Her Intern. Anne Marsh
to turn your balls into blue Popsicles.
“Remember the rule,” Jack says.
“Which one?” Jack has too many. I bought him a copy of Robert’s Rules of Order the same Christmas he gave me a label maker. Like the British royal family, we have a gag gifts–only rule for present-giving.
“The rule. No sex at work.”
There’s silence for a beat as we bob up and down on our boards. And while all three of us have flirted with the rule, none of us has ever broken it. The most we do is flirt, especially if the woman in question is a client. If she’s an employee, we don’t even look in her direction. It’s asking for trouble. But...
“Does Lola’s office count as work? Because technically I’m her employee. She’s paying me.”
“You need to keep your hands to yourself. Don’t look at her, don’t touch her.”
Max nods solemnly. “Personal space bubbles are important.” Max has learned this in his capacity as uncle to his sister’s twin demon spawn.
“What if she looks at me? And invites me into said bubble?”
Jack shakes his head. “Don’t. I can have it tattooed on your dick if that helps.”
Jack reaches over and slaps me on the back. “Does this mean your new boss is hot?”
“You bet.”
“So what’s it like having your first internship?”
Jack laughs so hard he almost falls off his board. None of us interned in college—we’d been too busy launching our first companies. We’d found the magic, winning chute in the Game of Life.
“Taking orders sucks. She wants coffee runs, photocopies, meeting minutes and code reviews. I’m not allowed to check in any code changes without written permission—it’s like getting a field trip note from my parents. Then she points out every place I’ve done something different from how she would have done it—which is everywhere—and tells me to redo it.”
“None of those are unreasonable requests,” Jack points out.
“They’re not requests. They’re orders.” Great. I sound like an unhappy five-year-old. Maybe I could whine it’s not fair for my next trick. “I have no idea how normal twentysomethings handle this.”
“They need the paycheck.” Max sounds serious. I can’t tell if he’s pulling my leg or not. We all know interning isn’t a lucrative proposition.
“But I’m right.”
Jack, naturally, mock-wags his finger at me. “And she’s the boss. What if she knows something you don’t? Or her way of doing things is equally good?”
I consider the possibility before dismissing it with a middle finger in Jack’s direction. “I’m the best at what I do.”
“Think of it like sex,” Jack says, checking the wave coming toward us.
“I do not want to think about sex and you.” Max nods, in vigorous agreement with me. In college, we didn’t hang neckties on doorknobs to indicate that the room was occupied; we’d just agreed that our triple was a bang-free zone and that we’d take girls anywhere else. The rooms at Santa Cruz were too small for sexcapades.
“Work with me here.” Jack sighs, a long, dramatic, oh-woe-is-me sigh I blame on his one and only stint as a thespian. He’d signed up for UC Santa Cruz’s summer production of A Midsummer’s Night Dream because he’d wanted to bang Titania. Hazel had been the stage manager and she superglued the ass head to his hair because Titania—aka Molly—was her best friend, and she was too shy to tell Jack to bugger off. Jack married Molly four years later, and he and Hazel have been friends and partners in crime ever since. She’s the prettier but no less cutthroat half of their VC company. Together they have their thumbs in some of the tastiest Silicon Valley pies.
Jack has suggested repeatedly that we grow up and include Hazel in our Saturday surf dates rather than shut her out of our boys-only tree house. She’s great, but I’ve shot him down every time—not because she’d prefer to discuss the hotness of the male of the species, but because she honest-to-God can’t swim. Drowning Jack’s business partner isn’t a friendly move. The compromise is her sitting on the beach with a book and holding on to our wallets. Currently she’s a bright pink dot wrapped in three blankets. In addition to not being a good swimmer, Hazel gets cold easily.
Jack continues, “You’ve got the moves, you’re the foreplay master, you’ve got the whole night mapped out and it’s going to the best orgasm she’s ever had.”
“So, a typical night.”
Jack ignores that. “But your date knows what makes her come, so what if she wants to do something different? She’s not wrong, right?”
Put that way, my actions might possibly seem a little immature.
Jack taps his heart. “What do you want to happen next?”
I blame Hazel for Jack’s insane willingness to talk about feelings and relationship next steps. She’s a terrible influence. Jack claims it’s a side effect of being married, which just underscores what a dangerous idea the whole two-becoming-one state is—he’s turned into a girl.
“Pretty certain misrepresenting yourself in the hiring process is illegal,” Max says. “Plus, if she mistook you for the intern, there must be a real one out there somewhere. What if he shows up?”
“No problem. I’ll be in and out.”
“That’s what she said.” Max waggles his eyebrows and I knock him off his board.
Lola
MAPLE AND I are having sad desk salads for lunch. She’s on some sort of mason jar salad kick this month, so she’s brought us each a glass jar crammed with more fiber and vegetables than I usually face in a week. Nellie flops by my feet, disappointed that it’s not bacon cheeseburger day.
Frankly, I’m voting with Nellie. When Maple hands me my jar, my first thought is ooh, super pretty. The greens and vegetables are layered inside like a healthy version of three-bean party dip. I unscrew the lid and poke my fork inside.
Maple aims hers at me. “How is Pretty Boy?”
She thinks it’s hilarious that my summer intern is none other than Hot Lap Guy. She asked how he took finding out I’d be his boss for the summer, but I wasn’t sure what to tell her. I tried to apologize, he announced he wasn’t pro second chances, and then he stayed anyhow. I think that means he’s decided we can work together. Yes, I’ve felt his penis up through his pants and he’s had his hand on my knee, but no one has seen anyone naked and there’s been no tongue (which is slightly disappointing, if I’m being honest).
I chew before confessing. “He’s a grumpy bastard.”
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