"I swear, I still have a hangover from Wednesday. Is there a world record for longest hangover?" Rey turns down the brightness of her laptop screen.

Finn adjusts his tie in the mirror. "A guy in Glasgow, Scotland had sixty pints in four days and was hungover for four weeks." He turns toward her spot at the kitchen table. "Is the tie too much?"

She scans his outfit. Gray sweater, white button-up, impeccably ironed trousers, and shined brown loafers. She squints at the blue tie tucked under the sweater. "Mm. Too preppy."

He loosens it. "That's what I thought."

Rey looks back down at her computer. "Don't journalists wear graphic t-shirts and Doc Martens now?"

"I don't know. My last job, they dressed like sad white people in antidepressant commercials. Hopefully the vibe will be different here."

She absentmindedly clicks on her News tab. The top story is about Leia Organa's recent speech at the Coruscant City Women's Conference. People have finally gotten over Poe's whole "Shut the hell up!" incident and moved on to more important things concerning Organa's campaign. Rey still has the gif saved to her phone, though.

"Question," she says. "Why do you know what the world's longest hangover is off the top of your head?"

He yanks off his tie, balls it up, and throws it up into his loft. "I'm a frequent peruser of Mind Blowing Facts Dot Com. Did you know that there are no mosquitoes in Iceland?"

"Are you nervous, Finn?"

He compulsively fixes his collar. It's probably the fifteenth time that he's done that. "Very much. Why?"

"I've noticed that you say a bunch of random shit when you're nervous."

"Oh."

"Just - try not to do that too much during your interview."

"I'll try. But sometimes my brain turns off and my mouth continues to move, somehow."

"Well, if you get the urge to say something from Mind Blowing Facts Dot Net - "

" - Dot Com - "

" - Sorry. Dot Com - just, nip it in the bud."

"Okay." He takes a deep breath. "Okay. Okay."

She shuts her computer. "I'm going to the bodega today. I'll get us some celebratory ramen noodles for when you most definitely get this job."

"Actually…" His face falls. "I might have plans tonight."

She raises her eyebrows. "With one of your friends that you don't like?"

"No." He smiles crookedly. "A friend that I like more than...normal."

"Oooooh...who is this person? Can I see a picture? Can I have their Instagram handle? No - wait - that sounded stalker-ish. Just a picture will do."

"Someone from college. Heavy emphasis on might. And no, you're not gonna see a picture."

"But how am I supposed to know if they're hot?"

"I don't think she's your type."

Rey crosses her arms. "Way to make assumptions, mate. I could be into women."

"Sexuality is a spectrum, but I get the feeling that you're on the straight side."

She sighs. "Unfortunately." She looks back down at her computer. "Did you know the skeleton of Galileo's middle finger is kept in the History of Science Museum in Florence? I think I'd like that. I want to flip people off even after I'm dead."

"Are you on Mind Blowing Facts Dot Com?"

"Perhaps." Rey shrugs.

He eyes his watch. "I should get going." He grabs a protein bar off of the counter and stuffs it into his satchel.

Rey gives him an encouraging smile. "You'll do amazing. The most excellent, award-worthy, professional, amicable interview of a future Pulitzer Prize winner is about to be had."

He starts walking toward the door. "Wow. No pressure. Pray for me - if you do that kind of thing! Bubye!"

"Bubye!"

Rey scans the shelves of the bodega, then looks back at the woman behind the counter. Jocasta Nu, is her name. "U vas zakonchilas' lapsha ramen?" she asks her.

Jocasta shakes her head. "Da. Prosti, sladkaya."

Jannah peeks her head above the shelves, one aisle over. "Since when do you know Russian?"

She shrugs. "YA baluyus'. I dabble." She decides on pasta and marinara sauce and places it in her basket.

Jannah doesn't reply to this, snatches a bag of crisps off of the shelf. "Rey - I need you to be honest about something."

She raises her eyebrows at her. "In Russian or English?"

"English, please."

"Shoot."

"Do you think I'm…" She gestures vaguely at herself, "...like…?"

Rey squints at her. "I don't know what I'm supposed to get from that."

