Chapter 2
Nicholas
"You come here often?"
I chuckle under my breath without tearing my eyes away from the screen of my laptop. It's Saturday night and I'm sitting in the company of a female at a Silicon Valley bar with a pathetic guy-to-girl ratio. I don't have to be a genius – which, by the way, I am – to figure out what's about to happen here. (And I really don't want to break my concentration, especially when I'm so close to finally debugging the source code of Wesley's latest piece of shit software.)
There are really only two possibilities; one – some fresh-out-of-college-straight-to-the-Valley tech intern just drank half his weight in cheap tequila and has finally worked up enough courage to hit on the only pair of XX chromosomes in the building; or, two – some pretentious loser in an expensive suit and gelled back hair (a.k.a. a newbie venture capitalist) is feeling extra brave after watching a dozen pickup artist videos and now happens to think that he can snag any woman he wants because he ‘stands out’ in the crowd of sex-starved techies with poor hygiene roaming around the bar right now.
Tonight, I'm betting on douche-in-a-suit.
But either way, I know Emily, and this guy is about to get his balls handed to him in a picnic basket.
No, I'm not an empath (just the opposite, actually). It's just that, we go through this song and dance every time we set foot in a Silicon Valley social establishment where alcohol is served.
Error message again? Congratulations on writing another garbage piece of code, Wesley! I keep pounding away at the keys.
The guy's voice rings out once more. "Can I buy you a drink?"
This time, Emily grunts. She always does that when she's getting annoyed. "No, thank you," she says through gritted teeth.
The little prick decides to be persistent. "Why not?"
I've gotta say that I respect him for his tenacity. This is Silicon Valley, after all. No one makes it in this town by taking 'no' for an answer.
In my periphery, I see Emily slam her empty mug onto the bar and swivel her stool toward him. That's when I look away from my screen because this is going to be entertaining.
Ding-ding-ding, we have a winner. Douche-in-a-suit, it is...And they say I have no social awareness. I'm getting really good at this shit. Years of practice, my friends. Years of practice.
She narrows her eyes. "Why don't I want you to buy me a drink?"
The guy offers her a smile. I think he's trying to be charming. Too bad Emily doesn't respond to 'charming'. To her, it’s a sign of weakness and when she smells blood, she pounces.
"Because I'm assuming that you have a penis. And I don't like those very much. Now, shoo!" She flicks a wrist at him and he scurries away like the annoying little pest that he is. She turns to me and grumbles. "Do I have to wear a T-shirt that says 'I'm a raging lesbian' every time I go out for a drink?"
I consider her idea for a moment. “It would have to be in a neutral color that would match well with all your other clothes. And a fabric that stays cool when it’s super hot out but is sufficiently warm on chilly nights. Come to think of it, maybe you’d want to buy a selection of ‘I’m a raging lesbian’ T-shirts just in case –"
Her eyes spin into her skull as I offer my sage advice. "That was sarcasm, Nicholas." She glares at me before turning back to the counter, shaking her head and muttering, "This town full of men who overanalyze every menial thing yet can't pick up on glaringly obvious social cues. It's alarming."
I laugh, bringing my beer mug to my lips for a long swallow. The dark ale is smooth and bitter on its way down my throat. "At least some of us are trying." I set my beer down on the counter.
"Not hard enough." She gives my shoulder a rough shove.
I have to say that I connect better with technology than I ever did with humans. Technology is easy to figure out; it's about math, equations, data. Humans run around in circles when you ask them a direct question then they expect you to pick up on their body language and vocal cues.
I prefer to spend my time deciphering a malfunctioning robot any day. Humans give me migraines.
Emily isn’t done ranting, though. "And you should have gotten mad, by the way. That would have been the appropriate response. That guy totally just came up and hit on me when we're clearly sitting here together." She slides my drink across the counter to her and takes a long swig.
My shoulder juts up nonchalantly. "So?"
"It's against guy code for a dude to hit on a girl who's hanging out with another dude."
