“Like, the part where you’re filthy rich and never have to worry about it again?” Jason didn’t really have to worry about money either. The podcast was making tons of ad revenue now, and he still had a full-time job doing database design for an e-commerce company.

“You totally have to worry about money when you have it, just in a different way.”

This was, in fairness, something I never would have said to anyone but Jason, who I was sharing about $30,000 in podcast revenue with every month. Still, he rolled his eyes pretty hard.

“You could buy a penthouse apartment in Midtown and not have a mortgage.”

“Right, so should I do that? Or should I start a business? Or should I invest in the stock market or in bonds? Like, why do you think I still live here with you?”

“Are you saying that you still live with me just because you don’t know how to make a decision?”

“Jason, I still live here because I want to. I don’t want to live in a penthouse apartment in Midtown. I don’t want a boat. Robin keeps making me all this money, but what’s the point of it? I can’t even take a girl to a fancy restaurant because it just feels like bragging. So, like, why have money? Should I just give it away?”

“Jesus, Andy. Not everything’s a crusade. Just make the money while you can, buy some cool sneakers, and then you can do good with it when you aren’t so busy making it. The trick is to not spend it all on dumb shit and, like, you’re clearly physically incapable of that. You can’t even find a girlfriend who wants you for your money.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” I was being defensive because I was hoping maybe she would be someday.

“I wasn’t talking about Bex, I was talking about your inability to find a girlfriend.”

“Ah, well, I concede. But I’m still worried I’m not doing the right thing with the untapped energy in my savings account.”

“Well, I’ll keep my eyes open for weird or good shit you can do with your money. But you’re fucking lucky I’m so understanding because most people would not sit here and listen to you complain about how hard it is to be so ludicrously rich.”

“I am ludicrously rich,” I said, smiling.

“Isn’t it nice?”

“Yeah, I guess it is. Sometimes I feel like I must have earned it. Sometimes I feel like I must be worth it, like I won life. But that’s bullshit. April earned this money, I’m just making it.”

“OH MY GOD YOU ARE THE WORST.”

“OK, sorry, sometimes I feel like April earned this money and I’m just making it.”

“Better, but still bad.”

I think I’m good at looking like I have things together on the outside, but that’s only because I spend an immense amount of time worrying about it.

The book seemed to know what I should do—well, isn’t that what we all want to know? Free will is stressful. I invited Bex over to play games, just like the book said I should, and it was actually fun. I was worried that she and Jason wouldn’t get along, but it turns out she was used to people who don’t share a lot of the same experiences as her.

We played a game that my parents and I used to play when I was a kid. You pick a long word that you can divide into three different words and describe it using definitions of its three different parts.

That was probably really confusing. Example: If you pick “dictionary,” you say, “At first I am a penis, then I ostracize, and finally I’m light and free.” The first person to guess “dick shun airy” wins.

Bex had just bent the rules a little with “First I am an explanation, then a vocal performance, then I weep, and finally I am an abbreviated sibling,” but we all agreed that she was a genius when the answer was “how sing cry sis.” And that led us into talking about the reasons why housing had become so unaffordable, which devolved mostly into me and Jason repeating stuff we’d learned from one of The Thread’s videos.

“I mean, you two sound really smart, but really you just watch The Thread,” Bex said after we’d gone on for five or six minutes.

“Oh! You just got called out so hard!” Jason said to me.

“So did you!”

“Yeah, but Bex isn’t my friend! She knows nothing about me, so I am free from the deeper ramifications of this callout! Also, I told you not only white dudes watch The Thread.”

“I didn’t say only white dudes,” I said, thankful that the subject was moving away from my intellectual plagiarism, but apprehensive that it was moving toward race. “I said mostly white dudes.”

“I agree, his audience is definitely mostly white dudes,” Bex said. “But, I hate to say it, it’s beneficial in this country to keep an eye on what the white dudes are doing.”

We all had a laugh.

Jason thought up the next clue for our game; it was “eye dent titty.”

It was a fun night, and as we were wrapping up, I couldn’t help but think back to The Book of Good Times, which seemed to think that maybe something might happen between me and Bex. I looked up and saw Jason looking at me.

“Well, I’m gonna turn in!” he proclaimed. Then he marched over to his room and firmly closed the door.

I turned to Bex, embarrassed, and gave a little smile that was meant to be both apologetic and charming. “So … that’s Jason!”

“I love him,” she said.

“I’m glad, I was worried. He isn’t the most sensitive guy.”

She rolled her eyes at that, but then just said, “You guys have weird fun, but it was fun. Thank you for having me over.” She stood up, and I immediately stood as well, suddenly intensely nervous.

“Can I walk you to the train?” I asked.

“No.” She came over to me and put her hands on my shoulders. “But I would like it if you kissed me good night.”

Every nerve in my body sparkled like I was a damn high schooler as my fingers moved around her waist and we kissed.

MIRANDA

“Miranda, thank you for taking the time for this.” I’d gotten an interview for the job. It was over some corporate videoconferencing software that I had to download for the interview. I’d dressed up, and pulled my most identifying feature, my bright red hair, back in a tight ponytail. I had stopped short of dyeing it—that seemed too obvious a ploy.

“Of course, I am so fascinated by what you are up to,” I told them honestly.

“I’m Dr. Everett Sealy, this is my colleague Tom. I work in the lab, he’s an HR manager.”

Remember how all of the rats in my lab were named Tom? Tom did not remind me of them. He was handsome, in his mid-thirties, with wavy dark hair. Dr. Sealy, on the other hand, was shaved to his scalp everywhere his slightly elongated head wasn’t naturally bald.

“We were excited to see your application,” Tom continued. “Your research looks right up our alley. Can you tell me a little about why you’re interested in working at Altus?”

In my résumé, it just looked like my PhD had been taking a while, not like I’d taken a year off. That wasn’t technically a lie. I had gotten through my PhD program relatively quickly, so it wasn’t unusual that I would still be working on my thesis. I’d just left out the part about how I had quit temporarily to become the CEO of a start-up with famous people for a year. That was the kind of thing that would look really good on a résumé for pretty much any job except this one.