“What a weird little alien you are.” I give him the kind of smile people use when they’ve insulted someone but want anyone out of earshot to think we’re having a good laugh together.
His sneer is similar as he steps farther into my cubicle. “Takes one to know one.”
“Ooo,” I hiss. “Burn. Are you going to tell me you’re rubber and I’m glue next?”
Jake’s smile turns evil. He fixes the button at the cuff of his pink shirt. He says, “Bailey, don’t be a bitch because you didn’t get the promotion. It was never going to happen. We all have to tighten our belts.”
How? How does he know about that? How did this become my life in the turn of an email? There are millions of people in this city, millions more in this country, and I now work for Jake the Jerk.
I say, “I didn’t want it anyway. Lachlan convinced me to try. But look at you. Big man on campus. Hope you enjoy travelling forty-six weeks a year.”
We both know I’m lying. Lachlan’s told me about his benefits package before, and I can only assume Jake’s is the same or better. He gets at least four weeks of vacation, and all the travel to visit the teams who now report to him means he’ll have enough frequent flyer points to spend a whole month in Bora Bora if he wants to, every single year.
I would love to go to Bora Bora.
I glance at my screensaver. Gordo and I are smiling back at me, with the badlands in the distance. Not the real badlands. We didn’t go to South Dakota. We went to Caledon, an hour north of here. And you aren’t allowed to go into the park anymore because people are assholes and ignore signs that say, Please stay off the ancient geological formations, and now we can’t have nice things. We didn’t know that, though, when we picked up the Zipcar and drove out of the city. We thought we were going on an adventure. The badlands. Where men are men and rattlesnakes are . . . well . . . okay, they’re pretty manly too. Gordo was especially excited about the snakes. And then we got there and it was closed, and I made Gordo take the selfie anyway, so we could pretend the whole thing wasn’t a waste of time.
“That your boyfriend?” Jake asks. I rip my gaze away from the screen to catch his smirk, like he thinks there’s no way I could be with someone.
Thank you, Gordo, for always being there when I need you.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, he is. We live together, actually.”
“What’s he do?” Jake asks, because of course he does. He would never start with something so practical as “What’s his name?” or “Where did you meet?” All he wants to know is if I was able to snag someone worthy of his attention.
“He’s a rocket scientist,” I say quickly. “Literally. He builds rocket engines for Rolls-Royce. He was headhunted by Elon Musk last year for SpaceX, but he’s got standards, so he turned them down.”
Jake purses his lips. He’s probably trying to extrapolate, based on all the other people he’s judged in his lifetime, what a Rolls-Royce rocket scientist makes and whether it’s so much he can’t make fun of me.
You may be wondering how I know Rolls-Royce makes rocket engines. Gordo has a thing for those “how it’s made” YouTube videos. We watch a lot of them.
Also, everything I said above is a lie. He is not a rocket scientist. Gordo is . . . well, he pays his rent on time, but don’t ask me how, because he definitely doesn’t work a nine to five. Sometimes he’s at home and sometimes he’s not, but I have no idea where he goes or what he does all day when I’m at work. When I ask, he says things like “Stuff” and “Slept” and “I started a petition to end the illegal wildlife trade in Oklahoma, we already have three thousand signatures, do you know anyone else who might sign it?” But none of that sounds like it makes any money.
And he’s not my boyfriend. Loyal, committed roommate, that’s all. I maybe thought about it once or twice, but I knew it was never going to happen the first time we watched a Marvel movie and he sympathetically told me how terrible he felt about the raw deal Scarlett Johansson’s character gets throughout the series.
“She deserves so much better,” he said with sparkling tears in his eyes.
Any guy who worships at the altar of ScarJo is too straight for me.
“Are you with anyone?” I ask, trying to draw Jake’s attention off the picture of Gordo and surprising myself with my own boldness. When we were kids, I’d have never asked him a direct question like that.
“Elias,” he says with a smile. “He farms emus.”
I have no idea how much an emu farmer makes. Or what exactly he would farm them for.
“Sounds cozy,” I say.
“You’ll meet him at the retreat,” Jake says, and my blood goes cold. I didn’t give the retreat any thought when Lachlan mentioned it. I’d been invited to a few in the past, but they were always very “employees only,” and that suited me fine. Too hard to get hammered at the bar in the evenings if you’re with someone.
But if Jake’s bringing Emu Elias, that may have to change.
“Well, he and Gord—” I stutter over his name. I can’t tell him my supposed boyfriend’s name is Gordo. He’ll never let me live that down. “Gordon will have a chance to hang out.” I gently punch Jake’s shoulder, like we’ve been bonding this whole time. Inside, I hope I wrinkle his perfect shirt, but of course it’s made from some space-age material that doesn’t even show the impression of my knuckles. Whoever designed it probably does know Elon Musk.
He laughs. It’s a short percussive sound that he perfected in grade school. I’ve had nightmares about it, but I can’t let him smell my fear.
He says, “I look forward to working with you, Bailey.”
He might as well say, “Lockers. Three thirty. If you don’t show up, remember I know where you live.”
Once he leaves, I sag down into my seat, letting it roll gently to a stop as it takes my weight.
I am so fucked. I have spent the last nine years climbing the ladder at BGS&M, and even if they swear my job is safe after this merger, there’s no way in hell I can survive working with Jake the Jerk.
I pick up my phone and text Gordo.
Those cupcakes better be fucking magical.
2
My roommate is a lifesaver.
“You’re the best person I know,” I say from where I’m sprawled on the couch.
Look at what he made for me!
Gordo’s cupcakes really are amazing, with exactly the right amount of THC baked in. For a moment, I forget all about Jake the Jerk. Also, my verbal filter is functioning at about half capacity, but as far as I know, Gordo is a human cone of silence, so it’s never been a problem.
Gordo’s in the leather armchair across from me. A bearded dragon named Bernard is sitting on his shoulder glaring at me. Bernard hasn’t liked me since he moved in a month ago. I’m not sure what I ever did to him, but we have agreed to keep our space. He thinks Gordo is the shit though, as do I right now.
Gordo smiles at me. “Thanks. I used too much butter in the frosting.”
I got home from work feeling like I was about ready to have a heart attack. Then the sweet scent of vanilla and lemon wafted through the door as I walked into the condo and all the stress melted off me. Gordo was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on his cupcakes, and for a split second, I envied him so much. He was wearing his favourite apron, tied around his waist, along with a backwards ball cap, stretched out T-shirt, and a pair of cut-off shorts that haven’t been cut off evenly, so one of his pale freckled legs looks significantly longer than the other. This is basically Gordo’s uniform—although the apron comes and goes—and in comparison, my button-down and pressed pants felt like they were about to choke me.