Come As You Are

by Lauren Blakely

  Kate replies, “Of course. I will get that started on the energy-saving mode right away. Just the way you like it.”

  I laugh, pointing at the white disc on the chrome coffee table. “I love how you know what I like, Kate.”

  “Would you also like me to turn on the heat in the shower?”

  Damn, this woman is an absolute genius. I do enjoy a toasty shower. Shaking my head in admiration, I answer her, “Yes, and please turn off the lights when I leave this morning. That’s all I need right now.”

  “As you wish.”

  Spinning in my chair, I turn to my two colleagues—Carson and Jennica, my right- and left-hand people. Carson’s dark eyes are lit up with excitement. As one of my top executives, he’s been working tirelessly on the final touches for the voice recognition in our smart-home system. “Carson, all I’ve ever wanted since I was a kid is to live inside The Jetsons, and it’s happening at last.”

  “I’ll work on launching you into space next. But for now, I’m glad this works so well,” Carson says, gesturing to the showcase for our system, dubbed Haven.

  I give Kate, the voice I like to converse with, one final command, telling her to cancel the shower, since I don’t actually plan to shower here in our demo home. But man, am I ever glad the system is firing on all cylinders.

  Haven rocks. If I’m popping into a wine shop on the way home, I can check on the dog cam and see if Fido, Fritz, and Mitzi are lounging in their dog beds or eating yet another roll of toilet paper. From the subway, with the press of a button, I can flick on the thermostat to warm the place—I can even start the washing machine. If I want to talk to the lamps or the blinds, I can do that too.

  Jennica flips her red hair off her shoulders and chimes in. “How about giving me the hot British voice when you’re showing me all the whizz-bang features? Do I have to listen to Kate? Or can I please have Henry, Tom, or Daniel?”

  I hold out my hands in a question. “What is it with British guys?”

  Jennica leans forward, her blue eyes bugging out. “Hello? Have you heard them talk? It’s like listening to sexy British butter.” She brings her index finger to the tip of her tongue then touches the air, making a sizzling sound.

  Jennica and I have worked together for ten years. I knew her in college, and she was by my side when I had my first company, and now she’s here again with Haven. She’s an unstoppable force and like an older sister to me. A second older sister, since I have one already.

  “Butter?” Carson shoots her a quizzical gaze.

  “Butter good. Butter yummy,” Jennica says. “And I want Kate to be a hot guy with a sexy British butter voice. Switch her to Daniel for me, please.”

  Carson shrugs and tips his goateed chin at me. “We can’t compete.”

  “Hey, speak for yourself. I have a deep baritone that’s like sexy American butter.”

  Jennica cracks up. “Flynn, you should use that voice to go as a bad boy to the masquerade ball.” She snaps her fingers. “Wait. I have a better idea. Why don’t you go as a bad boy piece of code? Just get a leather jacket, some boots, and write some crap code on a T-shirt. Speaking of, I’m going as a Polaroid.”

  I pretend I’m deeply annoyed. “Why’d you tell me? Now I can’t guess what you are when I see you.”

  “If you couldn’t tell I’m a Polaroid, then I’d be doing it wrong. Steve is going to be a Snapchat filter,” she adds, mentioning her husband.

  “I already have a costume. Plus, I find bad code so morally offensive, I’m not sure I’d choose that. But my costume does rock,” I say, proud of what I picked out.

  “Tell us.” Jennica grins.

  “I’m going as ID theft,” Carson blurts, and I spin and stare at him.

  Dread drops into my stomach. “What did you say?”

  Carson nods excitedly. “I have one hundred name tags, and I’m going to slap them all over me with different people’s names.”

  And there goes my idea.

  “That’s a great plan,” I say with a forced smile.

  “What about you?” he asks innocently, since he doesn’t know he picked my idea.

  “Guess you’ll all just have to wait and see.” I rub my palms together, moving on. “Now, let’s review the final tweaks in Haven.”

