Page 13 of Guy's Girl
“Are you seriously going to Seamless food to the park?” asks Finch.
Tristan waves a hand. “It’s on the hedge fund’s dime.”
“Let’s do Thai,” says Clay. “I’m craving pad see ew.”
Finch wipes an invisible tear. “Our little picky eater, all grown up.”
It’s true. When they were freshmen at Harvard, Clay wouldn’t touch anything that didn’t resemble a cheeseburger. Now he eats sushi twice a week.
“Gin, what do you want?” Tristan types into his phone.
“Chicken cashew nut,” she says automatically. “With lots of veggies.”
Clay makes a face.
It takes Ginny a second to be embarrassed. Here she is again, ordering protein and vegetables. Didn’t she tell herself things would be different in New York? Didn’t she swear she was turning over a new leaf?
“Listen to this.” Finch picks up his guitar and starts plucking a string of unrecognizable notes. “Today in class, I get this text from Hannah, right? Telling me how she’s at some frat party—on a Wednesday, mind you, God I miss being a senior—and just did a beer bong with the son of the CEO ofBeck Pharmaceuticals. I swear to God. Apparently they got in some big argument over patent laws.”
“Of course they did.” Clay laughs. “Hannah could argue with a rock over health care.”
“Beck Pharma?” Tristan says. “That’s nothing. If you look attheir stock price compared to Pfizer, they’re not even in the sameballparkas—”
“Shut up, Tristan,” Clay and Ginny say without even looking at him.
Forty minutes later, the food arrives, slung over the wrist of a harried-looking man on a bicycle. Tristan distributes containers. Across the blanket, Clay’s phone lights up with a text. He picks it up. After scrolling, he says, “Silvas is getting fucking crushed at work.”
Ginny nearly chokes on a bell pepper.
“Silvas, eh?” A strange grin twists Finch’s mouth. “Have you seen him yet, Gin?”
She pounds her chest. “I moved in two days ago.”
“But youwillsee him, right?”
Ginny hates when Finch does this. Gets overly pushy about her dating other men, as if forcing her to find happiness will somehow erase what he did.
“Maybe,” she says.
“Maybe.” Finch rolls his eyes. “She’ll be in his bed by next Friday. I’d put money on it.”
Ginny resists the urge to hit him.
Of course—not that she would ever tell them—she secretly hopes he is right.
***
The next day, Ginny stands at her desk, trying to pay attention to the task of putting together the newsletter. She came in at 8 a.m.—a half hour before Kam, as planned—and spent the first hour at the office trolling through Slack, trying to figure out who works for which brand. She spent the second stalking Sofra-Moreno employees on LinkedIn, jotting down any big wins they posted about recently and pulling their photos to add to the newsletter.Everything is content, she tells herself.
It doesn’t take long to hit a wall. She ran three miles this morning and didn’t eat any breakfast. By 10 a.m., her attention has already started to wander. Her mind grows fuzzy, the world hazy at the edges. She can’t stop glancing from her laptop to her iPhone, which lies facedown on her standing desk—Ginny never works sitting down; she prefers to multitask, to type and burn calories at the same time—irritatingly silent. It’s only her third day in the city, but for some reason she desperately wants to text Adrian.
Stop, she tells herself.You don’t even like texting.
Of course, there was a time when shedidlike texting. Before college. Before food took over every last inch of her mental space. She had boyfriends in high school—the longest being Andy. She loved the way they would text flirt, an ongoing conversation about nothing. Sporadic reminders that someone was thinking about her. That she was worth something. That she was desired.
Of course, the last person with whom she texted like that was Finch, and look howthatturned out.
She glances at her phone. Back to her laptop.
