by Kiley Roache
I open my mouth to answer him, but he keeps steamrolling, uninterested in my reply.
“Are the share distributions formalized anywhere? Because if not, you have no obligation to divide the business equally.”
I didn’t think it was possible for my headache to get worse. “I don’t really think that would be fair,” I say.
“This is not camp, Braden—not everyone gets a participation trophy.” He pauses. “Is this attitude due to your involvement with that girl? Are you thinking with parts of your body that are not your brain?”
“What? Dad, no.”
“Do not let your woman tell you what to do. At home, maybe, but not in your business.”
“She’s not my—”
“I know, I know,” he says, like I’ve accused him of something. “She’s your partner, and capable herself. I get it. In this day and age, you can’t just have a cute blonde on your arm anymore. You need a cute blonde with a good résumé. Can’t bring a Silicon yoga instructor to a society function, Braden. You need a beautiful woman with a beautiful pedigree.”
I groan softly. I’ve been subjected to this speech before. I don’t know how to tell him that the first time I tried to date a chick who is more than good looks and a huge Instagram following, she stomped on my heart.
He continues, “But that doesn’t mean she gets to be the alpha. She’s still the woman. You are the alpha.”
I know he’s probably right about the business stuff, but have seen enough terrible fights between him and my mom to disregard his messed-up relationship advice. But I don’t say anything. I’m too tired to attempt changing the mind of someone who thinks a phone is a one-way device.
“Do whatever it takes to get control,” he says. “Whatever it takes.”
I exhale and look at the computer on my desk. “I think I might know how to handle it.” One idea keeps coming back to me in my most heated moments, when I’m most pissed at Sara. But I’ve been too uncertain to act on it.
But if I need to do whatever it takes.
“I, um, would need some help from you though, Dad.”
“Just tell my secretary whatever it is,” he says. “Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m pulling up to the restaurant. Nice talking to you, though.”
“Oh, okay,” I say. “Bye.”
But he is already gone.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Roberto
I pull off the sweater I’m wearing and toss it on the floor before rummaging through the pile of clothes on my bed. I pick up a few hangers and move them aside, not sure what I’m looking for but sure it’s not that loud-ass pattern.
Tonight is the night. My first real date with Sara. I’ve fantasized about this moment so many times.
And, no, I don’t mean like that.
I mean, I’ve thought about what restaurants I would take her to. What stories I would tell to make myself seem both thoughtful and fun. I’ve thought about how, when we were walking side by side down the sidewalk, I would just sort of brush the back of her hand with mine. So lightly that it could have been an accident. And that maybe, if she wanted to, she would look over at me as she laced her hand with mine. She’d roll her eyes, letting me know that I wasn’t as slick as I thought, but then she would smile.
I thought of how I would minimize the awkwardness of a first kiss at her doorway at the end of the evening, although I guess that’s already taken care of.
But never once did I think about what I would wear.
I grab a red pullover and tug it over my head, then check myself out in the mirror.
Oh no. That doesn’t work at all. I look like I’m headed to Christmas mass or something. I pull off the sweater and reach for the navy blue one crumpled on the floor. I guess I had it right originally.
I check the time. About ten minutes until I told Sara I would “pick her up” at the other side of the building. I wipe my hands, which keep collecting sweat, off on my jeans.
I turn my attention to my hair, heading back to the mirror. It’s sort of standing up on one side and doing a weird swoopy thing, which might look cool if it was a few inches longer and I was still in the Bieber-obsessed middle school days, but is definitely not working right now.
I reach for the gel on my shelf, making sure to use exactly a pea-sized amount. The worst possible scenario would be having to rewash my hair. I take a deep breath, and try to calm my pulse—which is at two shots of espresso in a row levels.
There’s a knock at the front door.
“One second,” I call out. I run my hand through my hair a few more times. It still looks pretty weird.
Sara, I’m assuming, knocks again, louder this time.
“Sorry!” I say, turning away from the mirror.
Fuck, this will have to do. I rush from my bedroom and across the common area. “Sorrysorrysorr—”
I pull open the door, but it’s not Sara waiting there for me. It’s Braden. His gaze falls on me but shows no emotion.
“Oh.” My hand drops from the doorknob and I take a step back, my brain firing a million miles a minute but my words and actions slowing down.
He pushes past me and crosses the room, his movements fluid and graceful. Like a snake.
“Were you expecting someone else?” he says. His voice is cold.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “I...ugh.” I glance from him to my bed, visible through the doorway, still covered in half my closet. “No.” I shake my head.
He doesn’t seem angry. At least, not in a way that makes me think he’s about to throw a punch, but there is still something setting off the flight-or-fight response in my brain. Something that warns me not to poke the sleeping bear.
Don’t bring up Sara! Don’t bring up Sara! The message is like a flashing neon sign floating through my brain.
Braden crosses the room and takes a seat on the couch, setting his feet on the coffee table so the shiny red soles of his shoes are facing me.