My fingers fly around on the keyboard. Hmm…Maybe if I just remove this block cluster and replace the script with a plug-in...Maybe that would solve my error message problem.
“Are you even listening to me, Nicholas?” she flares angrily.
"He probably saw the resemblance between us and knew that we're related. No way we're on a date." I smirk, adjusting my glasses on my nose. Emily and I would never be mistaken for relatives with her paper white complexion and hair that's almost just as pale, she’s a stark contrast to my dark hair and the copper undertones of my skin. I honestly don’t know how she manages to stay so pale here in California. The girl needs a serious melanin infusion.
"Oh so now you’re a master of sarcasm, aren't you, asshole?" She chuckles. “I can’t keep up.”
I look her deep in the eyes. "Emily, do you all-of-a-sudden have a stepbrother fetish I should know about?" I'm on a roll. I’m getting good at this humor thing, too.
She tries to smother down her laugh. "All I'm saying is that you should have gotten pissed."
Normative social behavior is overrated. I could give a fuck about complying. I motion to the bartender for a refill. "Emily..." I growl in a scolding tone. "Don't tell me how to feel. There's an app for that."
She slumps against the back of her barstool when I utter our inside joke. The seven-year-old inside joke that turned us both into multi-millionaires just a few months ago at the tender age of 25. The corner of her mouth tips up and I have no doubt that she's ruminating about the stacks and stacks of cold, hard cash sitting in her bank account.
The bartender sets a fresh pitcher in front of us. Emily fills her mug and lifts it to me. "Can we just toast again to how fucking rich we are?
I laugh, picking up my glass and clinking it against hers. "To how fucking rich we are!" I take a long drink.
Just then, Wesley comes tromping into the bar, looking like a Silicon Valley stereotype; bed head, graphic tee, hoodie, sneakers, FitBit.
"Hey guys!" He tips his chin at Emily while clapping his hand against mine in a very manly (and almost violent) greeting.
Emily eyes him sharply. "You back from your sister's engagement party? You bring any cake?"
He slips his messenger bag off of his shoulder and hands her a Tupperware container. "Eat this, woman," he grunts. "Me and Nicholas have some man things to discuss." Emily doesn't hear him. She’s too busy licking frosting off her fingers and barking at the barman for a plastic fork.
"So, how's my baby doing?" he asks, slipping onto the barstool across from me, motioning to my laptop.
"Your software is garbage," I say as I search through a coders’ forum for a solution to that damn error message.
He grins. "Jeez – you're losing your touch, Magic Nick."
I snarl at him. “I just invented a revolutionary app that betters the lives of Aspies everywhere, I sold that app to one of the largest venture funds in the Valley and I pocketed several million dollars in the process,” I remind him in a dry tone. “I’m definitely not losing my touch.”
Wesley shakes his head at my over-defensive response. "Sarcasm, man. Sarcasm."
I laugh a little, feeling silly. "Oh..."
I turn back to the computer. I hit 'enter' and another message screen pops up. Error: 712. Ugh, what the hell is error: 712? Time to hit up Google.
"Seriously, though if you keep developing crap like this, you'll never get funded."
He winces. "Ouch, Nicholas!" He clasps his hands over his heart. "Do you have to be so direct? Can’t you ever sugar-coat things?"
I shrug. My friends are often offended by my blunt honesty, but I can't help it. It's just a part of who I am.
Emily pipes in. "Wes, not everyone is cut out for the Valley. Some of us were just born for this wild ride. Others weren’t,” she says in a superior tone. Those two are always bickering or competing over something. He shoots her a dirty look but it doesn’t shut her up. “Me and Nicholas are about to build the next Spotify. You think we hit it big when we sold Conquer? Well, we're about to blow that out of the water this time!"
I squeeze my eyes shut. We are so not having this conversation again. Emily's been trying to convince me to develop a new app with her. Yes, the last project we worked on together was wildly popular and made us wildly rich. But I don't have the energy to start from scratch again. I can't do the 18-hour days anymore. I can't do the never-ending mental hamster wheel. I'm burned out. I need to...withdraw. At least for a little while.
