Page 119 of Alphas Like Us
Even my brain is making pitifully sad jokes. I’m an heir to multiple Fortune 500 companies. If I wanted to not work for the rest of my life, I could. My troubles are insignificant. You don’t need to tellme.
Jack translates French on his phone app and then asks, “If you’ve scheduled a brewery next week, do you already think mixology willfail?”
His questions will appear on TV with closed captions. The audience is led to believe a random producer is talking. No mention of “Jack Highland” will be on screen. You don’t know his name unless you search onIMDB.
The docuseries is cinéma vérité style. Where we acknowledge that we’re being filmed and talk directly to theproducer.
Janie copies an earlier demonstration from the bartender and pours mint-green liquid into the martini glass. “I’m just following the numbers,” she says to Jack. “My success rate is zero percent. Chances are I need to have other options linedup.”
Jane plops a cherry and slides the glass to me. “Okay, give it to me,Moffy.”
She meansmy opinion, but the bartender interprets this differently. He makes a choked noise, then coughs to hideit.
I narrow my eyes while he wipes his hands on adishrag.
Thatcher angles towards us again, arms crossed and out of camera shot. He glares at the bartender, who remains the only stranger in the speakeasy bar. He already signed anNDA.
All the buttoned booths and wooden tables areempty.
“That wasnotsexual,” Jane says to the bartender, beating me to the words. “You thinking it was—that says more about you thanme.”
He fixes his fedora, cheeks reddened. “I’m sorry. I really don’t believe you two are…” He cringes, and he won’t even look atme.
My jaw is cut like sharpmarble.
“I know it’s just a rumor,” he adds. That confirmation is a good indication that our FanCon tourhelped.
Jane smiles more kindly than mostwould.
I exhale and motion to the guy. “We’ll move on if you do.” And I’d like to moveon.
So would Jane. She wipes the wet counter around my nonalcoholicmartini.
“Yeah, definitely,” he nods and apologizes again to my cousin before asking her what drink she’d like to makenext.
“A dirty martini,” shesays.
He reaches for a bottle of gin on the shelf and starts spouting offinstructions.
My phone buzzes, and honest to God, my heart flutters like I’m in the fifth grade receiving a valentine from acrush.
It’s myboyfriend.
Oneweek.
It’s been one week since he returned to his residency at Philadelphia General, and my brain translates a text as Farrow gifting me a piece of red construction paper shaped into a heart, glitter glued toit.
Fuck.
My.
Sappy.
Brain.
But I understand my semi-infatuation. Farrow and I haven’t spoken or seen each other since he left for an excruciatingly long shift at thehospital.
He said he probably wouldn’t even get time to text. Something about double shifts, low staffed. I don’t get how any of it works, but it’s been twenty-nine hours since I last heard from him. I’d be lying to say I haven’t beencounting.