I am very aware that I did not invite him in. I don’t usually think about stuff like that—I’m a pretty welcoming person. Having grown up in a community that calls neighbors aunts and uncles, I might even be welcoming to a fault. It’s always come naturally to me. When I’m working or hanging out in my room, I’ll leave the door open so that people feel welcome to join.
But right now, I am painfully aware that this is my room, my space, and that I don’t like having Braden in it. He is an intruder of negative energy in my happy, messy dorm room home, and I don’t like it at all.
He turns his head toward me. “I have an offer for you.”
He waits while I take the seat across from him. I sit on the very edge of the chair. “What’s up?”
“I talked to my dad,” he says. He takes his feet off the table and sits up properly, folding his hands over his knees. “And he is willing to loan me two hundred thousand dollars out of my trust fund. I would like to offer it to you as a buyout.”
“Wha—?” I start to speak but my mind goes blank. I snap my mouth shut. My first thought is how ridiculous it is that he just called up and asked his dad for that level of money. Like it’s change for a gumball machine.
But at this point, I expect the ridiculous from this kid. I shake my head. Focus. “Why would I take that if I can get way more from Bell?”
“Because...” He leans back and smiles. “Their offer is contingent on primary control. They won’t just buy out your part. And I’m not gonna take that deal, ever,” he says. “That’s over.”
“I thought we were still discussing what we’re gonna do,” I say. The world starts to spin. We weren’t done talking about the offer—how could it just be over?
He shakes his head. “I won’t sell. I decided in the last few days. Not just to him, but to anyone. I want to build this thing, and I’m not giving it up. If you want out, it’s this money or noth
ing.” He stares me down. “You can stay and keep working on this for the next few years hoping to build something big. And when we eventually monetize, maybe a few years after graduation, you might start to make an income.” He pauses, as if letting me picture the time passing. Three plus more years of bills and budgets and international call limits and pain. “But I have a feeling you’re already sick of this app, and I do not want people with that sort of mind-set on my team. So while I won’t let us sell the shares to a third party, I would be happy to buy your portion from you. If you want, if you need money now, this is the only shot you got.”
Part of me is furious at the way he says need. Like I’m some sort of addict and he knows he can control me by waving my fix, a thing that controls me and not him, in front of my face. Something he knows limits my choices and options for action. A worry he’s always been free of.
It’s infuriating that not only is money so different for him than it is for me, but that he knows it, and knows he can use it to make me do what I might not want to.
But is leaving this company really something I don’t want to do?
I think of my parents, of electric bills and medical bills and plane tickets and immigration attorney fees that have never really even been an option. I think about how long it would take to make this much money.
It’s kind of a perfect deal for me. I get to walk away with a life-changing amount of money for a class project I spent a couple of extra months perfecting. Sure, it’s less than Thatcher Bell offered. But if that’s really off the table, this deal might be the most pragmatic thing for me.
But why would he want to pay me?
“So you’re gonna pay me almost a quarter of a million dollars just to stop coding for you?” I narrow my eyes.
He shifts in his seat. “Well...that’s not all,” he says. “The money would come to you in monthly payments and would be based on a gentleman’s agreement of sorts, since we’ve never formalized our ownership shares,” he says. “And part of that agreement would be that you wouldn’t contact or spend time with the other founders of the company. Either of them.” His gaze bears down on me. “Ever.”
It feels like the floor drops out from under my feet.
“You want me to stop seeing Sara?” I ask breathlessly. “Is that what this is about?” Is he really that mean, that insecure? That he would do all this just to keep someone else from dating his ex?
He doesn’t say anything but instead reaches down for his backpack. He pulls out a manila envelope and sets it on the coffee table before standing up and walking out the door.
I reach for the envelope and pull out a sheet of thick white paper. It shows a law firm’s header at the top, I flip through it. A contract surrendering my equity in Perfect10.
There is still something bulky at the bottom of the envelope. I peek inside and see green. I pull out what seems like $1,000 in cash.
There is also a business card for an immigration lawyer, with a hand-scrawled note on the back that reads: “Here’s a small advance. Think about it.”
Shit.
* * *
“Hey!” Sara’s eyes light up as she peeks her head through the door, and my heart warms, despite everything. I still can’t believe I get to be the reason she smiles like that. “Wait—” Her happy face drops. “You can’t see me yet. I’m not ready.” She reaches out and covers my eyes.
I laugh. “You’re being ridiculous.”
She leans forward and gives me a quick peck on the lips, but doesn’t move her hands. I can smell her perfume. It’s different than what she usually wears, new, but still sweet and fresh. Both are like flowers. Maybe one is roses and the other daisies?
Let’s be real, I don’t know anything about flowers or perfume. I like it though.
For a second I smile, standing there in the darkness like an idiot. Not wanting this moment to end.
I raise my hand to move hers.
