I hesitate before answering. I don’t really know why. Why I’m not planning another weekend dinner with the few friends I have so I can vent a little, maybe even ask for some advice to work through the commitment issues I’ve suddenly become privy to. Or even call up my brothers to see if they’d be up for a few beers. Anything for the company I’m obviously in dire need of. But when I realize the truth, I don’t really want to hide it. So, I tell her. “I guess…you’re just a little easier to talk to.”
“How so?”
“To be honest, the friends I have live kind of far,” I explain. “It takes some pre-planning for us to have dinner. And when we do, it’s never anything like?—”
“An impromptuStar Warsmarathon?”
I smirk. “Yeah.”
“What about James and Josh?”
“I mean, yeah, I hang out with them, but I don’t really talk to them…”
“You mean they don’t get a specialStar Warscourse curriculum like I do? I feel so special.”
“Shut up,” I tease. It’s a brief reprieve, making a topic that’s normally heavy a little lighter. A little easier to bear. So I continue. “But they know how much stress my work has been causing me.”
“And?”
“They don’t get why I’m still there after four years, taking my boss’s bullshit every day,” I tell her. Her smile falls, and I can feel her give me her full attention. Her presence is so extantand heedful, I know whatever I tell her, it’ll be lasered into her memory. That’s what she’s doing right now. Making herself the focal point of my woes, letting me tumble them out so she can hold them with me. “They also tell me I’m still young. That I have a long life ahead of me and I shouldn’t worry so much when I don’t even have a family to worry about.”
“So, they sort of brush you off.”
I nod.
She rolls her tongue over her bottom lip before clamping her teeth over it. I can see her mull over the words, making sure to get out the right ones. “Look, I don’t want to add fuel to the fire, but why don’t you quit?”
“I—”
“And I know you said you’re paying your dues or whatever, but is it really worth it? And let’s say you move on up and get promoted or whatever it is your goals are. Is this really what you want to be doing?”
I stay quiet, contemplating her words. They don’t sound disparaging or condescending. They sound like they come from a place of true concern. She isn’t trying to brush me off, trying to move on from a conversation she has no interest in. She really wants to know.
“Do you like your job?” I ask, segueing into what drives her to get out of bed every morning. I know I’m answering her question with a question, but maybe this way I can find some answers for myself.
“I do,” she admits somewhat apologetically. “It’s not an easy job, but it’s incredibly rewarding. I’ve seen the compassion drain out of a lot of the people around me, and it gets really hard sometimes. Just today, I saw this college kid almost die from an accidental overdose, and her mom was so scared and worried. It’s not easy being exposed to all the trauma we see in the ER, but I’m hoping I’m making somewhat of a difference.”
I never knew work could bleed into your soul like it does for Grace. I don’t go to work to change the world or even make a difference. I go to work to make a living. Working to live. But not Grace. She’s out here trying to do something with her life. Make an impact.
“That’s very admirable of you,” I comment earnestly.
She smiles. “I’m just doing my job.”
“Yet, compared to mine, your job makes you look like a superhero.”
A shy flush blooms across her cheeks, and she averts her gaze to her food, now just the soupy, oily remains of our dinner. The movie plays in the background as I catch flashing images of blasters shooting red, fiery beams through gusts of smoke. We watch as I answer the sporadic bouts of questions that slip through Grace’s lips. I watch as her keen focus on the movie turns into near reverie. All while the conversation about life and work and meaning falls into the shadows, letting it sit there until we can pick it up later. Maybe in small doses to make it easier to reconcile. Hopefully on another night sitting on her living room floor in front of takeout and some movie we can obsess over just the same.
As the night wears on , Grace stifles a yawn and sinks into the soft cushions of her couch, sweetly patting her hand in the empty spot next to her. Though it’s a weeknight, and we both have work the next day, she doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to kick me out, even as the credits start to roll on the TV and her eyes blink heavily, a reminder that it’s probably time to call it a night. Luckily, we still have dessert to get to.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Grace
Post-ramen with Andrew,I spent the next few nights eating my dinner with his voice filtering through the small earbuds shoved into my ears. I warmed up my frozen dinner while Andrew told me what he was making for himself. I walked Buster while Andrew read out loud aNew York Timesarticle about why eating only soft foods like pudding and mac and cheese and smoothies is bad for you. Apparently, you need something tough and fibrous to maintain a healthy diet. And he laid his phone on his bathroom counter, brushing his teeth over the sink, while I listed off the catalog of men my mom sent me so she could set me up. I guess the initial guilt she felt about my horrid blind date has worn off, and a new wave of determination has hit her.
I’d be lying if I said Andrew’s reaction didn’t provide a moment of entertainment. It started off with baffled and toothpaste foam-filled “what?” which transitioned into some uncontrolled stuttering and a cough I imagine was expelled into a fist. Then the follow-up questions came. If I was going to meet these suitors and whether or not I thought Raymond, who my mom met in the checkout line at Trader Joe’s, would have a wifelist similar to the one Harold had. I laughed it off while secretly noting the discomfort I could feel through the speaker.
As my weeknights became consumed with Andrew, I realized by the time I received a text message from Teeny on Friday night, I had gone the whole week without talking to her. No meme or Instagram reel referencing an inside joke only she and I would get. No random pictures of a vanilla latte with a request for a mid-week coffee date. Not even a link to a cute dress or purse I found online with a plea crying, “Please tell me I can’t afford this,” knowing she’d only respond with, “You deserve it.”
