Trade Me (Cyclone 1)

She must feel my body tense beside her, must know the direction of my thoughts.

“Blake. Just because we’re not talking about how fucked up this is doesn’t mean it’s not fucked up.”

“I know.”

She turns to me. “I don’t know if I should be shoving chocolate bars on you or getting you a food tube. I’m completely unqualified to deal with this.”

It takes me a moment to respond. “I haven’t exactly managed to deal with it well, either. When I came up with the circumference scrolling solution for Fernanda, it took me months. We looked at hundreds of possibilities. We’d actually decided on something else. And then I just had this idea when I was driving after a run—it just popped into my head. I thought this would be like that time. That if I got far enough away, I’d just figure it out one day.”

“Not all problems get solved in an instant of understanding. This is completely over my head.”

“I know.” I take her hand. “Just…don’t let go of me yet, okay? I have two weeks. That’s all I can ask for.”

Her fingers squeeze mine. “I think you should see someone.”

A sudden panic takes me. “Ah, well,” I joke. “Since I have five dollars and sixteen cents, that’s not exactly happening right now.”

“Blake.” She sits up. “No.”

I’m not looking at her. “We had an agreement. A deal. If I break it, this ends now, not just two weeks from now. Besides, I don’t have time to see anyone. Mr. Zhen is counting on me.”

“Blake.” She turns to me and puts her hand on my chest. “Don’t you dare use me as an excuse to avoid getting help.”

I shut my eyes. That’s exactly what this is: an excuse. There’s another reason I’ve never wanted to see anyone. How could I look my father in the eyes, knowing that I’m keeping this from him, and yet telling a stranger? If I find a therapist, it’ll be real. Right now? Right now, at least I can pretend. I can pretend it’s a distant visitor, hanging out at my place for a short spell, but one who will be leaving any day.

My heart is beating hard against her palm. But she reaches up with her other hand and turns me so I’m looking in her eyes.

You know, all along, deep down, part of me thought that if we ever got to this place—if Tina ever found out what was truly, deeply, most screwed up about me—that she’d know that our lives aren’t any different. Mine’s not any harder or easier than hers. Everyone has problems.

And this is the moment when I realize that’s complete shit. Yeah, everyone has problems. Somewhere else on this planet, there is someone just like me—someone who’s fucked up and confused and who doesn’t want to tell anyone. Someone who needs help. Someone who wants out of his head. And the only difference between me and him is that I have the money to do something about it.

There never has been a trade. I’ve never been able to give away pieces of myself. I carry them all with me no matter what path I take.

“I don’t know what is going on with you,” Tina says, “but I think anyone who can do this…” She runs her finger down my tattoo. “…Can do this.” She sets her finger on my forehead.

And maybe that’s what I needed to hear, because this time when I kiss her, there’s no urgency. No overwhelming need. For now, there’s no danger. There’s just me and her. Just a silent stillness, a space where there’s room for both of us.

17.

BLAKE

It takes three days, but I do it.

First, I tell Mr. Zhen that I have to quit. He sighs heavily, and tells me to come back and say hi any time I have a chance. And then he calls one of the twenty applications he’s been storing and replaces me in fifteen minutes.

I find someone who specializes in athletes who have eating disorders. I call. We set up an appointment. I go to her office and shake her hand and sit in the comfortable chair in front of her desk. By the time I’m sitting there, I must have had this conversation with her a million times in my head.

“Hi,” I tell her.

She doesn’t act like she knows all about me, even though she probably does. She doesn’t raise an eyebrow. She just folds her hands and tells me about patient-client confidentiality. And then, even though I already filled out a lengthy intake form, she asks me, “So, Blake. Why are you here?”

I take a deep breath. “I’m here,” I say, “because I have a problem.”

By the end of the day, I don’t just have a therapist. I have a nutritionist. A food diary. And I have something else from her: a promise that this has happened to other people, but that they have gotten better.

For the first time, when I tell myself that I have a problem but that I’m going to fix it, I believe it.

