Exmas

by Winter Renshaw

  “It’s only three. Where are you going?”

  “Home. Calling it a day. Should probably start packing. They want me there after the first of the year.”

  I’d give anything to tell her sooner, but my hands are tied. Leaking this information would be a federal violation with severe consequences. People would start dumping GenCoins left and right and then the finance industry would know ahead of the announcement, which would be disastrous.

  She grabs her purse from a drawer in her desk, slinging it over her shoulder.

  “You’re the most infuriating human I’ve ever known, Reed York,” she says. “And you have a lot of nerve."

  And then she’s gone.

  Past

  Reed

  I tip the bartender and ask him to change the TV to the Bloomberg channel.

  “This is insane.” Joa runs her fingers through her hair, her eyes wild and lit. “It doesn’t seem real. How is this real?”

  She laughs with watery eyes, one hand curved around a French 75.

  Today, the value of GenCoins more than doubled—a historic first in cryptocurrency. And on top of that, we received an endorsement from Paul Fieldstone, one of the richest billionaires in the world, a self-taught investor with his ear to the ground.

  The first time Paul Tweeted about GenCoin was shortly after eight o’clock this morning.

  Prices soared.

  The second time he Tweeted was around three in the afternoon.

  That’s when we officially doubled.

  We must have thousands of seven-digit portfolios across our three branches and now? A significant portion of them are officially eight-digit portfolios.

  I toss back a mouthful of bourbon, eyes glued to the screen. These astronomical hikes in prices can make a man feel like a million bucks, but the higher they climb, the harder they can fall. With cryptos being so new, they’re still a bit volatile and unpredictable, but anything can happen.

  Analysts have been saying for years, there’s an eighty percent chance GenCoins will surpass a quarter of a million dollars apiece in the next two decades.

  Only time will tell.

  She hasn’t stopped grinning since we left the office over an hour ago. Joa looks on the outside the way I feel on the inside.

  Warm. Grateful. Beside herself with excitement.

  But it isn’t the rush of the money that’s getting to me.

  For the first time in my life, I’m celebrating something with someone who shares my enthusiasm. Someone who gets me. Someone who can’t stop flinging her arms around my shoulders, trying to simultaneously bounce on her toes and kiss me at the same time.

  There isn’t another feeling in the world like it.

  I hope it never goes away.

  19

  Joa

  My body trembles and shudders the whole train ride home, but I’m not cold.

  I’m furious.

  Outside the window, the world is in a Christmas hangover. It’s always been a strange and jarring sight to see Christmas decorations the day after, to hear some of the stations and shops still playing holiday music.

  It’s almost as if we know we don’t need it, but we’re also not quite ready to let it go.

  So we’re stuck in that gray period—the week before Christmas and New Year’s when we’re exhausted from one celebration and biding our time before we move on to the next in the meantime.

  It almost feels like a metaphor for my life right now. I’m in a low valley, stuck between two peaks. Only my next peak will be here before I know it.

  Once upon a time, I might have dared to say Reed York was a peak in my life.

  I called Ian on my walk to the station and accepted the position. It was the strangest thing, though …

  I didn’t feel better afterwards.

  I thought I might feel free or vindicated in some little way, but instead, I felt this heaviness in the pit of my stomach, almost a gut instinct questioning whether or not I made the right choice.

  Digging my phone from my bag, I send a text to Lucy, asking if she wants to meet up for drinks this weekend to celebrate my transfer.

  Another text comes through from a group text I’m a part of—a bunch of girls from high school are back in Mills Haven for the holidays, and they want to meet up.

  Between Lucy and my old friends and the early stages of packing and searching for a last-minute place in New York, I should have no problem keeping my mind off Reed this weekend.

  Past

  Joa

  Warm sunlight filters in through the Cabo San Lucas casita windows as we listen to the waves crash against the cliffs.

  His fingers trace my bare skin, exploring the peaks and valleys of my body as if it’s the first time he’s ever really seen me.

  For months we’ve been doing this, and I keep waiting for the day he decides he’s grown bored with me—or vice versa.

  But the more time I spend with him, the more I find myself quietly looking forward to the next time. I’ve even stooped so low as to steal a few things off his desk here and there when he’s not paying attention, just so I had an excuse to return them.

  His palm glides down my caved stomach, stopping just between my partially spread thighs where he takes his time circling my clit with his thumb.

  I’m still sensitive from the last orgasm, but still, I pulse to life the moment he slips a finger inside me.

  Someone once said that life can be reduced to a series of peaks and valleys when you look at the big picture.

  Reed York?

  He’s a peak.

  No question.

  20

  Reed

  There’s a knock at my door just before eleven Saturday morning. I can’t remember the last time I slept in this late—but a weighted blanket of exhaustion clings to me anyway.

  I throw on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt and head out of the master bedroom.

  “Delivery for Mr. York,” a deepened, muffled voice says.

  Glancing through the peephole, I find a familiar blonde in a faux-fur stole standing on the other side.

