Page 98 of Finance Bros

“Text me if you need anything?”

She always says that, and I sometimes take her up on it, but she doesn’t usually respond until the next day. She has better boundaries with her phone than I do.

As I’m leaving her office, however, I do send Ryan a text.

Me

Officially backing off. When you’re ready to talk, I’ll be available.

When he leaves me on read again, I go home, and after I stop leaking tears, I make a TikTok about estate planning with my shirt on.

It’s the first time I get any negative feedback from women.

I showup at Bailey’s apartment Saturday afternoon unshowered, unshaven, and ungroomed in general. I put on deodorant before I came over, but that’s about as far as I went in terms of sprucing up. Long story short, I’m not feeling very slutty today. It’s been a warm day for San Francisco and sunny, which means everyone looks happy. Couples are out en masse celebrating the beauty of love and the world and tank tops.

I, too, am wearing a tank top because it was clean, and I haven’t done laundry. It’s a black undershirt paired with red gym shorts that I also dug out of the back of a drawer. Tying shoes felt like too much work, so I’ve got on a pair of black knock-off Crocs, and my feet are sweating.

Bailey’s porch is packed with ferns and flowers in full bloom, which is not what I expected. I was imagining something more along the lines of a thorny wreath and a sarcastic doormat. The whole apartment complex is fucking cute. Peak San Francisco modern hippie vibe. Macrame, wooden wind chimes, bougainvillea, and everything.

“Whoa,” she says when she sees me.

Her tank top says RESIST in pastel Pride colors. Her curly hair is up, and her penguin pajama bottoms signal to me she hasn’t been out enjoying the sun today.

“Hello,” I say.

She looks me up and down. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing,” I say giving her an up and down perusal that’s just as obnoxious, I hope. “Nothing at all. Nice pants.”

“Thanks. Watermelon marg?”

I think I might love Bailey, too. “Fuck yeah.”

She smiles. “I was hoping for a taker. Ryan?—”

“Doesn’t like watermelon,” we say at the same time.

“I know,” I add. “Crazy, right?”

“Seriously.”

She steps out of the way, and I enter her incredibly cute apartment. It’s the kind of place I thought only existed on TV. The kitchen is quaint and hasn’t been updated, but it’s clean and bright with lemon and lime colored accents. The living room, where Ryan is by the way, has a green couch, two bright yellow chairs—Ryan is sitting in one—and a shit ton more plants crowded around two narrow bay windows where an orange tabby cat is sprawled in a ray of sunshine. The rug is multi-colored with a watercolor effect.

The thing that reminds me most of a movie apartment is the set of French doors leading to another room, maybe an office, maybe a bedroom where more light pours in.

“Hey,” Ryan says.

“Hey.” I don’t make eye contact and stick with Bailey, holding a glass while she pours a margarita for me. I take a sip and nod my approval. I needed this. I honestly don’t know how much help I’m gonna be today. When I left work Friday afternoon, my finance brain shut off and my poor-me-I’m-so-lonely brain started running full steam. I had a couple of extra videos I made when we were just starting out that I posted, and I envied that guy who looked like he had his shit together. That guy had potential and things to look forward to.

Friday night Malcolm was dreading fake Croc Malcolm having to be within six feet of the man who gave me an anal tearand I let piss on me because it seemed really hot at the time. And it was. It was really,reallyhot. I think about it way too much.

Bailey’s work project stuff is taking up the entire couch—a laptop, a notebook, a bag full of pens and highlighters—so I sit on the other yellow chair and avoid looking at Ryan in favor of trying not to guzzle my margarita.

It’s a perfect summer drink and in direct contradiction to my mood, which is dark and sour. It tastes sweet and optimistic. Fucking delicious.

Bailey plops down amidst all her things and gives us the updated subscription numbers. We’re at nearly two-thousand, which is mind-boggling. Starting next week, she wants Ryan posting a video every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, while I’ll pick up Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Sunday is going to be Bailey’s poll day.

One of the worst parts of this week from a social media standpoint is that the secret of Ryan and I knowing each other is out. In the first video we posted on the Patreon of Ryan, the corner of his bed where Bud and Stephanie were sleeping together was in the frame. I hadn’t noticed because I was too busy ogling him, but I’m sick of answering questions about it on the Discord.

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