Yours, For Good (Cozy Latine Billionaires #4)

4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Date : July 30 To : Mr. Smith From : Eleanora Subject : On social skills

Dear Mr. Beanpole,

This week has been tough. While completing my MA I felt on par with my classmates, but in this program I feel years behind. Like a second grader hearing high school seniors discussing calculus.

I'm still following the plan I attached to my last email, in terms of meeting the program's benchmarks. I'm assuming you approve of it, as you didn't reply. One thing I've had to negotiate with myself, though, is not to work past 6pm. Treat it like a full time job, if you will. My tendency would be to work every waking hour; at JGH, when I wasn't working on my degree, I was cleaning or whatever I was scheduled to do. I had to come to San Francisco to learn that I don't know how to relax! Sally McBride was telling me that part of what makes this program so good is that it allows us to have a social life. The idea is that we need to practice those skills to network properly, and that every social activity is a networking opportunity.

I've been thrown into a world that expects me to have a million lived experiences that escaped me. That banks on me knowing how to have casual conversations that include my last trip to places like Costa Rica.

Why is this the first time I'm allowed to have social time?

Also, how do I have social time?

I'm meeting Sally for dinner tomorrow, and then we're going to a bar. She said we should practice flirting, just in case we need the skills for the program. I'll make you a bet right now: she already knows how to flirt, and she just feels like doing that. Her reasoning is an excuse. Regardless, I'll go with her, and try my hand at it in this different context. It IS good practice for me in my new world, isn't it?

(maybe I shouldn't be including this level of detail in my letters or talk about flirting, but it is part of networking... and of course you never said you wanted these letters to be professional messages, and you never answer back, so I don't know how much detail is too little or too much to report…)

Wish me luck! Meanwhile, I'll continue to watch videos online about how to break out of a social glacier, and go on "virtual walks" to different places in the world.

Thank you, virtual maps of the world.

Nora

Date : August 9 To : Mr. Smith From : Eleanora Subject : Good and Bad things

Dear Mr. Beanpole,

You'll be pleased to know that the mentors had great feedback for me in one of our check-ins. They said they liked how I'm envisioning my business and that they look forward to my benchmark reports.

It's quite the relief! I wasn't sure how my business would fit with the plans my peers had in this incubator. One of them is into mining a new mineral from the bottom of the ocean, and I'm here talking about education for children? Having one of our superiors give me words of encouragement did wonders for my confidence.

Anyway, this was meant to be me sharing the good news. I'm in the middle of writing the first report, with the general summary of the state of my target market. It looks promising, Mr. B! Children will always need support to grow to their full potential. While upper echelons in society can outsource this job to a modern governess, I won't only be doing that. My business will also cover the needs of so many families that want the best for their kids but can't supply it directly. And young people always need sustainable jobs! My employees will be nannies on steroids and it'll be glorious .

Wait. They will not actually be nannies nor be on steroids. I hope you know that, and I hope the potential investors see it my way, when the time comes.

In any case, I also wanted to give you an update on my social life. If you're a part of the network of people who are allowed to refer prospects to this program, I assume you think like them somewhat (just like I assume you are different from them, too, if you would refer me to the program despite (or because of?) my background). Therefore, my social network would be of interest to you, right?

You can see how I've rationalized the fact that I'm telling you about the friends I'm making, Mr. B. That tells you how much I want a Real Friend, right? So here it goes:

A. In preparation for the outing, and for once in my life, I bought clothes for the joy of it. Your generous allowance enabled me to update my closet based on what I loved, and not what I could afford and find in a thrift store. So thank you, Mr. B., for helping me feel pretty.

B. Flirting was a bust. Sally had the phone numbers for two guys by the end of the night, but I left with zero. And it's not like I didn't try! I'm just i. Rusty as hell ii. A bit too… eager? A bit too joyous? Who knows. I don't know that my vibe matched the nonchalant, bored vibe of the people I met iii. Unimpressed. See point ii)

C. Sally got the numbers but didn't like the guys, so she also considered the night a bust, and we'll try again soon

D. Sally and I got closer in the process, and that makes me happy :)

To recapitulate (one of the mentors says this every ten minutes lol), my dinner with Sally went well. I don't know why I was so nervous; she's such a kind person and she makes every interaction a breeze. We connected through our tendency to take joy out of the little things. What a wonderful kind of friendship we might have! On the other hand…

Julia. Ugh. We were in the middle of a workshop in small groups and, out of nowhere, she goes, "what are you?"

What are you? Really?

OF COURSE I knew what she meant. I've heard the phrase before. People seem to try and fail to place me in their Mind Maps of Ethnicities and think nothing of asking me. So first, they're trying to place me, that's a thing in itself. But then, through thinking processes that befuddle me, decide it's perfectly okay to ask. And that's not all! They also think that asking in terms of "what you are" makes complete sense.

But questions like this are precisely what make me feel like I don't belong and separate me from the most privileged folk, and make me an outsider. They are evidence of how people in your group think about people in mine. It puts me in my place in three words. Then it goes and reinforces it through public policies and structures.

And what a terrible question to ask of someone like me! Because I don't know the answer.

If you have read my report, you probably know what I mean. I'm pretty sure I'm latina, thanks to my name and my coloring and the few hints my mom dropped through the years. But until the day I have the resources to hire a private investigator and maybe do one of those DNA tests, I will not know anything for certain.

