I don’t want to lie to Vivian. But saving her company is more important than the truth.
That is what I tell myself: that I’m doing this for Vivian. For us. But if I’m honest with myself: painfully, brutally honest, I want to go into business with Elan because we’ll spend time together—as entrepreneurs, as equals. And against his “I don’t do romance” of it all . . . he’ll fall in love with me.
I know how this sounds. Oh, do I know. But the heart wants what the heart wants, and if there isn’t a clear and easy path, the heart becomes a master manipulator.
A crook.
Casually, I ask Steph not to say anything to Viv about what really happened at Elan’s trend-book presentation all those months ago: my huge (uncashed) commission check, our hot flirtation. It’s irrelevant, because I’m definitely not interested in anything beyond Elan saving our company. Steph, trusting to a fault, accepts this. She’s distracted, crushing hard on a new transfer in her course, a pretty tattooed blonde who seems dangerously heteroflexible and thus entirely on-brand.
I tell Vivian that Elan reached out to me about the app after coming across the articles in Fast Company and Forbes. Vivian’s initial suspicion gives way to enthusiasm easily. She wants to believe. “That’d change everything,” she says. “His network, his net worth.”
“Almost a million followers on Instagram,” I say. “Double that on Twitter.”
“We can do exclusives with his new seasons.” Vivian’s practically babbling. “We’d be written up in every blog in the country. Elan on the board means investors, for sure—” She stops. “Wait. We don’t know what he wants yet, right?”
“No,” I say honestly. “We’ll find out at the meeting.”
Which is now. Vivian and I sit across from Elan and Tim George, a polished and most likely gay African-American asking smart questions that Vivian is fielding like a pro. Elan is silent, his gaze shifting between us. On the surface, professional. But every time we lock eyes, I feel cold brick on my back. Hard heat between my legs. I’m certainly blushing.
Tim is outlining the scope of Elan’s potential involvement: one tweet a quarter, one Instagram post every six months. Introductions, mentions. Elan knows editors at Vogue, InStyle, GQ. He plays golf with the editor of TechCrunch, is on a charity board with two of the founders of SXSW. Vivian is practically quivering. But we’re both waiting for the hammer to fall.
In exchange for what?
Tim and Elan take a moment to confer in private. Vivian and I sit without speaking. Even though the air is cool, sweat snails down my back.
They return after a few minutes.
“Mr. Behzadi is interested in joining the board of directors of Clean Clothes,” Tim says. “In exchange for thirty percent equity.”
Vivian exhales a soft breath of disbelief.
My mouth falls open. The men stare back, impassive as concrete. A flash of fury tightens my muscles. Before I can snap a response, Vivian says, “That’s very high. Most advisers come on at less than one percent.”
Elan speaks for the first time. “But you don’t have any other advisers, do you?”
The room is so quiet I can hear Vivian swallow. “Not officially.”
“Not at all,” he says. “Or investors, or even a developer. It’s just you two, right?”
Vivian doesn’t say anything. I can feel her wondering how he knows that.
“Your problem is your customer base,” Elan says. “Teenage girls can’t afford fifty-dollar T-shirts. The people who follow me can.”
I am throbbing with anger. The tension between us is so thick, I can barely see. My own words, used against me. And yet, I want him. I’m getting turned on, quickly and against my own will. My body is betraying me: willfully, recklessly.
Vivian asks if we can have the room. The men step out.
“Thirty percent is too high,” I hiss. “Way too high, that’s crazy, right? I was thinking three, maybe five. But thirty? Thirty percent? That’s fucked, right?”
Vivian’s voice is spookily soft. “It’s unusual,” she says. “But so is this situation.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning without Elan, we don’t have a company.”
“But I only have twenty percent. Twenty. And I’ve been working for free for ten months.”
Viv shrugs. She looks exhausted. “I don’t know what to tell you. He’s a name. He has influence. Twenty percent of zero is still zero, Lace.”
“Where does his share come from? Not Brock’s, obviously.”
“We eat it,” Vivian says. “It comes from us.”
I can’t believe this. I brought Elan in because we’re fucking and now I’m the one getting fucked. Or am I? Viv’s right: my equity is only worth something if the company becomes profitable. Without Elan, it probably won’t.
“It’s so unfair,” I say. “He’ll own double what I will for a few fucking tweets.”
Vivian nods and glances at the closed door. We can see both men through the soundproof glass windows, avoiding our eye contact. Vivian’s expression belies none of our desperation. “Look, it’s up to you. I don’t want to bring on someone who’ll piss you off. You know him better than I do. What do you think? Do we go for it?”
Deep down, I know I don’t want to continue working on the app, despite my effort so far. This is the perfect out: No, I’m not comfortable with Elan coming on. Yes, it’s over.
Elan’s head is bent toward his phone. A text? To whom? Jealousy, an unfamiliar, intoxicating monster, rears inside me with such force I forget to breathe. Holding on to Elan isn’t a hazy desire. It’s a painful, desperate need.
I know it’s the wrong thing to do. I do it anyway.
“Yes,” I say. “I want him.”