  “No one can come close to Haven.” Carson walks us through the updates he’s made to the automation system that’s rolling out next week. “Haven is far better than anything else on the market. And it’s absolutely better than ShopForAnything,” he says, meeting my gaze. There’s a touch of nerves in his eyes, and I get it—I feel them sometimes too. Our newest competitor is merciless, and I have to guard our company from its pending ambush.

  I can’t fail because I have hundreds of employees depending on me to succeed, people counting on me for paychecks, for jobs, to make sure the company doesn’t become ShopForAnything’s cornflakes.

  I won’t let us fail. I’m well aware that while I might be fine and dandy in the nest-egg-for-generations department, I have people who rely on me for their daily bread. What motivates me every day at work isn’t making more money to pad my coffers. It’s building something new and taking care of the people who make it possible.

  “And you’re ready to roll out the marketing plans on a wide scale?” I ask Jennica.

  “We are going to market this like Christie’s marketed the holy hell out of that lost da Vinci. That was genius. Advertising, PR, videos—the works. And, go figure, but for some reason”—she points at me and rolls her eyes—“people seem to like you, so we’re going to market the hell out of you. The secret weapon of the boy-next-door genius.”

  I laugh it off. The attention is still weird to me. “Recap the plans for me.”

  She spreads her hands like a movie director making a pitch on Sunset Boulevard. “You have the morning shows booked where you’ll demonstrate all the cool aspects of Haven, and we also have magazine features lined up that’ll reach some high-end consumers.” She twists her index and middle finger together. “And I have Up Next interested in a potential in-depth feature on you, and how you made the change from your first business to this one. I’ll know soon if it’s a go.”

  The mention of the prestigious magazine makes me sit a little straighter. That publication is the holy grail when it comes to feature profiles. “That would be quite a coup.”

  “Your assistant has all the others in your calendar, and she’ll be sure to tell you what color shirt to wear when you’re on TV,” she says with a wink.

  I give her a thumbs-up. “Good. Because fashion is hard for me,” I say, deadpan, since clothing is no laughing matter, which may explain why my wardrobe consists of jeans, pullovers, and the occasional business button-down that my sister picked out for me. Without her help, I’d be lost.

  I head to my office, and I’m tackling some of the items on my to-do list when my assistant, Whitney, pops in. “Hi. I have all the name tags for your costume for the masquerade party tomorrow night. Do you want me to google popular names and mix them up with weird and bizarre ones?”

  I drag a hand through my thick brown hair. “Nope.”

  “You’re going to do it yourself?” she squeaks. Whitney’s voice is naturally high-pitched—she almost always sounds surprised. This time, though, it seems legit.

  “Why don’t you give the name tags to Carson? I need a whole new costume. Any ideas?”

  She taps her lip then blurts out, “A headless horseman. You’d totally be in disguise.”

  I cringe at the image as Whitney nods enthusiastically, delighted horror in her eyes. “That would be a fantastic costume. You could be totally hidden under a creepy cloak. It would be so scary and gross.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’m going to pass on the bloody stump for a head.”

  But I do need a kick-ass costume. Something that makes people think. That reminds them that I’m at the top of the game. Something as clever as ID theft.

  As I review a set of proposals from hot young start-ups, t
he new costume idea descends into my brain, fully formed and entirely entertaining.

  Surely, everyone will get it.

  After work, I do a little shopping for the costume then head to the racquetball club to take my mind off work for a bit.

  My sister, Olivia, joins me, her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, her game face on. “Get ready for me to crush you and crush you quickly, because I have plans tonight.”

  “Got a hot date?”

  She looks at me. “Yes, with my six-month-old. It’s called breastfeeding, and she’s going to be hungry in about an hour.”

  “Glad to hear you still know how to party. How is my perfect niece?”

  She points her racket at me. “Zoe is awesome, even though her uncle is being a pain in the ass for saying I have no life.”

  “Teasing.” I grab a ball and bounce it. “Although, clearly you have no life if you’re hanging out with a guy like me.” I lower my goggles, lift the ball, and smash it toward the wall.