  Her balled fist lifts to knock again, but I pull the door open.

  “Bijou, what are you doing here?” I ask.

  “Surprise!” She flings her arms around my shoulders.

  “When you asked for the address, you said you were sending a gift.”

  “Oh, come on,” she says, swatting at me as she wheels her Louis Vuitton suitcase inside my rented apartment. “You hate opening presents and I hate shopping for other people. You can’t tell me you didn’t see this coming.”

  She deposits her suitcase in the middle of the living room.

  “This place is kind of small for you, don’t you think?” she asks.

  “It’s fine. I won’t be here much longer.”

  “Where’s the guest room?” She rises on her toes, careening her neck toward the hall.

  “It’s a one-bedroom.”

  “Ew.” She sticks out her tongue.

  Like I said … cut from two extremely different cloths. Sewn together by two entirely different tailors. Only thing we have in common is our DNA.

  I blame my parents for spoiling her though.

  My mother always dreamed of having a little girl someday, but after she delivered me, there were some complications. Doctors told her she’d never be able to get pregnant again … then four years later, along came little Bijou.

  Their little trinket.

  The jewel of my parents’ eyes.

  I don’t resent Bijou for the way she is. It isn’t her fault. Redford and Bebe created this mess. It doesn’t make her any less my sister, and she’s the only sibling I have.

  My sister takes a seat on the microfiber sofa that anchors the small living room and then she takes a look around, her manicured brows lifting into her smooth forehead.

  “You’re bored already,” I tell her. “You should’ve stayed back in LA. Trust me, all I do here is work. I won’t have time to entertain you.”

&nb
sp; Her jaw falls. “Reed Redford Bennington York, you do not need to entertain me. I’m not a child.”

  “All right.” I head to the kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge, pointing it at her. “I’m holding you to that.”

  “We should FaceTime Mom and Dad,” she says, holding her phone in front of her face and fussing with her hair as she uses the reverse camera as a mirror. “They’re probably worried about me. We should let them know I made it.”

  The sad thing is, she isn’t wrong.

  They worry about her constantly. Me? I once went to Yemen on a business trip and they didn’t even break a sweat. In fact, they forgot I’d even left LA.

  I uncap my bottle and toss a few sips back. “Sure.”

  She taps her screen a couple of times and sinks back into the sofa, drawing her legs in.

  “Hi, Mom! Hi, Dad!” she says. “You guys look nice and tan. Did you have a good time?”

  “Hi, Angel.” My father speaks first.

  “Darling, I take it you’ve made it safely to Chicago? Where’s your brother? Is he with you?” my mother asks.

  Bijou waves me over. “Yeah. He’s just standing here drinking a beer and trying not to act like he’s annoyed that I’m here.”

  I shoot her a look.

  It couldn't be further from the truth.

  It’s just … not a good time, and for reasons I can’t get into with her.

  “Reed, is that true?” my mother asks.

  I take a seat beside my sister and make an appearance on our end of the call.

  “Not at all.” I force a smile and hook my arm around my sister’s shoulders, messing up her hair in the process. “It’s a nice surprise. She’s just mad she’s going to have to sleep on the pull-out sofa.”

  “Oh, dear.” My mother gasps. “Bij, would you like your father to book you a room at the Four Seasons?”

  “You guys, it’s fine. I came here to see Reed, so I’m just going to stay here. And if my neck hurts in the morning, I’ll just get a massage somewhere,” she says. “Anyway, I’m starving, so I’m going to make Reed order some pizza or something.” She nudges me. “Good pizza, not chain pizza.”

  “All right, darlings,” my mother says. “You two enjoy your time together. We’ll see you when you get back.”

  “Bye-bye now,” my father says, lifting a crystal tumbler filled with amber-colored liquor.

  Bijou presses the red button on the screen and lets her phone fall in her lap with a light thud.

  “I’m seriously starving,” she says. “Are there any good pizza places around here? Isn’t Chicago known for its pizza or something?”

  “You’re thinking of Chicago-style pizza,” I say. “It’s like deep-dish.”

  I don’t mention the calories to her or I’ll never hear the end of it.

  “There are some menus on the side of the fridge. Help yourself. I’m going to hit the shower.” I get off the couch and trek down the hall. I’ll do just about anything for my sister, but I won’t be her little bitch. She’s perfectly capable of ordering pizza herself.

  “Ugh. Rude,” she says, though I know she’s teasing. Deep down, I think she appreciates the fact that I’m the one person who doesn’t enable her spoiled-princess-ness.

  A few minutes later, I’m standing under a spray of hot water, unmoving and contemplating the day’s plans now that my sister has thrown a bit of a wrench in them.

  Originally I thought about trying to get a hold of Joa, trying to talk to her a little more about the New York position without giving anything away—if that’s even possible

  The SEC wants me to wait until January 2nd to make the announcement.

  This means six more days of Joa hating me.

  Six more days of office tension so ripe it’s begging to be plucked.

