She’s wearing a black blazer and the type of skirt that makes a woman’s ass look spectacular. And the blazer has that ruffle thing around the waist. “Peplum, Wes,” Amy’s voice echoes in my head, tinged with frustration at the number of times she’s had to repeat an irrelevant fashion-related fact to me.

“Wes, my man, you’re in for quite a year,” Mark says, as if I haven’t ignored him for the past thirty seconds. The elevator dings our arrival on the Hill City floor and the woman walks down the hall, her head lowered over her phone again.

“My frat brother Sean got an internship here and worked with her. He coined her nickname: Blunt the Cu–”

I make a spluttering sound. A combination of no and what and stop that comes out sounding like, “Nuhwst.” I don’t need him to finish his sentence to know what he was about to say.

“Look, buddy,” I say, and a shocked, stilted laugh tumbles out of my mouth before I can close it. Relief that she didn’t hear him washes over me. “Can you not say that word?” I hiss into the empty hallway.

Mark throws his head back and laughs, the sound booming down the halls, solidifying exactly how much I don’t like him. He grabs my shoulder, shaking me roughly. “Oh my god, Chambers. You’re precious.”

All the interns gather for a breakfast meet and greet in one of the conference rooms. I lean against a wall with a plate of fruit and a mini chocolate chip muffin, chasing a piece of melon around with my plastic fork. Everyone here seems to know everyone else. They’re fresh from the same graduating class and it shows in their excitement, the overlapping convocation stories. After two years, my own graduation is a distant, hazy memory. I’ve launched a few smiles at some fellow interns, but mostly I eat my complimentary breakfast alone, watching people avoid eye contact with me.

While I’ve grown into my legs, feet, and hands and gotten better at shooting the shit with the guys, I still feel like the sore thumb in any crowd. Amy calls it Ugly Duckling Syndrome. I call it being lucky a twin is a built-in best friend.

The piece of melon slips off my plate and bounces off my shoe. I hike up my pants to stoop down to get it and when I rise, Mark stands in front of me.

“Come on, bro. Let’s mingle.”

By mingle, Mark means hit heavily on the only women of color in the room, two interns from Finance. Marisol, a Northeastern grad from Pennsylvania, ignores us for her phone. But the one Mark lays it on thick for is clearly uncomfortable with the attention. With every one of his jokes, Abila’s smiles morph into cringes. Her shoulders inch toward her ears when his hand brushes her arm. He stares at her chest and she pulls her cardigan together. I open my mouth. Close it again. If Amy were here, she’d let fly with some asshole-puckering swear words. If my best friend, Jeremy Chen, were here, he’d find a calm way to explain to Mark why his behavior was inappropriate.