Page 2 of Guy's Girl
When they met freshman year, Ginny didn’t think she would like Tristan; he talks enough to fill three conversations at once, and his favorite topics are finance, finance, and finance. He is obsessed with shorting stocks and would love nothing more than to ruin a small country’s economy.
However, he will also say yes to anything, laugh at anyone’s jokes, and try any food you put in front of him. He is insatiably curious—and strangely childlike in his obsession with airplanes.
She adores him.
Ginny loves boys. Not in a sexual way; frankly, she hasn’t felt attracted to anyone in years. No—what she loves about boys is their company. Male friendships aren’t like female friendships, she thinks. They’re easier. Free from the drama.
She loves male bodies, too. Their sloppy haircuts and predictable clothing. The strange shape of their calves—thin at the ankle and round in the middle, like telephone poles swollen with last night’s rain. The stupid, honest way they make themselves laugh.
But she lovesherboys most of all.
Now Tristan chatters eagerly about the flight-tracking app on his phone as he leads Ginny and Clay into the living room.
The boys’ SoHo apartment is the quintessential postgrad shithole: creaky floor planks, white wall paint, and a shower that looks like it was built before the fall of the Berlin Wall. Every boy living in this apartment is over six feet tall; Ginny isn’t sure how they fold their legs up tight enough to shit on the pint-sized toilet.
“Tristan,” says a low, raspy voice from inside the living room, “if I have to hear one more fact about domestic flight patterns, I’m going to throw myself off the fire escape.”
Ginny inhales. He’s here.
Finch.
She steps into the dim light of the living room, and there he is: Alex Finch, the fourth and final corner of their friend group. Sitting in a low armchair, aux cord plugged into his phone, guitar balanced on his lap. Finch is studying to become an orthopedic surgeon at NYU. He has close-cropped blond hair and a crooked smile. He’s completely brilliant and also stupid, in the way that all brilliant men are also stupid.
When Ginny thinks about freshman year, she thinks about Finch. About his hands on her waist, on the hem of her shirt. Thefeel of the fabric as it peeled over her head. His eyes as he took her in for the first time. She thinks about kissing until her cheeks are red with the burn of his stubble.
Stop, she thinks.Turn it off.
She forces a smile onto her face and steps forward. “Finch. Hi.”
“Gin.” He sets aside the guitar and stands. In two long strides he’s before her. “It’s great to see you.” He wraps both arms around her and pulls her in for a hug.
Ginny tries not to inhale for fear that his scent will be too familiar.
After untangling herself from Finch’s hug—which lasts just a second longer than is appropriate—Ginny walks over to the worn grey couch and sits. Now that all four of them are standing in the small living room, there isn’t much space to breathe.
“So.” Clay sets her suitcase on the floor beside the television and crosses the two steps that take him into their tiny kitchenette. “Tonight, we’re thinking poker and pregame until Adrian gets back, then hit the bars.”
Clay is their ringleader. He may not talk the most—that award rests firmly with Tristan—but he holds the most power. He makes plans and leads the charge. Right now, he works for a government consulting firm, but will probably one day be president of the United States. The man could make friends with a houseplant.
“I bet I can get us a table at Tao,” Tristan says. “The owner is a personal friend of my father’s. Just last year, we visited his house in the Hamptons, and—”
“Shut up, Tristan,” say Ginny and Clay in unison. It rolls off the tongue—their old mantra, words they spoke whenever their friend started going on about his father’s connections or late-stage capitalism. They flash surprised grins at each other. Clay’s teeth are brilliant white beneath his red hair, and the sight is so familiar it nearly cracks Ginny in half.
“So.” Clay winks and turns around, opening the small refrigerator in the corner. “How’s work, Gin?”
“Oh, you know,” she says, shifting on the couch. “It’s work.”
“But you work for abeercompany,” Clay says over his shoulder as he rummages around, looking for cold alcohol. “That’s epic.”
“Right,” Ginny says. “But I live in Minnesota.”
During the fall of her senior year, Ginny signed with Sofra-Moreno, a global beer conglomerate. When SM started recruiting her, she was a senior in college studying history and literature—proof that your degree means absolutely nothing and you can do whatever the fuck you want after college, provided you’re a good enough liar. What? She was going to get paid almost six figures a year to study the history of beer? Absolutely not. She has to at leastpretendto contribute to the company’s bottom line.
When she signed her contract with Sofra, Ginny was ready for an exciting global career. She imagined visiting breweries around the world. Rubbing elbows with executives. Climbing the ladder. Maybe even getting her Cicerone Certification, becoming a sommelier of beer.
Right up until they placed her in Minnesota.
She was going to say no. She was going to look for another job. But then her classes picked up in earnest, and all Ginny’s free time disappeared, and she just sort of fell numbly into her future. Into the path assigned.
