I roll my eyes back for good measure, grab the banana bread out of the toaster, and stomp out of the break room. Benny follows me all the way back to my desk.
“Casey,” Fari whines as I drop into my chair. “I’m sick of reconciliations.”
“Why are you doing reconciliations? Pawn that shit off on Accounting.”
Her nose wrinkles. “I can’t just pawn shit off. I’m a freshman!”
I laugh, uncapping a highlighter, and think to myself, This is it. If I had to boil down why I like working in finance, I’d do it by explaining month-end.
It’s a little bit of a con we’re running here: convincing people of the incredibly high stakes and very intense difference between 7 percent and 8.5 percent ROI. But at the same time, that 1.5 percent really does matter, and if you can find it, if you can make it happen, it sometimes feels bigger than anything else you’ve ever accomplished. Because it could mean a project green light, or maybe a new hire, somebody getting a bonus that helps them finally afford their dream vacation. I’ve always loved the idea that numbers I analyze might help somebody’s dreams come true, and I’ve always hoped I’m not simply lining the CEO’s pocket.
“Right.” I nod to Fari. “I forgot we haze with reconciliations. Carry on.”
Benny sits on the edge of my desk and smirks. “As a junior in adulthood, I demand you each bring me a fanciful, luxurious coffee on Monday. I’ll rank whose choice is better, and the loser has to answer the phone the next time the COO’s ex-wife calls.”
I eye Benny suspiciously. “Why are you in such a good mood?” He’s one of those people who are only allowed to approach you, not the other way around. When he comes to see me and Fari, it’s either in a state of flurried commotion or because he’s in the mood to fuck around.
“It’s month-end,” Benny answers, examining his multicolored fingernails. “During month-end, everyone else gets so stressed out, they block their calendars all day. No executive babies to corral, since they’re holed up in their offices, figuring out how to blame each other for missing last month’s targets.”
“I’m so glad our misery can be your pleasure,” I intone.
“Pipe it down with the attitude, chica.” He taps my forehead, scolding me like a toddler. “I heard about your playdate with Alex yesterday. It sounds like Fari’s the one doing the legwork around here. You better get to it. Double-time now.”
“Go away, Benny. I have a playdate with the income statement.”
He laughs, face pointed at the ceiling. “I love it when I’m happy and you’re not.”
I scowl as he walks away. Fari snorts from her cube.
The next three hours are spent reviewing expense line items until my eyes bleed. After that, I double-check the reconciliations Fari wasn’t sure about and then make Don’s hedge numbers pretty.
“If we make the numbers pretty,” he tells me, “we might get bonuses.”
It’s incentive enough to take my time making his summary shine.
At some point in the midafternoon, Miriam texts, Today my Co-Star app told me yes to karaoke and no to hibernation. Therefore, I need you drunk, loose lipped, and ready for a duet when I get off my shift at midnight.
I reply, let’s run it back.
Around six thirty, Fari taps out. I high-five her as she leaves. Don is gone fifteen minutes later, muttering something very on-brand about an elementary school music program. I’m not long behind—I want to make it to the Ralph Lauren sample sale in SoHo before the Oaxacan reservation with Brijesh tonight that I just got a calendar reminder for—but right after Don vanishes, I get an unexpected message.
Alex Harrison: It’s nearly seven pm on a Friday. Don’t you have a life?
Casey Maitland: I could say the same???
Alex Harrison: I had to work late tonight. Some girl projectiled all over my clothes yesterday and shot my productivity to hell
Casey Maitland: Yikes, what’d you do to trigger such a bad reaction?
Alex Harrison: I got you to laugh, didn’t I? counting that as a win.
The grin on my face right now is frankly just embarrassing.
Alex Harrison: Andre mentioned you were looking for me earlier. Sorry I couldn’t get back to you until now, I’ve been slammed. Anything you need?
I chew on my lip, debating what to say. Truth is, I was only checking to make sure he’d shown up to work today at all. Part of me worried he was hiding out somewhere with his tail between his legs, debating whether to turn in his notice.
I do actually need something from Alex now, but I can’t type out Tracy’s request in our chat box. Getting him to open up to me is going to require more stealth than that.
Another wave of guilt presses in on me. The idea of using Alex for information crawls up my skin like a pest.
I have to remind myself that my intentions are pure. I just want what’s best for LC.
Casey Maitland: I didn’t need anything. I was just looking
I watch Alex’s type bubbles appear, vanish. Appear again.
Alex Harrison: What’s your ETA for leaving?
Casey Maitland: Can you really say ETA for leaving when that technically means estimated time of arrival for leaving?
Alex Harrison: fine, what’s your ETL?
Casey Maitland: I was about to head out
Alex Harrison: Meet in the lobby?
Casey Maitland: see u down there.
* * *
He’s leaning against the far wall, his legs crossed and his hands in his pockets, waiting for me like he’s got nowhere to be and all the time in the world to get there. His eyes track me as I make my way toward him. Looking like a goddamn Calvin Klein model in his slacks and loafers and crisply pressed button-down—an outfit that seems boring on everyone else but somehow groundbreaking on Alex Harrison.
Three feet away, I stop. There’s a flash of something dark and curious in his eyes, and with a jolt, what he said to me yesterday comes rushing back: You’ll look just as pretty tomorrow as you did the day we met.
Alex swallows. “Saanvi said the footage was good enough to air.”
“Was she by chance being held at gunpoint when she said it?”
Alex laughs and falls silent for a few seconds, scratching at his chin, eyes glazed. I almost say something else just to fill the silence, but then he releases a long, weary sigh and nods to himself, as if succumbing to some internal debate.
“I’m a bastard. You know, like, the illegitimate kind.”
Well.
I was simply not expecting that. “Right. I mean … Uh, what?”
Alex’s lips kick up into the beginnings of a smile, but it never fully forms. “My dad was married to someone else when he got my mom pregnant with me. Still is married to that same someone else, for that matter.”
“Oh.” I pretend (probably very badly) that I didn’t read Robert and Linda’s marriage announcement in a scanned New Haven Register that I found online last night. There was a picture, too. Robert was around the same age that Alex is now when he got married.
“My mother,” Alex goes on, “was a waitress and a freelance writer. She grew up in Queens, as a first-generation Korean American of two immigrant parents. I know next to nothing about how she and my dad met, or what their relationship was like.”