I didn't say any of that to her, of course. I don't want her to know my story, nor how much her words hurt me. I get to choose who learns how little I know, or how alone I am, or how tough it's been to get here. So instead, I gave her a bland I'm latinamerican . Then I changed the subject.

It's not the work that's going to be difficult, my dear Mr. B. It's going to be the game and the blatant microaggressions that come with it.

Sincerely,

A Bruised Nora

Javier

Nora's latest email got me out of my townhouse and into a bar. It wasn't even about drinking; I had a fully stocked wine and liquor collection in the basement. No, the reason her words had pushed me out of the comfort of my home was because I had promised to try to see the world through her eyes.

Sitting on a stool with a glass of dark beer in front of me, I gazed around and imagined Nora next to me. I had decided not to search for her picture, so that her looks didn't influence my thoughts. As a result, the hologram of her I placed on the empty spot to my right was unclear, its edges fuzzy.

Yet it worked. Her genuine emails gave her such a strong voice that I could imagine her chatting with me, gazing around just like I did, taking in the wooden bar and panels covering the walls. She would see the pictures and movie posters that wallpapered every vertical surface, and tell me about all the thoughts they sparked in her brilliant mind. I didn't know how she looked but I expected her smile to be generous, and in my mind she grinned at me as we burned the night away.

It was a new experience. I had never had a JGH student be this open in their letters before, and the difference left me confused. Nora's words enthralled me— to the point I'd been distracted at work, thinking over her letters. Hell, dropping everything as soon as I got a notification. Re-reading them every few days.

A mirror doubled the rows of bottles across from me and, in a strange moment of detachment, I was surprised at seeing myself there. The image reflected serious eyes and a wrinkled brow. I had forgotten to take my glasses off, and it added to my solemn gesture.

The blue eyes and white skin I inherited from my father. The dark brown hair I inherited from my mother. My mood— it had to come from somewhere, too.

I cast my eyes down to my glass and turned it in place. Nora had gone to a bar with the plan to flirt, in her quest to get better at social interactions with the people around her. Maybe that was a place where I should take a lesson; except for my close-knit group of friends, I didn't spend a lot of time interacting socially.

While they seemed to appreciate me for who I was, no other relationships seemed to click for me. I had been born with a golden spoon, but sometimes I felt like I had not been taught to be a person. I had been coached to be a Pendleton. Until my grandmother took me under her wing for a blessed month every summer, and until Max came into my life, I had been one of those kids who met their parents for one hour each afternoon as a part of their daily schedule. It had left a mark.

I took a big gulp of beer, and thought of the letters my grandmother and I had exchanged through the years, and which I still kept in a box in my office.

"Rough day?" A femme voice asked to my side.

She sat on the stool I pretended Nora sat at, and I frowned.

"You look like you could use an ear," she added.

I lifted my eyes and took notice of the well-styled blonde hair, subtle make up, and golden ratio features.

She was classically beautiful in that English Rose type of way. It would make sense if attraction stirred in my guts. I searched for any sign of it, only to find complete stillness.

Initial disinterest, like Nora had said she'd felt.

"I'm okay," I said. "Thank you."

My neighbor cocked her head and studied me with curiosity. "That was polite, but I'm not going to pretend it didn't sting. I should have probably used a different opener, right?"

"I don't think your question was the problem." I smirked and sipped from my drink. "I'm sure many people would have taken you up on the offer of a supportive ear."

"What if that was just my way to get you to chat with me? Get to know you a little?"

I gazed down at her body, wrapped in a pretty, purple velvet dress, and fitting what most people might consider alluring.

My guts? Still silent.

"I don't think I'm available to be known." I slid my fingers up and down the glass, collecting on the condensation covering the material.

Once upon a time, I tried to understand romantic love. I gave it an honest chance; sex had been enjoyable enough when I got into it, but I felt no drive. My feelings never went beyond a general sense of caring, and things ended before they truly began.

No matter how many times I gave it a try, I had never been head over heels for anyone, and I had never been heartbroken.

Even now, chatting with someone most people might see as beautiful, my body had no response.

"Ouch. Okay." The pretty blonde got up from her stool. "I'll take the rejection graciously."

"I'm sorry. I don't see the point in leading you on."

"I actually appreciate that."

"Have a lovely evening."

"You, too."

She walked away without any fanfare.

I sighed and took another sip of beer. It might have been harder to dismiss romantic love in my life, if I felt attraction more often. As it was, the signs pointed to dating rarely giving you as much as you put into it.

It was either like my friend Gabe's parents, and you won the lottery on a two-dollar bet… or you invested a million bucks, only to find you never got much out of it anyway. Like my parents, my grandparents, and who knew how many generations before me.

If I factored in the family dynamics I inherited alongside the money, there would be no two-dollar bet for me. I had seen too many transactional marriages to believe I could escape them. I'd have to invest heavily and, considering my dormant organs, I didn't think I had the emotional funds to make anything work.

Being single made sense. It guaranteed the focus I needed to do good with my privilege. I could keep investing in social causes, in the hope I'd get to go to the grave in peace. I would enjoy the love I had with my friends and the chosen family they provided. I would leave their kids a token donation they didn't need in their trust funds, because Tío Javier had thought of them, too. All the rest could go to people like Nora, all over the world, giving them a chance to succeed in a world that wasn't designed for them.

Still, Nora's email beckoned me to question what I held as truth. I may not be someone who felt many romantic stirrings in my heart, but I was not a coward. If she could challenge herself, so could I. Not for romance, no, but maybe I had to question this comfort I had with being alone.