She frowns. "Do you think I'm uptight?"

"...No?" Rey says.
"That was the fakest No I've ever heard."

Rey pushes her basket further up her arm. "Well - you - "

"Just spit it."

"For a hippie, you're a little bit...tightly wound."

Jannah lets out a little sigh and puts a bag of potato chips in her basket. "I know."

"Why do you ask?"

They meet at the end of the aisle.

"I turned down this guy," Jannah says.

"And he called you uptight? What a douchebag."

She shakes her head. "No, no. He took it kindly. But I...I don't know why I said no. It was just a drink - nothing serious. And I don't think he's all that bad, either."

"I know why," Rey says. "You're deathly afraid of casual relationships."

She narrows her eyes at her.

"Am I wrong?"

"Of course not. You're perceptive. It's annoying."

"Who is this guy, anyway?"

"A friend from college."

Realization dawns. How did I not piece it together earlier? Rey thinks. Maybe I'm not so perceptive after all. "Ohmigod - it's Finn, isn't it?"

She rolls her eyes. "Yes…"

"Cute!"

"Inside voices, please."

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asks at a lower volume.

"I thought you wouldn't approve."

"Oh, I approve, I approve. Finn's kind of lonely, you're kind of lonely - "

" - I'm not lonely. I'm quite content, actually. I don't need a man to, you know, complete me." She starts compulsively grabbing soup cans. "A woman needs a bicycle like a man needs a fish. That's what Gloria Steinem says."

Rey screws up her face. "Huh?"

"Sorry - 'A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.' Men are distractions. Only good for reproduction and...no, that's it." She puts a few soup cans back, probably realizing that she took too many.

"You know," Rey says, "maybe the fish doesn't need a bicycle, but the fish wants a bicycle. Just for fun."

"In my experience, 'bicycles' are hardly ever fun."

"Well, you don't have very good taste in bicycles, no offense."

Jannah opens her mouth to retort when the storebell chimes. She looks over her shoulder and says, "Erm. Your least favorite bicycle is here." She checks her phone. "And I've got to haul arse. I've got study group…"

Rey turns around and sees that Poe has entered the shop, then finishes the last of her shopping.

Jannah checks out, exchanges a small greeting with Poe, and leaves.

Poe goes up to the counter and asks, "Can I get a pack of cigarettes?"

Jocasta nods.

"Thanks." He digs in his pocket and pulls out his wallet.

Rey gets in line behind him. "Since when do you smoke?"

Poe turns around. "They're not for me. They're for one of the speechwriters. I dropped her old pack in my coffee, so…"

"How did you drop a whole pack of cigarettes in your coffee?"

"I was announcing the side effects of smoking on the side of the box. Because I'm abrasive and irritating."

"Ah."

"'Didn't convince her to stop."

"I figured."

Jocasta sets the pack of cigarettes on the counter, and Poe hands her a bill. "She deserves a raise after the women's conference speech. That was all her. But that's not in the budget, so I'm enabling her nicotine addiction instead."

"You're an excellent boss, Poe."

"I know, right?"

Jocasta hands him the change.

He puts it in his wallet and grabs the pack. "Did you see it?"

"See what?"

"The speech."

"I did."

"What'd you think?"

"Why do you care what I think?"

"You're a writer."

Rey shuffles to the counter and begins to unload her things. "Honest opinion?"

"Yeah."

"I thought it was dumb." She finishes unloading and turns around, extending her basket toward him. "Hold this."

He grabs it and blinks. "You thought it was...dumb."

She nods.

He knits his brow.

"It was a lot of buzzwords and catchphrases with little to no substance. It's like you were bouncing off women's t-shirt slogans and seeing which ones stuck. I don't know anything about what Organa is going to do for women from that speech, only that she likes them. Which I already knew."

He puts the basket away, says, "I thought you would like it."

"Why?" Rey asks.

"Because you're…"

"Oh, because I'm a woman." She flashes an annoyed smile.

He holds up his hands. "I wasn't going to say that."

"Then finish the sentence."

He hesitates. "I don't think I will."

