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Even though it’s by far one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever written.
When I’m done with my final draft, I call my brother and tell him why I don’t regret what I did, why he shouldn’t, either, and why I’m in love with Jack. Ryan’s not on board at first, but I don’t give up. I push forward, fighting to make him understand, until my brother’s secretly romantic heart melts.
Then I tell him that he’ll have to call Dad himself on Sunday nights from now on because I refuse to continue to facilitate their dysfunctional relationship, and I end the call while I’m ahead.
All that’s left to do now is proof my article and send it to Denise.
So I do, even though the old Ellie voice in my head insists she’ll hate it. Or worse, that she won’t even respond to the submission.
Instead, come five-thirty, as I’m walking to the train to meet Lulu at Casa Diablo, a text from Denise informs me that my article will go live tomorrow morning, my payment is being processed, and my ability to take lemons and make lemonade is a goddamn inspiration.
I’m back in Denise’s good graces and my confession will soon be live, out on the web for all the world to see.
But I don’t care about the world.
Well, I do…
Of course, I do…
But at the moment, I care most about one man, the one I hope will read my story and see what I want him to see—a woman who wants to give love a chance because he showed her it was worth the risk.
CHAPTER 23
Jack
Day 30 Thu 8/30
From the moment Ryan sends me the link and Ellie’s byline pops up on the screen, my heart is in my throat. It takes me a good ten minutes to read past the first line of her article, and even then I can’t quite make my lungs exhale.
After more than a week of radio silence, simply seeing her name again nearly undoes me.
But curiosity wins out, and I read on.
THE BARRINGTON BEAT
Walk Like a Man, Fall Like a Woman
By Eleanor Seyfried, Contributing Writer
You know the old saying,never judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes? Here’s what I’m wondering: if wearing his shoes earns you the right to judge, what do you get for walking around in a suit and a fake mustache, with your boobs mashed to your chest and a tube sock stuffed in your underwear?
I’ll tell you what you get, people: an honorary membership in the boys’ club.
More than you ever wanted to know about the state of the men’s bathroom.
A fair bit of chafing, if we’re being honest.
And, if you’re really lucky, a chance at love.
These are not hypotheticals.
For three weeks, I went undercover as a dude in one of the most dude-dominated industries of the modern age: finance. I went into this assignment with a hypothesis that I intended to prove correct: that women are less likely to be hired for executive positions, that we’re paid less for doing the same jobs, that we’re given fewer opportunities for career advancement, that we’re punished for the biological ability to bear children, and that we’re much more likely than our male counterparts to be the victims of unwanted sexual advances.
Posing as a male stockbroker, I entered the workforce at a boutique investment firm, seeking to expose the seedy underbelly of the patriarchy (yes, I actually used that exact phrase) from the inside. Dressed in a suit and decked out in enough stage makeup to make die-hard theater geeks everywhere beam with pride, I stealthily interviewed employees, eavesdropped on conversations, correlated hiring and firing records, and bore witness to all sorts of systemic bias in a business environment so steeped in dude-bro culture it didn’t know a maxi pad from a maxi dress.
That the finance industry is rife with discriminatory practices, gender bias, and sexual harassment will come as no surprise to any woman who’s ever set one peep-toed foot on Wall Street—or worked in any job with men in positions of greater power, for that matter—and my research in that area revealed few, if any, surprises.
As expected, I found enough evidence to back up my assumptions two, four, ten times over.
