LUKE
It’s nine o’clock on a July morning, and I’ve been at my desk for an hour and a half. I’m hopped up on free office coffee and I’ve already finished the project Bo gave me last night on his way out the door.
This desk is mine for only six more weeks. But I’m going to make every one of them count.
Bo—my boss and the CFO—finally saunters in, phone pressed to his ear. “Uh-huh. And why do we care if our options are bid up? Right. Gotcha. But can’t we hedge out that interest rate risk?” He sits down in his chair and nudges his computer mouse to wake the system up.
I love working here, and I wish I could hear the other side of that call.
Instead, I tidy up the printouts I’ve prepared and staple the pages together. And when Bo hangs up, I pounce before someone else can steal his attention. “Hey! Morning. Here’s the rates you asked me for.” I drop the papers on his desk.
He blinks. “The convertible comps?”
“Yeah, see?” I flip past the cover page to show him all the data I assembled from his Bloomberg terminal. “I know you said you only wanted drug companies, but I threw in a couple of medical equipment manufacturers because the data set was pretty small.”
“I just asked you for this at eight last night.”
“Sure. But your terminal has the data I needed, so I sat down after you left and knocked it out. So what’s next?”
“Breakfast,” he says. “And reading your report. Then I’ll ask you to start looking at senior debt because our bankers want to talk about a long-term debenture.”
“Sweet!” I say with undisguised enthusiasm.
He laughs. “Get a life, kid. I can’t keep up with you.”
“You are my life this summer.” I’m not even joking. They’re putting me up and paying me a terrific wage. I’m spending all my time here, learning the ropes. What else am I going to do, anyway? I have to save every penny I can. My textbooks for next term aren’t going to buy themselves.
“And I appreciate that,” Bo says. “But I’m old and I need caffeine and carbs. The hospital directors I entertained last night can sure hold their liquor.” He digs his wallet out of his suit coat pocket. “I’ll buy, you fly. Scrambled eggs with bacon and cheddar on a roll. And—”
“—double cappuccino with skim milk and cinnamon.”
“Good man.” He hands me a twenty. “I’ll read your report while you’re gone.”
On my way toward the elevator, I stop by his administrative assistant’s desk. “Marcy, I’m going down to Lenny’s for breakfast. Anything I can bring you?”
“Luke Bailey, you are dreamy,” she says, handing me a five-dollar bill. “I don’t know what I’ll do when you go back to school. Feed myself, I suppose. Please bring me a muffin. Corn or blueberry. I can’t decide. And my usual tea.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Five minutes later I’m rattling off our order and then stepping aside to wait for it.
Honestly, pleasing people at Hayworth Harper has been easier than I ever thought. All you have to do is pay attention and ask questions. I’m having a great time. And I feel calmer, somehow. Like it’s all going to work out for me eventually.
I really needed to get out of Darby-fucking-Connecticut.
The deli is full of people dressed like I am—pressed shirts and trousers, in spite of the summer heat. Leather shoes, and corporate ID’s on clips or lanyards. I don’t mind being a worker drone. It’s going to get me out of Darby for good.
Someone’s order is called, and the line shuffles forward. My phone buzzes in my pocket with a notification. I’m not going to check it. The line is not that long.
Okay, who am I kidding? I’m totally going to check it.
At first, I didn’t think it was a good idea to let Keaton text me this summer. I knew I’d hurt him. And while I’m not proud of it, it’s hard to express how deeply freaked out I was by a one-night trip to jail. For weeks afterward I couldn’t sleep. My brother had almost managed to blow up my entire life in a single weekend.
I felt stained, if not toxic. And I didn’t want to take anyone else down with me.
When my terror eventually began to wear off, it was too late. Keaton had stopped giving me the kicked-puppy face, and he was all jazzed up for his trip to Chile. I didn’t want to complicate his life, so I let him go.
Now I miss him terribly.