“Uh-uh, no way,” she says. “Here, I’ll lead you.” She pulls me forward.
I shake my head but take a step forward.
“Sara, you realize I’ve seen you up coding at 4:00 a.m. with no makeup, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“And you looked gorgeous then and I’m sure you look beautiful now. Will you please just let me—ow—” I bang my knee into something.
“Watch out for the chair,” her quiet voice says.
“Let me see,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Sorry.” She lowers her hand, and I see the mischievous grin on her face. “I just wanted to look cute for our first date.”
“You look great,” I say, taking her hand in mine.
She steps forward and stretches onto her tiptoes to kiss me again.
“Sara,” I say when she settles back onto her feet. I trace circles on the back of her hand with my thumb. “I need to talk to you about something.”
“Oh no.” She takes another step back. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say, my voice high. “Or—I mean—I don’t know.” I run my free hand through my hair. “Let’s sit down.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” She nods and leads me to the couch. She sits down and pulls her feet onto the seat. Her socks are fuzzy and have little hearts and computers on them. I kind of want to ask her where the heck she even bought something like that, but it’s not the right time.
“Listen.” I take a deep breath. “I need to tell you something.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Sara
“He tried to buy me?” I yell. White-hot rage flashes in front of my eyes. I stand up on the couch, because I can’t just stay sitting down. I try to take a deep breath, but I can feel my heart beating, racing. Hear the blood rushing past my ears, making it sound like there’s static in the air.
I look at my feet, sinking into the couch cushions, and step down onto the rug.
Just because I’m the most insulted I’ve been in my entire life doesn’t mean civility and consideration for the wear on fabric has to go to hell.
Plus, on the floor there is more room to pace.
And that’s exactly what I do, circling the coffee table, stepping over the edge of the rug, passing the window, then the TV. One foot crossing in front of the other as I make my way past the kitchen, and then picking up speed as I move past the couch again, beginning my second lap. All the while making little noises of frustration. Unstrung syllables that don’t form words.
Roberto’s voice quietly emerges. “Um, that’s not exactly what I said...”
“Oh, I heard what you said.” I spin in one swift movement to face him, brandishing my finger to point right at his heart. “He offered you two hundred thousand dollars to stop dating me.” I say each word with a punch. I know the gravity of my sentiment is probably undercut by how bright red my face is and by the cuteness of my socks, but I want to be heard. “What? What does he expect? That I will just...go back to him after he blackmails you away?”
“No.” Roberto sighs, folding his hands together. “I think he knows he can’t have you. He just doesn’t want to lose you to someone else. Me, in particular.”
The spinning world slows down and a cold blue sort of feeling mixes in with the red heat of anger.
A sort of sickness. That I could be seen as such an object. A prize to be won. Or for a sore loser to break in half.
A sort of sadness. That Braden could really feel that way about another person. Do that to me. To Robbie.
“There’s more...” Robbie says. “He told me if I don’t leave, he would never sell. And he gave me this card.”
He holds out a business card. I take it.
“What.?”
“It’s for an immigration lawyer.” He rubs the back of his neck. “He knows about my mom. Heard me talking to her on the phone at Berkeley. The implication is—if I want to help with my mom’s legal fee
s, this is the only way.”
The words hit me like a truck. “He’s trying to hold your mom’s case over your head?”
Robbie nods.
My heart beats against my chest, panic rising. Going after someone’s family, their ability to reunite, and using that to leverage ownership in a start-up. That is not just college douche bag behavior. That is like real evil. “Well fuck that,” I say.
Robbie cracks half a smile at my swearing, but his eyes remain sad.
“If you are being pushed out then I am going too,” I say. “Then his no-contact clause only applies to him.”
“But he won’t buy you out,” Robbie says. “And if you leave for nothing, what kind of justice is that? He gets to win because he’s a bully?” He pushes a hand through his hair. “What we really need is a way to kick him out. But I don’t see how we can. He seems content to keep doing this forever.”
It sounds terrible. Forever. Meeting with Braden almost daily, refreshing my in-box to make sure he hasn’t emailed me, fighting with him round after round about what to do about the company.
A company that appeals to the Braden in people. We can pitch Perfect10 however we want, but the truth is, we don’t sell people a way to find love; we sell them vanity. Real love—it’s not about being the hottest, or smartest or coolest or whatever. It’s not a goddamn competition, and people aren’t a prize to be won. Real love is about two people fitting. Like how Robbie and I do. I’d rather help people find that.
Of course, Braden would never transition to the sort of app Robbie and I have been toying with. Even if Professor Thomas thought a different approach could be viable.
An idea prickles the back of my mind, and the weight on my shoulders starts to lighten. “Robbie,” I say, sitting up. “I know someone who can help us.”
Chapter Forty
Sara
“Why are we meeting here?” Braden makes his way down the hallway, his posture slumped. He has deep purple circles under his eyes.
