It’s 1996, and I’m standing in the parking lot of a Pittsburgh electronics store, still adjusting my shirt after getting fired for sleeping with the manager’s girlfriend. My brother Josh laughs over the phone, calling me a mess, but he hooks me up with a job—pharmaceutical sales. I don’t care what I sell, as long as it pays and gets me laid.

Training at Pfizer is like boot camp for smooth talkers. I learn how to pitch Zoloft, how to flirt with office staff, how to get in the door. But my regional manager, Bruce, is pissed—I’m not moving product. He tells me to target Dr. Stan Knight, a stubborn old-school doc who only prescribes Prozac.

I try everything—flirting with his nurses, trashing Prozac samples in the trash—until finally, I get to observe him with a patient. That’s when I see her: Maggie Murdock. She’s sharp, sarcastic, and moving with this subtle tremor I can’t place. She catches me staring. I catch her number later from a nurse I’ve already slept with.

We meet for drinks. No strings, she says. Just fun. We both agree—no feelings. But when we end up in bed that night, it’s different. Not just the sex, but the way she looks at me after, like she sees through the act. I tell myself it’s just another hookup. But something in me shifts.

Now I’m selling Viagra—fast, easy, profitable. But when I tell her I want more, she walks away. I find her at a bus stop, helping seniors board a trip to Canada for cheap meds. We argue. She says I don’t get it. I say I do. I stay all night. She doesn’t believe I will. But I do.

The next morning, she steps off the bus. Her eyes are red. She doesn’t say anything. Just takes my hand.

I think—maybe this is real.