The Startup Wife(40)
And they talk about Cyrus. Is Cyrus a shaman or a priest? Philosopher or prophet? Friend? Charlatan? Cult leader? Visionary?
And while, on the surface, not much has changed—we spend as little time in our apartment as we did before; our diets are just as questionable; our ability to keep plants alive as poor—in some parallel world, it seems, we are rich.
Jules is the first to break this news. “I’m crunching the numbers with Rupert, and it looks like we’re at about ten mil.”
Jules, Cyrus, and I are at a restaurant where everything is pickled. It’s called Pikld. The drinks are called vinegar and taste like soda. The vegetables are called kraut and taste like vinegar. “Our company is worth ten million dollars?” I ask.
Jules leans over to me and whispers, “Ten million each, Asha. You, me, Cyrus, and Rupert. Rupert figures WAI is worth about forty given our engagement.”
There was that word again. I wonder, not for the first time that day, if Cyrus and I should’ve gotten engaged before we got married. It’s not that anything is wrong, really. I still feel a little seasick whenever I see him, and as we get deeper into this thing, he continually surprises me, like the other day when I saw him add a thread to the algorithm. “Do you know,” he said, “about the Morrigan?”
“No.”
“She was a tripartite goddess of the Celts. She was a goddess and also three goddesses at the same time: a goddess of war, a goddess of the land, and a goddess of fate.”
I knew where this was going. “What are you telling me?”
“That you are the warrior of WAI. And you are the protector of our little tribe. And you are the holder of my fate.”
In anyone else’s mouth, those words would have come out like synthetically flavored syrup. But in his, they sounded sincere. Because Cyrus believed every single thing he said.
“What the fuck do you mean, ten million each?”
Jules raises a glass of vodka spiked with vinegar. “We are rich.”
Cyrus spears a piece of kimchi with his fork and shoves it into his mouth. This is his way of telling us how much he doesn’t want to be rich. Still, I find myself raising my glass and clinking it against Jules’s. I don’t mind being rich. In fact, I find I’m quite enjoying the idea of it, even though the money is imaginary and I’m still working to pay off my credit card debt.
The main courses arrive. I’m having cured sardines and Cyrus is having cured and torched sardines and Jules is having a steak that has been hung for several years and is probably more fossil than animal. “Mmm,” Jules says. “This tastes like burp.”
The vinegar starts to climb up my nose. “I can just feel my liver detoxifying.”
Cyrus is not participating in the pickle jokes. “Don’t worry, bro,” Jules says. “We won’t actually enjoy any of it. Like this food, see—we can afford it, but it tastes like shit.”
“Yeah, cheer up, Cy,” I soothe. “It’s just money.”
“You’re right,” Cyrus says. “We’re not actually rich. And we said we were going to make sure that didn’t happen.”
This makes him feel better, and we all agree, since we are not actually rich, we can put off figuring out what to do if that ever happens.
Cyrus is mollified. He makes a speech. He tells us how much he loves what we’re building together. He admits to being wrong before, when he was skeptical, when he was half in, half out. He is so lucky to be here, with me and with Jules, expanding our family in the best possible way.
It is a typical Cyrus moment. At first he shies away from something, and then he drives himself deep into it and it’s hard to imagine he was ever doing anything else.
And yet. And yet. I feel the thing is running away from us. I don’t want to complain to Cyrus, because I’m worried he’s going to think I’m jealous. A woman sent us a photo the other day with I LOVE CYRUS JONES written across her breasts. Cyrus glanced at it, said, “Let’s hope that’s not permanent ink,” and moved on to something else. But I stared and stared. Her breasts were not just slightly better than mine, they were better in every possible way. First of all, they were bigger, which meant they were inherently better. But they also seemed perkier on top of being bigger, which made it all so much worse, and her nipples seemed ludicrously well proportioned, like a perfect dinner setting for two. She smiled at the camera, her hands holding up her T-shirt, with the sort of smile only a woman with those breasts could possibly possess: light, smug, 100 percent confident that the person who was looking at her would have major trouble ever erasing the image of her tits from their mind.
And there is more. Although Cyrus is impervious to the boob flasher, I can tell he’s enjoying the rest of it. The fan mail in various digital and analog forms, the numbers going up every day, the way the people who apply for jobs talk about the privilege of working for him, just being in a room with him. Even Rupert takes a different tone now, the tone of a person talking to another person who has real power in the world.
None of us has ever had real power. Jules has been smacked down by his family for as long as he can remember; Cyrus hasn’t even had a family. As for me, even though I’ve never thought of myself as a symbol, I can’t help but feel like every little success is a small fuck-you to all the people who glanced ugly at my mother in her sari in Walmart, or mispronounced my name even though it was only four letters long, or said something casually racist and then said, “But I don’t mean you.” I feel like I’m coming for all those people, and that fills me with a kind of satisfaction I didn’t even know I needed. I understand my sister a little more now, how she always insists that everything means something bigger than it seems. But instead of getting angry, I’m doing something about it. I’m knocking the air right out of the argument, me and my algorithmic genius.