The phone in my pocket is yelling my name. Keaton is my big weakness, so I pull it out and open our favorite app. One of the first things I did after he left for Chile was to Google the places he was headed. And I learned that the waters where his expedition would travel have, according to National Geographic, “the worst weather in the world.”
Honestly, that scared me almost as much as a night in jail.
So in spite of the fact that each new message from Keaton is—obviously—proof of life and doesn’t really need to be speed-opened, I do it anyway. Because a message from him is still the highlight of my day.
Today I open up the app to find a photo of a calm sea and a purple sunrise. And, incredibly, a pod of dolphins variously breaching the surface of the water.
Day 47: We have calm seas, which is nice, but still no orcas. Last night at dinner I was thinking about you. Lots of things make me think of you, but this time it was lobsters. Remember that early text when I told you how lobsters have sex? I was sure you were going to block me just for being weird.
But since you’re still reading these messages, here’s something you probably don’t know about lobsters in Chile. They don’t have big claws! The claws are just not there where they should be. You see the legs, and then the antennae. And…no big hooked claws. Which means 1) they look more like bugs and 2) the lobster emoji is ALL WRONG down here.
I mean, my world is rocked.
Also, I still miss you. And I wonder what you’re doing right now.
Until the next update. –K
“Bailey? Bailey?”
My chin snaps up as I realize the guy behind the counter has been calling my name. “Thank you,” I say quickly, taking the bag and the molded paper tray with the drinks on it. I head back out the door and down the block to the office.
I haven’t been chatting up Keaton, because I promised myself I wouldn’t play with his emotions. But I feel the tug. It would be so easy to slide back into our familiar conversation. And into bed, of course. Some nights I miss him so badly that my chest aches. He’s my only regret.
The rest of my life feels so optimistic now. Like maybe I can have some of the things I never thought I deserved.
The lobby of Hayworth Harper is teeming. I wave my ID past the sensor, and the turnstile gate slides open. Every time it does that I feel irrationally happy. You belong here, it says.
There’s an elevator that’s just about to leave, so I hop inside as the doors begin to close. Everyone else on the elevator looks a little stiff, and I don’t realize why until a voice says, “Luke Bailey.”
I look up into Keaton Hayworth Jr.’s face, and realize that I’ve lunged into the elevator with the CEO. “Hello, sir. Good morning.”
“Isn’t it?” He chuckles. “I see you’ve made a run to the deli for Bo. After last night, he needed an egg sandwich, didn’t he?”
“There may be some truth to that, sir.”
He snickers. “Keaton likes those egg sandwiches, too. I think they might be the only thing he ever liked about Take Your Kid to Work Day. Have you heard from my son lately? I shouldn’t have Googled his expedition. It says that part of the Pacific has, and I quote…”
“The worst weather in the world?”
“You read that page too, huh?”
We both step aside to let a few people off the elevator. I pull my phone out of my pocket and open the app, blowing up the photo to cover the whole screen. “See? Smooth sailing today.”
He gazes at the photo. “That is just incredible. I’m happy to see that.” He hands back my phone with sigh. “If I wasn’t so pushy last year I might be getting those photos, too.”
Okay, awkward. I keep my mouth shut, because I refuse to weigh in on the boss man’s parenting in an elevator full of coworkers.
“At least he’s coming home soon,” he says. “Just two and a half weeks more.”
My stomach lurches, and it isn’t because of the elevator. I knew Keaton’s summer excursion was shorter than my internship. But I can’t believe it’s only two and a half weeks. How do I become a completely new man in two and a half weeks?
I can’t, obviously.
The elevator reaches the executive floor, and the doors part, and we both step out. “Better give that sandwich to Bo before he expires at his desk.” Mr. Hayworth puts a hand on my shoulder. “Thanks for showing me the photo.”
“Anytime, sir.” Depending on the photo.
Honestly, texting Keaton was some of the most fun I had all year. And then I let my fucked-up life ruin it.