She scoffs. "Believe it or not, Poe, not all women have the same opinions about things - "

" - I know, I know - "

" - and you can't spoon feed them inspiration porn and expect them to vote for your candidate on that basis."

"Damn."

"You told me to be honest."

"I expected you to use tact."

"Do I have a history with tact?"

He points a finger at her. "Good point."

"Thirty-two dollars," Jocasta announces in her thick Russian accent.

Rey turns back around and fishes for her wallet.

"Fifty bucks," Poe says.

Jocasta looks over Rey's shoulder at Poe, confused. "No, thirty two - "

"No, not that. Sorry. Ignore me."

Jocasta does, and takes Rey's credit card from her.

"Fifty bucks says that you can write a better speech," Poe says.

Rey rolls her eyes. "You asked for my opinion, and now you're being petty about it?"

"Yes."

"You're a difficult man."

"I know."

She takes her credit card from Jocasta and puts it away, then grabs her bags. "Spasibo," she says to her.

The woman smiles. "Spasibo."

Rey faces Poe once again. "How about this - instead of the fifty bucks, you buy another washer and dryer for the laundry room."

He scoffs. "That's a helluva lot more than fifty bucks."

"You can afford it."

Poe puts his hands on his sides. "Fine. But if your speech sucks, you have to buy it."

"Fine," she says, a little too confidently. "But we'll need an impartial judge."

"Beebee?"

"No, she's your sister. Jannah?"

"No, she's your best friend. Finn?"

Rey considers this. "Finn works."

"Alright." Poe squares his shoulders. "It's a bet."

"I'll have a better speech by tonight."

He shoves the cigarettes into his coat pocket. "We'll see…"

Finn runs up to the reception desk, heart racing. He doesn't have time to notice much of the scenery, but he notices the high ceilings, sleek black couches, and a marble wall behind the desk with a glowing set of letters hung on it that reads, The Coruscant Times.

The woman behind the counter is an elderly, pale woman with the kinds of glasses that have a beaded string looped by the ears. She slowly looks up from a crossword puzzle and sets it down. "Can I help you?"

"I'm here for an interview. With the Editor-In-Chief?"

"Interns don't interview the Editor-In-Chief." She talks like a robot on Xanax.

"Yeah - well - I'm not an intern. I'm applying to be an entry-level journalist?"

"Can I get a name?"

"Finn Tewone. I'm a little late."

Her eyes droop back down to her computer. She clacks at the keys with acrylic nails. After a moment, she says, "You missed your slot."

His heart sinks to his stomach. "No, wait - you don't understand. I mixed up the trains. I never mix up trains. I'm never late, either. I just haven't had the best luck lately."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she says in an apathetic voice. She goes to pick up her crossword again. "But there's nothing I can do."

"That's not necessarily true. You could give him a call. Buzz him on your little phone thingy."

She peers up at him again, now looking like she's this close to cursing him out. "You missed your slot."

"Just give him a call? Please?"

"He's on lunch."

"I can wait."

"It'll be a while. The Millennium Falcon has big servings."

Finn's eyes widen.

The woman clearly realizes what she's done. "Actually...I think he's eating somewhere else today."

Finn walks into the Millennium Falcon, trying to seem collected. He ignores the part of his brain that's yelling What the hell are you doing, you idiot dumbass? over and over again at a very loud volume.

This doesn't seem like a place that a big-time Editor-In-Chief would eat at. It's a corner diner, with a long stretch of grimy windows overlooking a crowded curb of the Outer Rim District, tin walls, and linoleum blue floors. It smells like burger grease and toasted bread.

He scans the booth and tables, feeling slightly nauseous from nerves.

After a moment, he spots Han Solo. The Han Solo. Holy shit.

Han Solo doesn't see him. He could turn around now and not commit professional suicide. But he really, really needs this job. Not just because it's his dream, but because he needs to pay rent and eat food and all that other stuff.

He walks over to the booth, legs feeling awkward and stiff.

Solo turns his gaze toward Finn as he approaches. He looks like the few photos Finn has seen of him: silver-white hair, an aged, lopsided face, and a long nose. He's holding a rather large-looking, half-eaten burger.

