Page 138 of Finance Bros

“Belonging isn’t something I feel very often,” he says. It’s an honest, unguarded answer, and it makes me realize how measured his responses to my questions usually are—or they used to be. Maybe that’s changing.

“I guess I have something to do with that.”

He squeezes my hand but doesn’t say anything. Obviously what I want to say is do you feel like you belong withme? And I might, later, but I’m really trying not to actively obsess over him when we have our first episode to film.

We pass couples of all varieties as we walk. Stephanie gets a lot of attention, and she eats it up. She’s been spreading her love around more lately, coming out of her shell. When I spend the night with Ryan, she prefers to sleep snuggled up with Bud more often than not. I’m notjealous. I just happened to notice, is all.

Miguel welcomes us with a broad smile and offers us beer.We’re not holding hands anymore and straight guys drink beer, I guess. I accept the offer, but Ryan wants water.

Bailey’s already in the office, surveying and perfecting the setup. She scoops up Stephanie as the tiny dog runs toward her. Bailey gives me a sheepish look. “You’d think I was gonna be the one on camera with how nervous I am.”

“You think we’re gonna fuck it up?” I ask.

“No!” she says, sounding unexpectedly supportive. “I think it’s gonna be amazing. I’m literally all tingly. I have a really good feeling about this.”

“Yeah?”

She nods with enthusiasm. “You look fantastic, by the way.”

I don’t know how to deal with her like this. I’m wearing gray slacks, a white button down with the collar open, and an Old Navy tech vest I bought last year. When Bailey asked if I had one, I told her I did, and she snorted. Ryan didn’t get the same question.

The group text has been popping all week about how to brand “Finance Bros.” Likehow bro do we want to go?

The consensus opinion was to maintain the opposites vibe Ryan and I have and go half bro. Accessible Bro, hence the open collar. Ryan, in contrast, is wearing that black sweater of his that short circuits my brain, his father’s old Rolex, and black slacks. His hair is in its natural state, dark waves perfectly framing his face. When he shows up in the office with Miguel, his sleeves are pushed up to reveal his tattoos.

“Are we ready?” he asks.

Miguel rests his hand on one of the mounted cameras. “We could warm up by filming the intro and outro. You guys look perfect. I want to take some photos, too. What would you say to a little make-up?”

Ryan loves this, patting his under-eye. “Yes. Can you take care of these bags?”

“Of course, honey. Come with me.”

Because I’m not letting Miguel be alone with Ryan for more than a minute, I follow them. Miguel’s bedroom is more of a boudoir, and it answers a lot of questions I probably would have eventually had about him.

The walls are painted a dark gray with a high platform bed as the centerpiece. There’s alsoa mirror on the ceiling, which makes me wonder if movie reviews were the only thing he used to record with all that equipment. Off to the right, he’s got a vanity fit for a Broadway star.

The rug is huge, white, and extremely plush. I’m terrified of Stephanie soiling it somehow, so I take her from Bailey to make sure her paws don’t touch the floor. Miguel gestures to the stool at the vanity, and Ryan has a seat.

I lean back on the sill of the bay window to watch.

It’s quick, a dab of concealer beneath Ryan’s eyes, a pressing of anti-shine powder on his face, and a few plucks of eyebrow hairs, which Ryan bears like someone who’s covered in tattoos.

It’s good work. I can’t even tell he has makeup on. Miguel looks to me, and I want to say no—the prehistoric part of me screaminggay! Gay! Too gay!but no way am I listening to that voice anymore. Pride makes a hell of a lot more sense to me now. It used to bug the shit out of me. Like why do people have to be so loud about it—so in your face?

But the truth of it is that it’s a necessary, adaptive reaction to shame—both the external hate and the internalized second-guessing that every confused kid has to deal with when they realize something about them is different than the majority of their peers.

I recall to my horror the time I told my college roommate that Pride was one of the seven deadly sins, and he looked at me like I was the biggest asshole to ever walk the earth.

In retrospect, I think I was only trying to understand, but it is—as he said—the shittiest thing he’d ever heard someone say about the queer community. I’m not even religious, so I had to have been really reaching.

Still, it’s not like I can claim “pride” since I’m technically in the closet. I glance at Ryan as Miguel spruces up my face. He’s staring back at me with a faint smile. It’s the kind of smile that makes me want to kiss him. Hold him close. Whisper things to him both sweet and filthy. It’s the kind of look that makes me want to sayI adore you, too.

He seems to sense my thoughts and draws a dollar sign in the air—I guess to remind me to get my head on straight. Miguel dabs lip balm on my lips and declares me ready to go.

In the mirror, I see a version of myself that’s refined and refreshed. “Nice,” I say.

Miguel beams.

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