I deliver food and drink to my grateful colleagues and take care to give them their change.
Then I go back to my desk with the sandwich I bought for myself. I set the bag on the desk. I take a photo of the bag and open up the app on my phone.
I’m going to text him back. He deserves that, and so much more. I’m still a wreck. And we’re still complicated. But at least I can reply to a fucking message.
He said I was stingy with love, and he was right. I am really not sure that will ever change. But if there’s anyone in the world I could change for, it’s certainly him.
Dear Lobstershorts, I saw your dad today. He asked me if I’d heard from you. I hope you don’t mind that I showed him the photo you sent me. He was really happy to see it, and honestly a little mopey that you haven’t been in contact.
He also told me that you like Lenny’s sandwiches. I’m definitely a fan.
TL;DR: My pics aren’t half as cool as yours, but I want you to know that I’m pulling myself together. Mostly. Well, I’m probably still the same disaster you always knew. I know you deserve better than what I gave you. I don’t know if I’ll ever be boyfriend material. But I’m working on my outlook.
I’m going to eat this sandwich now and then compile a report on interest rates of senior debt across the yield curve. Which is fun, I promise.
You take care. Keep the photos coming. Even if I’m hopeless at relationships I still look forward to every one of them.
I hit Send, and then eat my sandwich.
An hour later I’m composing a beast of a spreadsheet when my phone buzzes with a new message. My greedy heart immediately thinks: Keaton!
Hi there, tortured psyche. It’s me again.
It’s not him, though. But it’s almost as good. Mr. Grant, my lawyer, has sent me an email exactly one line long. Charges officially dismissed today. It’s over. Take care!
He doesn’t say whether Joe was convicted or not. Before leaving Darby, I was interviewed by a detective, who took notes about my brother’s visit to the frat and about my stolen ID. And Jako had to do the same.
I don’t know if my brother is behind bars or not right now, because I blocked both his and my mom’s phone number. That feels…shitty, honestly. But I have to stay strong. If I let them into my life, they’ll bleed me dry—emotionally and financially.
And if I don’t cut them out completely, I’ll spend the next twenty-one years waiting for some kind of epiphany that never comes. We’re sorry. We love you.
It’s embarrassing how much I want to hear that. And never will.
But I have interest rates to console me. I make a few more entries on my spreadsheet, and then I get stuck and have to pop into Bo’s colleague’s cubicle and ask a question. “Hey, Jim? Do I put the double-A and the double-A-minus on the same column?”
“Yup,” he says. “Sure.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, Bailey?” the younger man calls as I am about to leave.
“Yeah?”
“You’re gonna apply to come back after graduation, right?”
“I really don’t know.” I’d need a job opening, for starters.
“You’re gonna get a lot of offers,” Jim says, tugging on his necktie. “Just don’t forget our number, okay?”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.” A lot of offers. That’s such a foreign concept to me. “How does the recruitment program work, anyway?”
“I’ll check,” he says. “I think there’s some kind of signing bonus for guys who lock us in before New Year’s.”
“Really,” I say slowly. I could have a job five months before graduation? And a signing bonus? “That could knock some serious hours off my work schedule second semester.”
“What do you do during the school year?” he asks.
Oh, shit. “I work in a club.”
“Bartender? Bouncer?”
He’s just making conversation, and I should never have mentioned a job at school. But it’s not a good idea to lie to my future employer. Jim might even be my boss if I show up here next year. “I’m a male entertainer,” I tell him with a smile that’s more confident than I feel. “You might call it a stripper.”
“Ha!” He slaps the desk. “Good one, kid. Now how long until you finish that report?”
“Half hour?” I squeak.
“Cool. I’ll be waiting.”
Relieved, I walk away.
A lot of offers. That sentence sort of echoes through my head as I go back to my desk. And as I sit down in my ergonomic chair, something unfamiliar unfurls in my chest.
I think it might be optimism.
