“They need the paycheck.” Max sounds serious. I can’t tell if he’s pulling my leg or not. We all know interning isn’t a lucrative proposition.
“But I’m right.”
Jack, naturally, mock-wags his finger at me. “And she’s the boss. What if she knows something you don’t? Or her way of doing things is equally good?”
I consider the possibility before dismissing it with a middle finger in Jack’s direction. “I’m the best at what I do.”
“Think of it like sex,” Jack says, checking the wave coming toward us.
“I do not want to think about sex and you.” Max nods, in vigorous agreement with me. In college, we didn’t hang neckties on doorknobs to indicate that the room was occupied; we’d just agreed that our triple was a bang-free zone and that we’d take girls anywhere else. The rooms at Santa Cruz were too small for sexcapades.
“Work with me here.” Jack sighs, a long, dramatic, oh-woe-is-me sigh I blame on his one and only stint as a thespian. He’d signed up for UC Santa Cruz’s summer production of A Midsummer’s Night Dream because he’d wanted to bang Titania. Hazel had been the stage manager and she superglued the ass head to his hair because Titania—aka Molly—was her best friend, and she was too shy to tell Jack to bugger off. Jack married Molly four years later, and he and Hazel have been friends and partners in crime ever since. She’s the prettier but no less cutthroat half of their VC company. Together they have their thumbs in some of the tastiest Silicon Valley pies.
Jack has suggested repeatedly that we grow up and include Hazel in our Saturday surf dates rather than shut her out of our boys-only tree house. She’s great, but I’ve shot him down every time—not because she’d prefer to discuss the hotness of the male of the species, but because she honest-to-God can’t swim. Drowning Jack’s business partner isn’t a friendly move. The compromise is her sitting on the beach with a book and holding on to our wallets. Currently she’s a bright pink dot wrapped in three blankets. In addition to not being a good swimmer, Hazel gets cold easily.
Jack continues, “You’ve got the moves, you’re the foreplay master, you’ve got the whole night mapped out and it’s going to the best orgasm she’s ever had.”
“So, a typical night.”
Jack ignores that. “But your date knows what makes her come, so what if she wants to do something different? She’s not wrong, right?”
Put that way, my actions might possibly seem a little immature.
Jack taps his heart. “What do you want to happen next?”
I blame Hazel for Jack’s insane willingness to talk about feelings and relationship next steps. She’s a terrible influence. Jack claims it’s a side effect of being married, which just underscores what a dangerous idea the whole two-becoming-one state is—he’s turned into a girl.
“Pretty certain misrepresenting yourself in the hiring process is illegal,” Max says. “Plus, if she mistook you for the intern, there must be a real one out there somewhere. What if he shows up?”
“No problem. I’ll be in and out.”
“That’s what she said.” Max waggles his eyebrows and I knock him off his board.
Lola
MAPLE AND I are having sad desk salads for lunch. She’s on some sort of mason jar salad kick this month, so she’s brought us each a glass jar crammed with more fiber and vegetables than I usually face in a week. Nellie flops by my feet, disappointed that it’s not bacon cheeseburger day.
Frankly, I’m voting with Nellie. When Maple hands me my jar, my first thought is ooh, super pretty. The greens and vegetables are layered inside like a healthy version of three-bean party dip. I unscrew the lid and poke my fork inside.
Maple aims hers at me. “How is Pretty Boy?”
She thinks it’s hilarious that my summer intern is none other than Hot Lap Guy. She asked how he took finding out I’d be his boss for the summer, but I wasn’t sure what to tell her. I tried to apologize, he announced he wasn’t pro second chances, and then he stayed anyhow. I think that means he’s decided we can work together. Yes, I’ve felt his penis up through his pants and he’s had his hand on my knee, but no one has seen anyone naked and there’s been no tongue (which is slightly disappointing, if I’m being honest).
I chew before confessing. “He’s a grumpy bastard.”
“A grumpy, gorgeous bastard?” Maple beams at me.
“He thinks I’m an idiot.” I wrestle with a cherry tomato that’s gotten wedged beneath a chunk of walnut.
“You’re crushing on him.” Maple doesn’t bother making it a question. I’m always crushing on someone, probably because it’s the safe kind of fun—I don’t have to actually do anything besides lurk on the sidelines and watch. This makes me sound like a creepy voyeur, when it’s more that if I ever actually had a real-life relationship, I’d want it to be a spectacular success. I hate failing.
“I’m not discussing my intern with you.” I shovel far too much salad into my mouth just in case she wears me down. Anything I say now will be garbled by arugula.
“So there’s something to discuss?”
“No!” I choke-swallow.
“But you wish there was.” She daintily spears her own cherry tomato. “You’ve imagined it.”
“It wouldn’t be professional.”
She sighs and screws the top back onto her mason jar. “You should go for it.”
“I don’t think we’re compatible. He’s gorgeous, but he insists on talking. Or barking orders. You’d think he was the company founder. I gave him a Burger King crown last week and he recycled it.”
“So not Prince Charming?”
I make a face. “Think troll living under the bridge. He’s cranky and he likes to jump out at people when they’re least expecting it and make ridiculous demands.”
“So shut him down.” Maple waves her hand for emphasis. Unfortunately, it’s the hand holding her fork and a piece of spinach crash-lands on my shirt.
“He’s useful.” I pick the spinach off my shirt, consider eating it, but opt for the mature route and instead deposit it in the trash can. “He organized the kitchen last week. He owns a label maker—do you think he qualifies as a psychopath?”
He’d tackled the kitchen because he was bored. Unfortunately, he had good reason to be. I’d code-checked the code he’d written for Calla and he could have sold it on the open market. He’d also finished in forty-three hours. When I’d questioned how he’d found the time, he’d yawned and said he had chronic insomnia and therefore more than enough spare time to knock out my stupid project. Then he’d proceeded to explain—in unnecessary detail—why my original request was flawed, which had led to yet another flaming row between us.
Maple groans. “Neither of you is crazy, okay? He’s just super organized and you’re—not.”
“I could learn to be.” My jaw is sending distress signals to my brain, demanding we go on chewing strike. I give up on the salad and make a mental note to hit the taco truck.
Maple snorts. “Or you could just keep driving him nuts.”
I eye her doubtfully. “I either babble or go mute when he shows up. I don’t think he’s exactly struck dumb with lust by my sexy person.”
Maple