Page 48 of Finance Bros

Fine.Myhead.

I can acknowledge it’s just my head. No one else seems to notice or care that Ryan is in a good mood. That his teeth and tiny dimples have made multiple appearances today, and no one has pointed out that he’s breaking character.

This morning in our huddle before Georgie arrived, everyone was talking about our TikTok videos. Piper lowkey accused us of some version of prostitution. Bailey was quick to rebut. “They made it onto your feeds didn’t they? Hashtag thirst trap.”

That was Bailey’s joke and Ryanlaughed. And blushed. All I could do was grind my teeth and try not to tell them to stop staring at him. To be fair, they were looking at me differently, too, but he’s the one taking over my brain. He was in every fitful dream I had last night in varying capacities, and almost all of them were shirtless. One of them featured his cat curled around Stephanie, and she was all peaceful snuggled up against Bud’s black and white fur.

Doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s going on with me.

The jealousy is new, though, and I wasn’t expecting it. I made him cry—they make him laugh. I feel awesome about that. Fucking super.

The spreadsheet I’m fixing is coming along, but at the same time, I’m plotting how to get Ryan alone. Not because I have a plan, but because I don’t. It’s a test. I want to know what I’ll do. It’s like when I’m watching a reality show and I’m thinking, what would I do if that were me naked and alone in the jungle? What would I do if I only had five ingredients to work with and one of them was grape jelly? What would I do if I were stuck on an island with six hot girls and six hot guys? And now—what if one of them were Ryan?

My imagination is like the best club in town. Always hopping.

At lunch, he’s at the microwaves, staring at the clock on it, humming something that faintly sounds like “The Final Countdown” by Europe. It was one of my dad’s favorite songs to play air guitar to. I brought a sandwich, but I’ve got half a cup of coffee that could be warmer, so I stick it into the microwave nextto his and set it to heat for a full minute—a totally unnecessary amount of time. When I glance at Ryan, he’s got an eyebrow arched at my timer.

“I like it hot,” I say in my TikTok voice. Not on purpose. It’s just how it comes out. Overly suggestive. I mean it as a joke. I think.

He meets my eyes. “That should do it,” he says, also in his lowfuck me because I know smart shitvoice.

“You’re in a good mood today,” I blurt.

I get a scowl for that. “Am I?”

“You’re smiling a lot.”

Did I really just say that? Admit I’ve been watching him?

He’s not smiling now. Those aren’t for me, apparently. Ihatethat.

I scramble for a segue. Something to say that will lead to a conversation we can’t finish here and need to continue outside of work, because the shit I want to talk to him about is deep. Things he all but ran from Saturday night. None of them are office appropriate, though. I settle for, “What are you thinking in terms of transitioning over to a subscription model?”

He doesn’t stop scowling, but he keeps his attention on me as he leans a hip on the counter, crossing his arms. “I said YouTube originally, but I looked into it and now I’m thinking of either a Patreon or a Kickstarter—like say we want to start a podcast, but we need equipment?—”

“Which we would if we wanna do a podcast,” I say.

“I was talking to Bailey on the way to work about a Patreon. Her idea was to pair it with a Discord so people can ask questions, and we give video responses if you subscribe to a certain tier. She said she could handle lower tiers—like with written answers, but the exclusive videos would come with the highest tier.”

I’m following, grateful to be talking about something Iactually understand. “If we did a podcast, how would we monetize that?”

“According to ChatGPT, there’s like a hundred ways to do that,” he says. His timer goes off, and he opens the microwave.

I grab the coffee out of mine and follow him to the booth he slides into. He looks across at me, surprised, but doesn’t tell me to get lost. “Ads, paid subscriptions, sponsorships, merch.”

“How long do you think until we can start doing that?” I ask. These are all questions I could probably think through and answer for myself, but my brain’s not firing on all its cylinders today.

He shrugs as he stirs his plastic tray of pasta. “Depends on if we peter out or keep gaining traction. Bailey thinks we need to start stitching other people talking about finance—like people with bigger followings.”

“Do you agree with her?”

He gives me a blank look. “Do you? You’re on the team, too.”

I don’t even remember the question. He’s got his sleeves rolled up, which he rarely does at work, and his forearm tattoos are on vivid display. It surprises me how pretty they are. Vines and florals. Ivy and thorns. It’s all blackwork, but the shading is so dimensional, I can tell it was done by a true artist.

His father’s watch, which used to be too big for him, now fits snugly on his left wrist. Our parents met in a grief support group. His dad died from a sudden heart attack when he was much too young, and my mom died of an accidental overdose. Sort of accidental. I mean—with how much she drank, all the pills she took, and how depressed she was, it was really only a matter of time.

But whereas Ryan barely remembers his dad, I remember my mother: the good, the bad, and the deeply disturbing.

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