TINA

I try to call my mother. I figure that I can tell her that Blake’s my boyfriend now, that she was right and I was wrong. I want it to be an olive branch. Something to try and put us back where we used to be.

But she’s stiff and formal when she answers the phone.

“Tina.” Her voice sounds disapproving.

“Hi, Ma. How are things going?”

“Well,” she says. “Very well.”

“How is work?”

“Fine,” she says. “No need for you to worry about it, okay?”

I exhale. “And is everything okay otherwise?”

“There’s nothing for you to do,” she says stiffly. “I’m responsible for myself. So don’t worry. Go be a student.”

I hang up, dissatisfied. Isn’t that what I wanted? For her to take care of herself? For me to not have to worry?

I pull up the utilities website anyway. But when I try to log in, an error message appears. Email and/or password is invalid or incorrect, the site tells me in red letters.

I try again, and then again. But I can’t get in. My mother has changed the password, locking me out.

I never realized that the thing I most wanted would feel like a slap in the face.

“I think I’m dating Blake.” I set the plates on the kitchen table later that night. It’s a dark glass table, round, big enough for two. It’s not dark yet, but the sun is beginning to set over the Bay, coloring the view with hints of pink and purple. Dinner tonight is simple—rice, steamed fish, spicy green beans—but the scent of almond oil and fresh ginger, combined with a generous handful of cilantro, still feels luxurious to me.

Maria does not look surprised by this revelation. Instead she pulls her plate toward her. “Duh.”

“No, I mean…” I fumble for words. “I don’t think we’re just hooking up, okay? I think we’re dating.”

Whatever that magical division is between having sex and having a relationship, we crossed it. We crossed it a long time ago; I just wasn’t willing to admit it. And more than anything, that scares me.

“I’m sorry,” Maria says. “Am I supposed to be shocked?”

“Yes. You could at least pretend.”

She turns to me and widens her eyes. “Oh my God, you’re dating Blake Reynolds? How is that even possible? It seems so unlikely, what with you two lusting after each other and spending all that time in each other’s company. I would never have imagined it, especially after you spent an entire weekend with him and then boned him all night. Who would have thought that two people in their early twenties would have functional hormones?”

“I think you could be more sarcastic.”

“You’re right.” She eats a forkful of fish. “Let me try harder. To think that this happened on a college campus, of all places. Nobody ever gets horny in college. I’m shocked. This is my shocked face.” She gestures to her nose with her chopsticks. Unsurprisingly, her shocked face looks dryly amused.

I throw a green bean at her.

“Show off.” She frowns. “You know I can’t throw with chopsticks.”

“I’m being serious,” I say. “I’m dating Blake Reynolds and I’m freaking out here. We don’t make any sense. This is going to be over in a little more than a week, and what am I doing? I’m letting myself get all wound up in him. It?

?s getting worse.”

“Okay,” Maria says with a roll of her eyes, “is there a real reason this is going to be over in a week, or is that just dramatics on your part?”

He’s going back to his father’s company in a week. He won’t have time for me. He won’t be here. I look over at Maria—and I realize that this is not yet public information. Dating Blake Reynolds, absurdly wealthy college student, is ridiculous. The prospect of dating Blake Reynolds, interim CEO of Cyclone Systems, is unfathomable.

“Okay,” I say. “Remember how I had to sign a huge stack of papers to get Cyclone prototypes? I have this vague memory of something that said something like, ‘WARNING: YOUR CONDUCT IS BLAH BLAH LAW BLAH BLAH SOMETHING SOMETHING TWENTY YEARS OF JAIL.’ This is the point in the conversation where I think I need to talk to a lawyer before I tell you anything.” I don’t know what constitutes material, non-public information, but the fact that a twenty-three-year old is about to take over for his father is probably material. And it’s certainly not public.

Her eyes widen.

I spread my hands. “Now do you understand why I’m freaking out? I’m dating a guy where, if I tell you what’s going on, I might go to jail. His family puts their private business up for public consumption to sell products. Tell me honestly, Maria. Do you think this is going to last?”

She blows out a breath. But she doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to.

Some things are obvious from the start. I knew this; I knew I had to protect myself.