I couldn’t see the toys or whatever. I couldn’t play the games. I was just fumblingaround outside it because I wanted to be in there—I knew I liked it there, but it was hard to remember why. You with me?”

“More or less. Maybe.”

“And then—when you were sick that time, the door slammed shut. Lights out, locked out—caution tape everywhere.”

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