“Cool.” Something about this feels veryuncool.
It’s on brand for Bri to be fine with me hearing her reach orgasm but fall into melancholia when I offer her help. I don’t want to be the cloud interrupting her sunshine. All I want is for her to stay.
“So . . . art museum?” I offer a change in subject.
A hint of a smile returns to her lips. Museums really do make her happy. “Do you want to get coffee first?”
Andthatmakesmehappy. “Hell yeah.”
She wants to stay. But she’ll fight me before she admits it.
Eleven
Bri
A week has passed, and I still haven’t given Liem an answer. The shameful truth is that I haven’t made progress at all. I have a lot more in my bank account than I had when I got here, but it’s not enough. Without an offer letter or proof of salary, I need two months of income records to qualify for an apartment. Incomehighenough to qualify. I’ve only made that for the last week we’ve been here, and I’m tired.
If any of the positions I applied for in LA had gotten back to me, I wouldn’t hesitate to refuse Liem’s offer to stay, but sadly, the job market is hell, and no one feels the need to send a rejection email anymore. Still, I’ve been applying for everything. Jobs in design, teaching, service, retail. Positions I’m overqualified to do, dream positions I’m less likely to get than I am to become a backup dancer for Beyoncé’s next tour, and everything in between. And I meaneverything.
Last week, I submitted eighteen applications, the week before that, twenty-seven, and our first week in the apartment, thirty-nine. I refuse to believe I am this un-hirable. I have a college degree—even if it’s not applicable to anything I’ve applied for, it’s still a fucking degree—years of similar work experience, and a professionally reviewed résumé.
Needing the charger I left in the kitchen, I find Liem on the couch, reading a book. He’s free of his self-imposed work cage.
“What’s wrong?” he asks when he sees me.
I set my laptop on the kitchen counter. “Feeling extra good about myself today, that’s all.”
He tilts his head to the side, studying me. He’ll have to read my meaning from context. “Can I help in some way?”
Maybe, but you won’t like it. I go to him without answering, thenclimb over the back of the couch and tackle him in slow motion. He falls back onto the cushions, not a gasp or flinch over my lack of boundaries and need for a crisis cuddle.
On his chest, I feel better. Unseen while protected from the rest of the world. Comfortable and warm, not cramping and being grumpy over the work I haven’t even started. “This’ll do, pig.”
He strokes a hand over my back. “What’s up? And if you say it’s nothing, I will throw you.”
I lean my head up from his chest. “Throw me? Where?”
“In the trash, I don’t know. Imagine a credible threat then tell me what’s wrong.”
I exhale in frustration, laying my head back down so I don’t have to look at him. “I’ve been thinking.”
“That’s new.”
I smack a hand against his chest when he chuckles at his joke. “I’ve applied tosomany jobs and haven’t been called to interview with any of them. It hasn’t been that long, but it’s putting me in a rough spot because I can’t look for an apartment without knowing my budget or the job’s location. I don’t want to sign a lease and end up not being able to afford it, or have a two-hour commute, you know?”
“You need more time, that’s all.”
Of course I do, and of course he would remind me of that. I want more time away from my problems, but I want towantto stay with him, notneedto stay with him.
“Do you want me to look at your résumé or the job openings?” he asks. “AI automatically weeds out certain keywords, so you may be triggering something accidentally.”
“Yes. Please, tech god. Tell me how I’ve offended the robots.” His laugh jostles my head. I push myself up, sitting beside him. “Sorry. I’m moody because my ovary is expelling an egg and making it my problem when I have back-to-back walks today.”
“Are you feeling well enough to do them?”
“Sure.”
“For real?”