"Can I help you?" Solo asks, setting the burger down and wiping his hands on a napkin.

"I…" Just say words. Any words. "...Finn."

"You Finn?" He looks over his shoulder. "D'you need a doctor, kid?"

"No. Uh - my name's Finn Tewone. I had the eleven o'clock appointment?"

Solo cocks a brow and looks at his watch. "It's twelve. And this isn't my office. Wait a second," he thrusts a finger at him, " - did you follow me?"

"Oh, no. No no. The receptionist told me where you were."

"Voluntarily?"

"Well - she said it by accident."

"Of course she did," he says. "I've been meaning to fire her."

"Please don't fire her because of me, sir - "

"No, it's fine. She's always late...and I'm pretty sure she's a racist."

"Well, she assume that I was an intern…"

He gestures to the other side of the booth. "Sit down."

Finn just stands there, not sure if he heard that right.

Solo gestures more emphatically.

Finn scoots into the seat, bewildered.

"Say your name again?"

"Finn Tewone."

"Ah, you're the kid Dameron recommended." He pops a fry into his mouth. "Pro-tip: maybe don't track down your potential bosses on their lunch break. Some people think of that as a red flag."

"It isn't a habit of mine, sir."

Solo chuckles. "You got a resume on you?"

Finn nods and pulls a black folder out of his satchel.

Solo grabs it and opens it, scanning it with a frown. "Not a very big one."

"I'm only twenty four - "

"High school valedictorian, assistant editor for your college newspaper, top of your class at Starkiller University…"

"Yes, sir."

"You don't have to end every sentence with sir."

"Sorry, sir - Han - Mister Solo."

"Did you have to make a speech?"

"Huh?"

"When you were a high school valedictorian. Did you have to make a speech?"

"I didn't show up to the graduation."

"Why not?"

"I was packed up and gone already."

"How'd you end up at the First Order? Seems like you could've gotten something better."

"It was the first place that offered me a job."

"And you were let go."

He nods. "After two years."

"And she's not put as a reference…"

"She...I wasn't a good fit."

He looks at him doubtfully.

Finn slumps his shoulders. "She told me I wasn't cut out for journalism."

"Ha!" He takes a bite out of his burger.

"Is that...funny?"

He chews and swallows. "That's rich coming from her. She's not a journalist, she's a propaganda generator for those damn Imperials, who plucks desperate broke graduates from the job market before actually credible sources can get their hold on them. Horrible woman." He takes a sip of Coke. "Are you an Imperial?"

"I don't know if you're allowed to ask that during a job interview."

"This isn't a job interview. This is my lunch break."

"Fair point." Finn finds himself becoming a little calmer. "And no, I'm not an Imperial."

"So you're a Rebel?"

"I'm not anything. I'm still voting for your wife, though."

"Even if she's a bourgeoisie poser?"

"You read the article, too?"

"'Didn't agree with any of it, but good writing is good writing," he says. "It was the only FOJ article you wrote that actually had a voice. The rest of 'em nearly put me to sleep."

Finn doesn't know how to reply to this.

"They sucked the life out of your writing, kid." He points a french fry at him. "You should be glad you got out when you did."

"I'm starting to think it was more of a blessing than anything. But having a job is nice, too."

A waitress comes up to the table. "Can I getcha anything?"

"No, I'm good. Thank you."

Solo holds out a hand. "He'll take a Mexican Coke."

She smiles. "Sure thing."

"I'm good - "

"You're sweatin' bullets. You need something."

The waitress wanders off.

Solo leans back in his seat and says, "Why do you want to write?"

During his prep work, he planned out a response to this type of question. It was some impressive-sounding bullshit that talked about "challenging perspectives" or whatever - but Solo doesn't seem like he'd buy impressive-sounding bullshit. After a beat, he thinks of an honest, although not very outstanding, answer: "Because I'm good at it."

Solo raises his eyebrows at him.