"Em, I told you. I'm taking some time off. A sabbatical."
"What is wrong with you? 24-year-olds don't take sabbaticals. They hustle. They grind."
I shake my head, resolute, feeling that oh-so-familiar wave of mental and emotional fatigue wash over me at the mere thought of building a new app at this point. "Sorry. I can't. Not right now."
"By the way, about your sabbatical,” Wesley pipes up, “you still want that job I’ve been telling you about, right? When I was in Reyfield, I talked to a friend at town hall. They're still looking for a systems administrator to help them transition to a newer system. It's a temporary gig but it could be good for you. Give you a few months to operate on autopilot, clear your head. If you want it, just say the word."
I turn my eyes to Emily. "I’m gonna take you up on that offer, Wes. It’s official. I’ll be ready to leave in a few days."
She turns up her nose at me. Do I stink or something? "We have the world at our feet, Nick. And you’re going to give it all up and move to Middle-of-Nowhere, Illinois? To be a systems administrator? C'mon, bro!" Ah...disapproval; that's the expression on her face.
When my mother divorced Emily’s father, mom got to keep the Venice Beach condo. Harry got to keep the San Diego townhouse. Emily and I got to keep each other. Partners in crime, we were. It's been seven years and that still hasn't changed.
Until now.
'Cause I've got to get the hell out of this place. For my sanity. I can't keep up with the breakneck pace of Silicon Valley. And with the money from the sale of our app sitting in the bank, I don't have to.
I just hate that I'll be leaving Emily behind.
"It'll be temporary. Just for a few months." I try to be reassuring.
Wesley scoots his stool closer and leans in. "And if you decide to go, I've got a place where you can stay. I already told you about my cousin, Blakely. She would be a great roommate for you. She's quiet, sweet, she minds her own business."
Emily sighs. "Yeah, I guess she seems cool. Like a solid person. And she's fucking pretty, too."
Wesley nods. "Yeah, Blakely is a good pers—" he spins to Emily. "Wait, you ran a background check on my little cousin?"
Emily scoffs. "Ha! A background check? I hacked into her Facebook account and her phone logs!"
"What the fuck, Em?" Wesley throws up his arms.
She shrugs a shoulder, completely unapologetic. "Had to make sure I wasn't sending my dear brother off to the boonies to live with a serial killer."
Ignoring Wesley's protests, I turn to Emily. "So what did you find?"
"Nothing that's a risk to your safety. But let's just say, the girl has got some interesting hobbies and a very creative mind." She smiles widely, rubbing her palms together.
I shake my head and tap a few keys on the computer, taking one last shot at resolving the glitch in Wesley's software. "I don’t have the energy to try and figure you out, Em," I mutter with eyes trained on the screen as I refresh the software. And..."Bingo! It works!"
Wesley bounces out of his seat to hover over my shoulder. "It works?"
"You were missing a closing parenthesis, idiot!" I shove his shoulder and quickly save the information to a flash drive. I hand it to him and shove my laptop into my backpack.
Emily rolls her eyes. "All that trouble over a fucking syntax error? Amateurs."
I ease out of my seat, stretching my arms over my head. "It is what it is." I yawn. "But I'm gonna call it a night."
"Are you serious, Nick?" Emily groans. "Party pooper. This might be your last hurrah before you move to that god-awful town no one's ever heard of."
I tsk at her. "If you wanna hang out with me, you'll come over and help me pack tomorrow."
"Um...I'll pass,” she chortles.
I bump fists with Wesley. "Thanks, man," he says as he pockets the thumb drive. “You’re a lifesaver!”
I salute him before turning to Emily. "Call me tomorrow, Em," I tell her as I move toward the exit.
I hear her calling after me, "And tell your new roommate to change her password. That shit was way too easy to decrypt."