Were these only niceties, and I didn’t read them right? Wouldn’t be the first time.
We leave the office, and as we walk toward the cafeteria, Misha leads the way with a spring in his step. I trudge alongside him, half-listening to his little monologue about the most outrageous lunches he’s engineered using only the cafeteria’s offerings while I try to slow my racing heartbeat.
“You wouldn’t believe the things you can do with a panini press and some creativity,” Misha boasts, a gleam of mischief in his eyes. “Last week, I convinced the staff to let me try apanini deconstructed sushi. It was… innovative.”
“Innovative? Sounds more like a culinary crime scene,” I retort, unable to suppress a smirk. The idea of sushi squashed in a panini press is both horrifying and slightly intriguing.
I could try it with some Avocado Maki.
Grey, trailing a few steps behind with Oliver, chimes in, “Misha’s kitchen experiments are why we can’t have nice things.”
I turn my head to look at him, surprised thattheGrey Donovan has a sense of humor.
Oliver, who’s been quietly ambling along, lets out a soft chuckle but doesn’t add his own jab. His smile seems genuine. It’s oddly endearing, his shyness. But it makes me feel a twinge of something.
Curiosity? Perhaps a bit of kinship.
We arrive at their usual spot in the center of the cafeteria—a round table exposed on all sides like a stage. My stomach churns uncomfortably at the thought of being so visible. I usually tuckmyself away at a table near the edge, where the only view is of the wall or a potted plant on a good day.
As Oliver and Grey head off to grab their food, Misha gestures for me to sit. “What’ll you have?” he asks, ready to queue up with the others, who are already debating over meal choices by the menu board.
“Just a vegetarian option, please,” I reply, putting my backpack down next to me before settling into the chair and folding my arms across the table, “I can grab it myself, though.”
“Vegetarian, huh? Fancy. And here I was hoping to introduce you to the legendary Elysiummystery meat.”
Why did my head just go to a whole different kind of meat?
Probably because I thought about it thoroughly last night.
Fuck.
I feel myself blushing, and Misha chuckles as he walks off. “Got it, one veggie special coming right up!”
What a plonker.
Left alone at the table, I mull over the meeting—how effortlessly I’d spoken with them about Jamie, how strangely validating it felt to be listened to by them, even if they only see me as part of a project.
Talking to them, or mostly Misha, was almost fun. And watching him now, laughing and joking even with the cafeteria staff, I realize he’s just this easygoing with everyone.
Must be nice to be so effortlessly friendly.
I’m painfully aware of the hum of everyday life around me—the buzz of conversations, the clink of trays, the occasional bursts of laughter from nearby tables. It’s all so ordinary, yet I feel the weight of curious glances on me. Maybe they saw me walk in withOMGand wonder what they’re doing withme.
I can’t blame them. I’m questioning it myself.
I never should have said yes to this. The truth is, I’m starved for something resembling friendship or even just a simpleconversation with someone that doesn’t make my anxiety spike. So much so I could fall into this way too easily.
Having lunch with them every day?
Yeah, I know I’m setting myself up for trouble—I’ve always tended to get attached too quickly. I know this should be purely business-related, but I can’t help growing attached to anyone who shows me even the slightest kindness.
Just ask my nanny or my mother’s housekeeper.
Or my ex-boyfriend.
I clung to every moment he spared me every few weeks, showering him with all the affection I could muster, just thankful he’d spendsometime with me.
When this cooperation ends, when they return to their lives and I to my solitude, I know I’ll berate myself for my naivety.