  “I’m not teasing when I say I’m going to kick your pain-in-the-butt ass.” As the ball rockets to her, she slams it back.

  We proceed to pummel the hell out of the ball for the next thirty minutes. Olivia works in the same field as me—she’s an ethical hacker, and like me, she’s also highly competitive. She also hates when I win, so she makes sure I don’t, finishing our match with a victory at the last second.

  She smacks my shoulder. “Take that. Your older sister still has it, even while she’s nursing.”

  Panting, I grab a water bottle and down a gulp. “Damn, you and your boobs are the toughest. Also, can we pretend I totally did not acknowledge your boobs right now?”

  She thrusts out her chest. “You can’t deny what nature gave me and what my baby made even bigger.”

  I cringe and cover my eyes. “Make it stop. Put on a bag.”

  When I open my eyes, she says, “Speaking of hot dates, what’s your excuse for hanging out with me when you could be, I dunno, out with a sexy single woman? Assuming any sexy single woman would want you.”

  “Thank you, as always, for your support.”

  “It’s endless.”

  I grab a towel and wipe my brow, answering her seriously now, “Same old story. Two days ago, I was propositioned after a keynote speech.”

  Her eyes widen. “For sex?”

  “No, for marriage. That’s what made it even crazier,” I say and share the details of Nova’s pitch to become Mrs. Flynn Parker.

  “Damn,” she says, whistling, “it must suck to be you.”

  She raises her racquet like a violin and plays a lament.

  “Tell me about it. It was as sad as a sad song.”

  “Seriously, though, can you even imagine what it’s like for athletes and really rich and famous people?”

  “I can’t. I honestly don’t see how you could ever trust that someone was truly into you. Especially given what happened with Annie last year.” I shudder at the memory of my ex.

  “She was a tough one to spot as a bad seed, I’ll give you that. But what about Dylan? He found someone who’s truly into him, and if memory serves, he’s as rich as sin, too, since he netted half of the sale of the company you two ding-dongs founded.”

  “True,” I concede, since my twin, Dylan, tried using a matchmaker and wound up falling for her. She also happened to be immune to rich guys, so I think that helped smooth the path to trust. “But even so, I need to focus on Haven. Make sure we launch the marketing campaign flawlessly, especially with ShopForAnything breathing down my neck.”

  “I suppose whenever you do date again, we could just paint your face like a clown so no one recognizes you.”

  “Oh, yeah. Bozo scored with the ladies, didn’t he?”

  “Who doesn’t want a big red nose and floppy shoes on her man?”

  “Bozo was a real Casanova.”

  “Or,” she says, snapping her fingers, “we could give you a new look entirely. Find one of those aesthetic centers and give you a face-lift.”

  I grab the door to the court, and we leave to head down the hall toward our respective locker rooms.

  “It’s either that or you’re going to have to become a monk.”

  I laugh as I reach the entryway to the men’s locker room. “Yeah, that’s at the top of my list of life goals.”

  But as I turn into the locker room, grateful Dale’s not here to talk up what’s next in sexual performance grading, something Olivia said sits up in my brain and insists on being heard.

  No, I don’t plan on getting a face-lift.

  The idea has some merit though.

  4

  Sabrina

  * * *

  I zoom in on the prize. The box sits high on the shelf, atop an old Candyland, a beaten-up game of Twister, and a 1980s Trivial Pursuit. Not just the ’80s flashback version. The actual 80s version from shortly after the game came out when US history questions stopped at President Carter.

  I reach for the Monopoly box and yank it off the shelf. It imitates a Jenga tower and tumbles down.

  “Ouch.” The cardboard smacks my face, and Marvin Gardens and its brethren scatter as the game spills onto the floor of the Salvation Army, where I’m now standing in the midst of an iron, a race car, a thimble, and dozens of pink and green bills.

  Crudola.

  Maybe I am cursed. Maybe Sasha was right.

