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I feel irritated think about the future right now.
He’s watching me carefully.
“What does that have to do with Vegas?” I can’t keep the suspicion in my tone. “Don’t tell me your dad owns some other medical start up there.”
He shakes his head.
It’s something of a sore point between us. I had an internship at a biotech company last summer, and it was amazing. They had me working long-distance with a guy who was crazy-smart, doing things with 3D biological printing that nobody had ever done before. The company was smart, innovative, and exciting. They offered me a job, and while the salary wouldn’t match what I could make as a doctor, it would start immediately, without student loans.
All my years of carefully laid plans should have gone out the window.
If Blake is the gleaming futuristic car in my overgrown parking lot, his father is the UFO hovering overhead, casually poised to destroy us all.
It’s not as simple as great job versus medical school. Blake is wealthy in his own right, but his father owns eight percent of that little biotech company—and that’s one of his tiny investments, so insignificant I didn’t find out about it until the end of my summer there. To make it worse, bioLogica pulled my résumé when my name was catapulted into the Silicon Valley elite because I was dating that Blake Reynolds.
Giving up a career where I would have the credentials to do anything with anyone anywhere in the country, in exchange for one where I would always know that I was dependent on his family’s good will…? That’s the kind of risk I’m not willing to take.
Blake isn’t an asshole. He hasn’t pushed me on this. But I know that he wonders.
“Want to do something risky?” He doesn’t smile. “Come with me to Vegas this week and get married.”
The bottom drops out of my stomach. I stare at him. I don’t ask him to repeat himself. I don’t ask for an explanation.
He gives one anyway. “I don’t really care what choice you make,” he says. “If you want to be a doctor, be a doctor. If you don’t want to be a doctor, don’t. But don’t go to medical school just because you’re planning for a future without me.”
The air conditioning doesn’t feel like it’s working any more. The car is too hot, too stuffy. And Blake is right. The only reason I’m considering medical school at this point is because I need to be the financially stable one in my family. I want Mable to never have to skip movie night with friends when she goes to college. I want my mom to never have to pick up extra shifts at the cupcake food truck during fairs because she’s two weeks late on the electricity bill.
“Marriage is a bigger decision than medical school,” I hear myself say. “And if you don’t think it is, there’s no guarantee we’ll be together long enough to make a difference.”
Blake bites his lip. He runs his hand through sandy-blond hair. “California is a community property state,” is the non sequitur that comes out of his mouth.
I have no idea what that means. I frown at him.
“If we get married,” he explains, “you are considered equal owner of my assets. It’s a little more complicated than that, and I’d have to make you sign a prenup that allows me to solely vote my Cyclone B-class shares, but if we got married, it would always make a difference. You’d get a lot of money if we divorced.”
My irritation multiplies into a thousand little points of sandpaper. “Blake, are you saying I should marry you for your money, then divorce you and take you for everything you’re worth?”
He shrugs. “You don’t technically have to divorce me.”
Of all the things for him to say. I know my rising tide of frustration has as much to do with the fact that I’ve been trapped in this car for too long. It’s not entirely about the fact that he asked me to marry him for his stupid, goddamned money. But it’s too late; I’ve passed from annoyed into downright aggravated. His shrug grates on my fraying nerves. His nonchalance is about to send me over the edge.
I take hold of the door handle, but there’s no easy escape from this situation. I take a long, deep breath. “The answer is no. I’m not going to elope with you to Vegas this week. And it’s not because I think it’s too risky. It’s because good risk has a reward, and nothing about that sounds rewarding to me.”
“Not one thing?”
“First,” I tell him, “if we ever get married, we’re not getting away with a Vegas ceremony. You’re news, Blake, and your getting married in Vegas will—”
“Allow us to avoid the paparazzi who try and sneak in,” he puts in.
I glower at him. “Fuck the paparazzi. Getting married is partially about developing a common community. If you think we’re going to avoid throwing two giant parties—one down here, for my family and friends, and another one up in the Bay Area for yours—”
“And the entire Cyclone team,” he puts in.
“—then you are badly mistaken. Second, if we ever get married, it will be because I believe that we will have what my parents have.”
He glances dubiously behind me. “A two-bedroom apartment in Alhambra?”
I’m aware of every blade of dead grass stuffed in the cracks in the asphalt. My temper flares.
“Fine.” I undo my seatbelt. “You want to be a dick about it? Let’s be dicks. You didn’t grow up with parents who loved each other, so you don’t know what it’s like. You don’t know what it’s like when two people assume that whatever happens to them, they’ll get through together. You grew up with your dad always getting his way, and you know what? That doesn’t teach you shit about marriage.”
His face has gone blank.
“Marriage isn’t always easy,” I say, “but it’s worth it. If we get married, it’ll be because we decide that we work. That we can solve problems together and trust each other and not get in each other’s way. If we get married, it’ll be because we both know that this is what we want from our lives—each other. Not because you’re…” I gesture at him futilely, unable to find words for my anger.
His lips compress together in a white line. “Are you done yet?”
I open my door. It’s blazing hot outside. After three and a half years in the Bay Area, I always forget how hot Southern California is. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m done. Do you really think you’re ready to make a lifelong commitment?”
Maybe I want him to say yes.
But he just shrugs again. “No. But I don’t want you to worry. I don’t want you to worry ever again, not even if you walk away from me. Even if you can’t stand me three years from now, I want to nod and say, it’s okay, Tina is doing okay. That’s where I am.”
This has to be on the list of the world’s worst proposals. I look over at him, and…
And this is our last spring break. It’s the last time we’ll have a few relatively carefree days together, possibly ever. After this,
I’m going to do…whatever it is I do. And he’s going to go back to Cyclone Technologies, his father’s company. I don’t want to fight. I exhale again, and try to push my frustration aside.
“I don’t need half your money to be okay. I would be okay financially without you. If we split up, it’s not going to be your money that I miss.”
He doesn’t meet my eyes. “Yeah. Fine.”
“Just don’t ask me to marry you because you want me to get your money if we divorce. That’s…” I don’t want to argue. I want to forget that we ever had this conversation. “That’s just going to make your dad start in on the kids thing even more.”
It’s the right thing to say. Blake laughs softly. “It wouldn’t make any difference. It’s not like he was married when he had me.”
Our eyes meet in temporary agreement on this one thing: Neither of us want kids, and our parents can—collectively—go soak their heads. It’s a good note on which to end the conversation.
I get out of the car and stretch my arms high.
“Come on,” I tell him. “There’s air conditioning to be had. We can talk about this later.”
With any luck, later will be never.
* * *
BLAKE
* * *
I’m thinking about password security as we ascend the steps to Tina’s parents’ apartment. It’s not as much of a non sequitur as it seems.
Thing is, Peter taught me how to pick a proper password back when he was still alive. I learned the trick from him when my fingers were still too small to stretch the span of the keyboard. Most people’s passwords are complete shit: a pet’s name, maybe with a number attached; a familiar date. These passwords can be cracked in minutes by any kid with a halfway decent script and a decent dictionary file. They can be cracked in a matter of seconds by anyone who takes the time to know you.