  Fucking her on her desk yesterday, as incredible as it was, wasn’t planned. It just happened. I went into her office with the simple intention of confronting her about what she said so I could finally get an answer and stop ruminating … and then I kissed her.

  And once I started, I couldn’t stop.

  When she kissed me back, I was too far gone.

  It was happening and there was no stopping it, though I don't think either of us would’ve stopped it regardless.

  When it was over, we straightened ourselves up, exchanged a look, and I left.

  I wasn’t sure what to say, and she was looking at me with this bewildered glint in her eyes as she tugged and straightened her skirt, and leaving just seemed like the right thing to do in that moment.

  I figured we’d talk about it later, when we’d both caught our breaths and composed ourselves.

  And then the New York thing happened.

  Letting the hot water drip down me in thick rivulets, I reach for a bottle of shampoo and work up a lather. It smells like Joa, and that makes me just as happy as it makes me sad.

  Maybe space is good this weekend.

  We can start fresh on Monday.

  Past

  Reed

  “Who are you texting?” Bijou stands on the other side of my kitchen island, scrutinizing my every move apparently.

  “A friend from work.”

  “Girl or guy?”

  “Woman. Why?”

  She smacks the quartz counter. “I knew it!”

  “And what is it you think you know?” I slip my phone back into my pocket. As dense and self-centered as my sister can be sometimes, she can be eerily perceptive.

  “You like her,” Bijou says. “Your face lights every time your phone dings. You’re like one of those dogs with the bells.”

  “Pavlov’s dogs.”

  “Yeah. That. Anyway, you had this stupid-looking little half-grin on your face when you were texting her just a second ago. You wouldn’t make that face if you didn’t like her.”

  “I don’t like her—not like that,” I lie. “But I do like to spend time with her. And spending time with her makes me smile. It doesn’t mean that I like her.”

  She waves a hand and rolls her eyes. “And now you’re just talking in circles and making negative sense while you’re at it.”

  “Isn’t there a sale at Barney’s going on?”

  Bijou slides off the bar stool. “I can take a hint, Reedster. I’ll leave, but not because there’s a sale at Barney’s and not because you’re uncomfortable talking about this girl that you allegedly don’t like, but because I want to. And I have a wax at four and traffic’s a bitch this time of day.”

  I walk my sister to the door, where she steps into her crystal-studded Louboutins and turns to face me.

  “Look, I don’t know who this girl is and I don’t care if you like her or if you don’t like her,” she says. “But as a woman who’s tired of men saying one thing and doing another, whatever you do, just be honest with yourself. And with her. No games. K? Bye.”

  I shut the door behind her just as another text from Joa buzzes in my pocket.

  Before I get a chance to read it, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror above the entry console.

  Goddamn it.

  Bijou was right.

  21

  Joa

  This must be what dying feels like.

  I flush the toilet Monday morning and gather a wad of toilet paper to dab at my mouth. I swear my body’s going to be in a permanent C-shape after this.

  My back throbs when I shuffle toward the sink. Sleeping on a bathroom floor will do that. And I rinse my mouth out with cold tap water before swishing with spearmint mouthwash that nearly makes me gag.

  “I never get sick, my ass,” I mumble to myself, recalling my routine doctor's visit back in November when I bragged about not having been sick for three straight winters.

  My stomach churns, alternating between feeling empty and hungry and nauseous and sometimes all three at once, and I brace myself on the counter before grabbing a thermometer.

  103.4.

  My stomach squeezes and a dry heave follows.

  Gues
s I’m staying home today.

  Heading back to my room, I darken the blinds, climb under the covers, grab my phone off the nightstand, and text Harold to let him know I’m not going to be in today. As soon as I hear back from him, I shut my phone off and go back to sleep.

  Past

  Joa

  I pass Reed’s office door a quarter after ten, only to find his lights are off and the handle is locked.

  That’s odd.

  Then again, it was unusually quiet around here this morning.

  I head back, stopping at the front desk to ask Lena if she knows where he is.

  “Called in sick,” she says, cradling her phone’s receiver on her shoulder. “Poor thing sounded horrible. Could hardly tell it was him.”

  As soon as I get back to my desk, I pull out my phone and Door Dash him some chicken soup from his favorite deli on Sunset along with a note that reads: This doesn’t mean anything other than get well soon so you can get your Malibu Ken-looking ass back to the office.

  We’re friends now.

  I think.

  And this is the kind of thing friends do for each other.

  22

  Reed

  “Yes, Joa, I’ll let everyone know.” Pam hangs up her phone as I pass her desk Tuesday morning.

  “Joa’s sick again today?” I ask.

  She glances across the top of her desk. “Yes. Poor thing. Fever still won’t break. She sounds awful, too.”

  I’d be lying if I said a part of me isn’t suspicious. Pam could be covering for her and she might be biding her time until I leave.

  She was out Monday, she’s out today, and if she’s out tomorrow and we’re closed Thursday for New Year’s Day, that means she’ll only have to see me one more day before I go.