Page 4 of Finance Bros

“Wanna tell me about what you’re wearing?” she asks.

I shake my head. “No. But you’re welcome to tell me what you’ve got on.”

“I’m still in bed…”

“Must be nice.”

“Just a tank and panties.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” I cut her off. “I can’t be thinking about that right now. I have to practice being friendly.”

She laughs, and I picture her rolling onto her stomach, her ass covered in black satin underwear. “Bye Ryan, have an amazing day.”

“Bye.Norah.”

She groans again and hangs up.

I grin as I pocket my phone. She and I were never like this in person, but since she moved to Seattle and decided she wanted to keep in touch with me, things have shifted. I don’t hate it.

What I do hate is being this nervous. The Marks & Baker skyscraper is all white concrete and glass, glittering despite the fog rolling over the bay. It’s windy, cloudy, and cold as usual. I heard the sun is planning to make an appearance later this morning, which I have to admit makes today feel auspicious and promising.

I had my appointment with building security last week, so the man at the front desk has my new badge waiting for me. It’s only my fourth time in the building—two interviews and the background check, but I know where I’m headed. Tenth floor—progressive investments.

The elevator is loaded with a wide array of people encompassing various ages, genders and ethnicities. I’m the young white guy with the nearly black hair and disappointed smile.

Marks & Baker is a top ten company, known for the diversity of its work force, which it’s not shy about crediting for its massive success in the investment world. They hire from everywhere on the planet, and it doesn’t matter where you went to school. They look at your transcripts and grades, but they’re more interested in what you did while you were there—the ideas you had, and the mark you want to make on the world.

While I do want to be rich beyond reproach, I also want regular people to stop suffering over money so much the way my parents always seemed to. Wealth should be accessible to anyone who wants it.

In college, I started a club to help demystify the stock market for people who wanted to make some extra money. If anyone thought “this guy doesn’t act like someone who’d start a club,” they’d underestimate my desire for this internship in particular. I’m capable of coming out of my comfort zone in pursuit of a goal—especially one I want this much.

This internship is my ticket to some of the best jobs in the country. Wall Street…or Seattle.

I grew up in a suburb of San Francisco, so Marks & Baker has been on my radar since my teens. I’ve known what it takes to get hired here since I was signing up for classes my junior year of high school. AP Econ, Calculus, fucking golf, which I have a stupid knack for. Whacking a tiny ball with a metal club turns out to be directly in my internalized rage wheelhouse. The only reason I don’t play anymore is because the sun is bad for my tattoos, but I have no doubt that with enough sunscreen and motivation, I could pick it back up and not make a fool of myself.

Three other people get out with me on the tenth floor. They disperse while I approach the receptionist.

Her large, dark eyes take me in from head to toe. Her thick black hair is styled in long waves. Makeup is precisely applied, and her white, sleeveless dress sets off her rosy brown, SouthAsian skin. She notes my badge and smiles, crimson painted lips revealing dazzling teeth.

“Ryan Vale?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You’ll be in the east conference room.” She points east, I guess. “Second door on the left.”

The progressive investments offices are open and collaborative. There aren’t any cubicles. It’s set up more like a community coffee shop with one long wooden table where people are working on their laptops and sipping lattes. In another area, couches circle low tables, but there are no individual desks in the primary workspace. All the actual offices are enclosed with glass, reserved for the senior investors. They line the back wall and feature a broad view of the Bay.

The hallway I’m being pointed toward has a chic, rustic sign signaling there are restrooms, conference rooms, and “The Lounge,” which is half coffee bar manned by a barista with basketfuls of free snacks and half break room equipped with refrigerators for employees next to a countertop covered with microwaves.

I was told lunch would be provided today, so all I have in my messenger back is my laptop, a notebook, and an aluminum water bottle.

I fix my face as I approach the conference room where the door is already open. Low chatter comes from inside, and I have a brief moment of panic that I’m somehow late.

I step into the doorway, and four pairs of eyes land on me. I force my mouth into a smile with no teeth, which I remember too late is the one that makes me look annoyed, so I stretch harder to show teeth.

A curvy Black woman rises from the head of the table. She’s a head shorter than I am and wears an amethyst-colored pantsuit that’s doing its level best to contain her ample bust. Sheholds out a hand, and a woven Pride bracelet slides out from under her sleeve. “Georgie King,” she says. “Pronouns they/them.”

I mentally correct myself for misgendering them in my brain and apply the new filter layer to the shaky, newly assembled one I worked hard to put in place this weekend.

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