  Making sure I don’t flash anyone as I bend to the linoleum floor in my once-a-kimono-now-a-cool-red-dragon-skirt, I gather up the spilled pieces.

  A woman with wild and curly brown hair and kind eyes joins me. “Let me help you.”

  “It’s no big deal. I’ll just pick it up, and then I’ll take it.”

  “Are you sure you want it?” Her voice is gentle, full of concern over a game that looks like it’s seen many lives. “It’s missing a lot of pieces. We were going to toss it because the last time someone wanted to buy it, he said there was no Boardwalk and then left in a huff.”

  I smile. “Boardwalk is the dream, isn’t it?”

  She smiles back. “I’d like to live on Boardwalk.”

  “You’re telling me,” I say as I grab some stray bills. “But I don’t plan to play the game. I need it for the money.”

  The woman arches an eyebrow and gives me a curious look. She lowers her voice and talks to me like I’m in third grade. “You know the money isn’t real, right?”

  “I do know that,” I say, laughing.

  She takes a beat and screws up the corner of her lips. “Why don’t you just take the game for free?” she says in a conspiratorial whisper, sliding the box toward me.

  “Are you sure?”

  She winks. “It’d help me out to get it off the shelf. Plus, I have a Mega Monopoly that needs a good home if you want another one.”

  Mega Monopoly has the biggest bills. That makes it even more perfect. “You’re an angel.”

  “Happy to help . . . you.”

  I swear she nearly added someone in need, and I bristle. Do I look that needy? I’m not starving. Yet.

  But hey, I’ll chalk this up as a victory since I don’t need to shell out three bucks for an old game. Take that, universe. My dress can’t be cursed, because how else can you explain why I’m now thanking the saleswoman and leaving the Salvation Army with not one but two free Monopoly boxes in the canvas bag on my shoulder?

  As I head home, I wave to the woman who runs the dry cleaner near me, and she smiles back. Passing the florist on the corner, I ask how business is, and he tells me it’s coming up roses. When I turn the corner at the bodega, I nod at the guy who’s rearranging the sandwiches on display in the window. He smiles and mouths, Roast beef today? He winks. I shoot him a dirty look and mouth back, Never roast beef.

  I’ve lived in New York City my entire life. I grew up in Queens and commuted to Manhattan for college, attending NYU on a patchwork quilt of cobbled-together scholarships. I can’t imagine living in any other city. This place, despite all its issues and price tags,
is my home.

  I want to stay here, but I don’t know how long I can last, even given my unusual living situation. I’m damn grateful for my crazy cousin, Daisy, who’s generous and well-off enough to let me live in her rent-controlled apartment while she gallivants around Europe.

  Her place makes it possible for me to pay other bills. Bills my mother won’t pay since she’s too busy wasting her own money. Bills like the ones needed for my little brother to go to divinity school. Kevin is brilliant and determined, and he wants to do good in the world and become a pastor. I’ve taken care of him since we were younger, reading him Percy Jackson and Harry Potter in grade school, tucking him in at night when he was in middle school, helping him with math in high school, and making sure he got into college, since Mom did such a crap job of everything, especially mothering. That’s why I petitioned to and became his legal guardian when my mom left. He’s more than my brother. He’s mine to look out for, and I want Kevin to succeed more than anything. I understand where his drive for ethics, and right and wrong, and compassion comes from.

  I send him a quick text.

  * * *

  Sabrina: Is your nose in Spinoza and stuff? :)

  * * *

  Kevin: No, it’s in classical theories of religion. Geez. Can’t you remember my schedule? Also, I’m in the library right now, studying.

  * * *

  Sabrina: Prove it. Send me a picture.

  * * *

  Five seconds later, a close-up of his big blue eyes and floppy blond hair in front of shelves of tomes pops onto my screen.

  * * *

  Kevin: You should have been a lawyer. Always asking for proof. It’s impressive.

  * * *

  Sabrina: It’s called being skeptical, even of my favorite person.

  * * *