“We don’t care about the money,” Cyrus says.
“Two months ago we were living in Cambridge and making s’mores in Julian’s fireplace,” I add.
“Startups are full of accidental entrepreneurs,” Barry says. “The main thing is to figure out a way to make sure the band will always stay together.”
I tell him we are married.
“All three of you?”
“I’m the wife, Cyrus is the husband, Julian is the other wife.”
“Sounds about right,” Jules says.
“So, what, you want to go thirds?”
We look at each other. “Yes,” Cyrus says, “that’s what we want.”
“Okay!” Barry slams his hand against the table and rattles the whole city block. “I’ll draw up the papers. Sign them and send them back. And you two,” he says, pointing to Cyrus and me, “go get yourselves a post-nup. Your odds aren’t good.”
* * *
“What did he mean?” I ask as soon as we get back into the buttonless elevator.
“He means he thinks you and Cy are going to have trouble being married and working together,” Jules says.
“But we’re more than married. We are epic.”
Cyrus pulls me into his arms. “We are infinite.”
“He’s just quoting the odds. Doing the math. Reading the tea leaves.”
“Yeah, okay, we get it. But we’re not going to be statistics. He doesn’t even know us.”
I see Cyrus and me reflected in the elevator mirror: long and short hair, tall and small, spirit guide and coder. Cyrus kisses the top of my head. “Let’s get another lawyer,” he says.
“Totally. This one’s full of shit.”
Five
KISSING FROGS
Li Ann tells us we have to start networking. She says words like “elevator pitch” and “investment thesis” and “seed funding,” all while tapping her phone and sending me links. After every conversation with her, I Google things furiously until I have a handle on the lingo. Jules goes to fundraising events and then comes back and says he had some conversations but that they didn’t lead to anything. We start preparing our three-year business plan and financial model. Finally, Jules signs us up for something called Entrepreneurs’ Speed Dating, which he assures us bears only a passing resemblance to actual dating, and we turn up at the venue a week later, ready to be matched.
All I do these days is hang out in places with polished concrete and exposed brick. This one is no different, except it’s dimly lit and smells like chocolate because it is called the Chocolate Factory—there must be a diffuser somewhere that aerates pure Dutch-processed cocoa into the perfect air freshener. Right now it’s set up to resemble a restaurant on Valentine’s Day, little two-person tables with chairs facing each other, a small vase of flowers in between. There is a bar along one side of the room, where Cyrus, Jules, and I perch uncomfortably, mingling only with one another.
Destiny and Li Ann arrive and we wave them over. Destiny is pitching for Consentify and Li Ann is just here to make everyone else look unkempt.
“I wish smoking would come back,” Destiny announces.
“No, you don’t. Smoking has probably led to a lot of nonconsensual sex,” Li Ann says.
“You’re right! Fuck smoking.”
“Probably not as much as alcohol,” I add.
“There’s only one thing that leads to nonconsensual sex, and that’s men.”
“And patriarchy.”
“Fuck patriarchy,” Destiny says. “But seriously, though, why has no one invented something else we can do with our mouths that socially signifies that we are calming our nerves and makes us look super-cool while we’re doing it?”
“Huge market opportunity,” I agree. “What would you call it?”
“Poking?”
“Stroking.”
“Let’s figure out the business plan later. Now I have to fix this slide.” And she marches off in search of the Wi-Fi password. Li Ann floats away to scan the room.
Jules and Cyrus have dressed up. They’re wearing shirts with buttons. They have combed their hair.
“Who’s going to do the pitch?”
Cyrus suggests it should be me.
“Why me?”
“Because it was your idea.”
“It wasn’t my idea. Jules and I thought of it together.”
“Yeah,” Jules says. “Bottling Cyrus. Eau de Cyrus, now in a convenient spray that will turn your ordinary life into a deep spiritual experience.”