Page 23 of Not Bad for a Girl

Wait. So now I was a spearfisher and a cave diver? And what was thetriintriathlon? Yikes on bikes. Seemed like maybe more than Patrick and Heidi (and, I guess, I) added to Indiana’s mystique.

Evan took another swig of his beer. “I told him I could do it, but he said I’m too much of a computer geek.”

“Youarea computer geek,” Bruce said. “And you didn’t save anyone from a fire, so…”

“I could win that account better than some knockoff Indiana Jones,” Evan grumbled.

“That ‘knockoff Indiana Jones’ is a better coder than you’ll ever be,” I said angrily, “and a better obstetrician,” I added. Oh my god, where had that come from?

“Indiana’s been a great addition to our team, and you know it.Besides”—and here Mike lowered his voice—“I heard he’s her dad, so maybe be nice.”

“That’s where I know you from! The coffee girl at the meeting! So, Dora the Explorer,” Evan sneered at me, “do you and your dad go on rescue missions together?”

“He’s not my freaking dad,” I said, exasperated. The “Dora the Explorer” comment had stung, probably because of its accuracy. I was way more qualified to lead a group of small cartoon children through a forest than do the things Indiana was supposed to be able to do.

“Are you sure?” Mike asked. “Because—”

I had to get out of here before I told them I knew exactly who my father was, and it wasn’t me. I cleared my throat. “Nice to meet you all,” I said in a hoarse voice, then turned to Shane. He was giving me an unreadable look that made me extremely nervous. “Want to find a table?” I asked, hoping to distract him.

It seemed to work. He gave me a smooth grin, and I noticed again how handsome he was. “Sure. Follow me.”

Once we were seated, he leaned in. “I have to ask. Did Indiana really deliver a baby before he put out the fire?”

I shrugged, trying to choose my words carefully. “Hard to believe, don’t you think?” I asked hesitantly.

He took a sip of his drink, watching me. “Almost impossible. And he’s not your dad?”

“No.” I scoffed. “Absolutely not. Now enough about him. What do you do back in New York?”

He smiled again and launched into a rundown of what his daily responsibilities were and how he’d been volunteered for the job of accompanyingMelvin to Denver. He had a warm smile. He also had a bit of a New York accent and nice eyes. I wondered what he would think of this whole mess.

When he’d finished, he turned it around. “What about you? What made you get into coding?”

I couldn’t help it; my face lit up. “There’s always a right answer, but there are a million ways to get there. It transcends cultures, and you can make anything if you figure out the right order.” I fished my phone from my bag. “Like this.” I scrolled through some of the apps I’d built, showing him how they worked. I was immensely proud of them, and it was always a bonus to share them with someone who understood how it went together.

“These are incredible, Ana. You’re very talented,” he told me.

My cheeks colored as my modesty finally kicked back in. “Maybe at this, but not at everything. You should see my pottery.”

“I would love to see your pottery.”

I opened and closed my mouth. I hadn’t meant that to be an invitation. “On second thought, maybe not. Let’s just have you go on thinking I’m super talented.”

He watched my face. “I have to ask, is it hard being a woman in your industry?”

I looked up at him and felt my shoulders drop. “You have no idea.”

“Then tell me,” he said.

“When I was younger, I was the only girl in Computer Club. I was the only girl in Mathletes. I got teased a lot. I was head of my class, and guys werestillmansplaining to me how electronics worked. Or saying they could kick my ass atMario Kart.Which they cannot,” I said fiercely, rising a little in my seat.

He held up his hands. “I would never presume to say I could kick yourass atMario Kart. Unless we’re talking Baby Park, in which case your ass is toast,” he said.

“Um, I amamazingat Baby Park, I’ll have you know,” I retorted. “It’s not as fun as Excite Bike, but I’m unstoppable at Baby Park.”

He grinned and ran a hand through his hair. “Good to know,” he said.

I couldn’t help smiling. It was nice to be asked, and it felt good to get some of the feelings off my chest. “College was worse. It wasn’t Imposter Syndrome; it was Wrong Room Syndrome. Like, ‘Poetry class is down the hall.’” I rolled my eyes. “I wish it were different now, in the work world, but I’m still always in the wrong room.” Or the wrong gender, I thought bitterly.