“I almost... I almost snapped,” I whisper. “I was going to scream at him. You just… thank you. I'm so tired.”
“I know,” he says, his voice rough. He comes behind my chair, his hands landing on my shoulders, his thumbs digging into the tight, knotted muscles at the base of my neck. “He’s an ass.”
“He's blaming me,” I say, the words muffled by my hands. “He's twisting it to make it my fault.”
“He wants to save face,” Zachary says, his grip firm and steadying. “And he's weak. And he's taking it all out on you. But you’ve done nothing wrong, don’t let him make you believe you have.”
I pull my hands away from my face, leaning my head back to look up at him. “I'm just so... tired of fighting. It’s not just him. It’s the meds. And my mom...”
The stress of the encounter has brought all my other anxieties bubbling to the surface. My mom hasn't taken my last hospital visit well. She has, in the last week, threatened to come visit no less than four times. She wants to “take care of me,” she says.
But I know what that means. It doesn’t mean making soup or fluffing pillows. It means taking pictures of me on my bad days to use as a “powerful testimonial” at fundraisers. It means scheduling meetings and finagling me into conference calls and podcast interviews when all I want to do is sleep.
I just want my mom. Thenormalmom. The one I had before I was diagnosed with lupus, the one who talked to me like I was a normal human being and let me make my own mistakes. The one who believed I knew what was best for myself. It feels like the older I get, the younger she treats me, as if the lupus has rewound my age, reducing me to a fragile, incompetent child she has to manage.
“What's she up to now?” Zachary asks, his thumbs finding a particularly painful knot.
“She wants to ‘visit,’” I say, making air quotes. “I'm running out of excuses.”
“We'll handle her,” he says. “Together. We handled Trevor, we’ll handle your mom.”
I sigh, sinking into his touch. “Speaking of handling things... We haven't really discussed... us. At work. After that.” I gesture to the door where Trevor just left. “He’s watching me, Zachary. He’s looking foranything.”
Zachary’s hands are still on my shoulders. He's silent for a moment, and I feel a pang of fear. He moves around the desk and crouches in front of me, taking my hands. His are warm and rough.
“You're right,” he says, his gaze steady and serious. “And I don't want to give him any more reasons to get on your case. I don't want to give him any more ammunition.”
He takes a breath. “I think... I think we need to keep this under wraps. For now. Just at work.”
I nod, even though my heart sinks. I know he’s right. The last thing I need is a rumor about me and the new guy giving Trevor a “professional standards” violation to hang over my head. It’s the smart, logical, correct decision. But a small, selfish part of me feels desperately sad. This thing with him, this easy going, supportive, snack-drawer-filling man... it's the one thing thatfeels good and right, and I don't want to hide it. I want to shout it from the roof of this stupid trailer.
“Hey.” He squeezes my hands, reading my expression. “It’s not forever. It’s just... strategic. After you file the complaint against Trevor, after HR has a file on him, we can rent a billboard. But for now, we have to be smart.”
The “C” word. “Complaint.” I pull my hands away, wrapping my arms around my stomach. “I... I don't want to file a complaint, Zachary.”
“Maya, he can’t keep treating you like this. Especially with how your health has been. It could cause another bad flare.”
“I know, but... I don't want to draw that much attention to myself. What if I file a complaint, and HR starts... digging? What if they find out about my diagnosis? I don't want people knowing.”
“Maya,” he says gently, “if there isonedepartment in the entire world you'dwantto be aware of your illness, it's HR. That’s what they're there for. To make sure you get... you know, accommodations.”
“That's what I'm afraid of!” The words burst out, full of a frustration I hadn't realized was so close to the surface. “I don’t wanttheiraccommodations! I don't want them to decide I can't handle a full schedule, or that I need an ‘easier’ job just sitting at a desk and not interacting with students, or that I need to be ‘reassigned’ from the trailer. If I truly need an accommodation, I will ask for it. Onmyterms. I don’t want them todecidewhat’s best for me. I’m so tired of people deciding what's best for me.”
Zachary looks at me, a long, searching look. A tiny smile plays on his lips. “So... you'd really rather stay in this... this un-insulated, beige-colored tin box... than get your old classroom back?”
I look around. At the cramped quarters, the wheezing radiator, the space we have to share. And I look at him, kneelingon the hard linoleum, his eyes full of the type of care and concern that doesn’t feel patronizing or overbearing.
A real smile, the first one since the nausea hit, touches my lips.
“It has the snack drawer,” I say softly.
“Itdoeshave the snack drawer,” he concedes.
“And...” I reach out, touching his face, my thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “Yes. I really would rather stay. Being around you makes me happy.”
His smile widens. “Good. Because I'm not going anywhere.”
He leans in, closing the small distance between us, and kisses me. It’s not a frantic, passionate kiss. It’s something better. It’s slow and sure and salty from the pretzels. It’s a promise. It’s a calm in the storm. It’s an “I've got you,” and an “I know you've got this.”