"I've never been real certain about anything in my life - besides the fact that I wanted to write. I've only ever wanted to do one thing. I've taught myself to do one thing. And I know that I'm pretty damn good at that one thing."

Solo doesn't say anything, which cranks up Finn's anxiety again. Was that a stupid answer? he thinks.

The waitress comes over and sets a bottle on the table with a smile. "One Mexican Coke."

Rey crinkles up a piece of paper, aims for the trash can, and misses. It's shit, she thinks. All of it is shit.

She's been sitting at her kitchen table for an hour and a half, and so far she's realized that political speeches aren't so easy after all. She has a tendency to bite off more than she can chew, and this is one of those times. It doesn't help that she's barely written this year.

Another thing is eating at her, too, and she knows that her mind is going to be all muddled until she takes care of it. She sets down her pen, gets up, puts on her shoes, and heads downstairs.

She ignores her nervousness. It's foolish to be nervous. Cowardly, even.

She marches to the door of flat 3A and knocks on the door before she can change her mind.

She sees the shadow of feet coming closer, then stopping. After a moment, the door opens. Ben catches sight of her and seems surprised.

"Hello," Rey says in a weirdly curt voice.

"Hey." He furrows his brow at her. "What's up?"

"I wanted to apologize."

"For…?"

"For the thing that happened. When I splashed beer all over your…" She gestures to his face. "I'm sorry."

"Oh." He frowns. "Yeah, that wasn't a big deal."

"No, I shouldn't've - "

"It's not like I go to that place a lot, or I know anyone there, or anyone asked any questions afterward…" he says in a dry voice.

"So you're pissed at me."

"Just a little."

"That's entirely fair. But I am sorry."

He crosses his arms. "I didn't mean anything by that text."

"What d'you mean?"

"I didn't have a motive, or something. I just did it, and I'm not really sure why. It was stupid of me."

"It wasn't stupid," she says. "You were just saying hi. And I'm not pissed at you, although drunk me was."

"Right," he says, voice dry and unconvinced. "Y'know, I've read somewhere that drunkenness only exaggerates what's already in a person."

Rey tenses. "I'm not mad at you, Ben."

"I think you are."

"I don't appreciate you telling me how I feel - "

" - And I don't appreciate you screaming at me and drenching me in Miller Lite in the middle of a crowded bar."

"I've said sorry. I don't know what else you want me to do."

"A year ago - on New Years. Would you have preferred that I didn't say anything?"

Her face burns. "Why are you bringing up New Year's?"

"Because that's why you're pissed at me."

"I'm not pissed at you!" she yells a little too loudly.

He raises his eyebrows at her.

"Well now I am." She huffs. "But you're mad at me, too."

Ben shifts his jaw and crosses his arms. "I'm not mad at you. Well - I'm mad at you about the beer thing. Not about...the other thing, though. If I was, that would make me an entitled asshole. You can't force yourself to feel something that you don't."

Her eyes dart to the ground.

"...And I can't force myself to not feel something," he says in a careful voice. "I know I've ruined things, but I wasn't able to keep it to myself. It would've felt like...lying. I have a hard time lying to you."

She looks up at him again. "I never wanted you to lie to me. I just wish it was normal again."

He smiles weakly. "Me too."

Rey steels herself for the next question: "Do you still feel the same?"

He avoids her eyes and nods.

"Then I don't think we should try to...rebuild anything. I think we'll both end up getting hurt."

"I think so, too."

They both stay silent for a moment, not sure how to end this conversation.

"Well - " Ben awkwardly grips the door.

"I need to go write," she says, remembering.

He looks intrigued.

"Poe has a bet that I can write a better speech than the one your mother gave."

"Oh, you definitely can."

She gives him a small smile.

"'Good to see that you're writing again."

"Well - anything to prove to Poe that I'm better than him."

"Kick his ass for me, will you? He needs his ego checked."

She chuckles. "Gladly."

"I'll see you around?" he says.

"You're bound to."

He looks at her for a fraction of a second, a little bit of sadness in his eyes, then closes the door.

Rey buries her face in her hands, sighing into them. She realizes that she was, in fact, mad at him. Only because it was easier than missing him.