Page 8 of Laced in Longing

“Need some help?”

A woman kneels beside me, her perfume coating my nose in a wave of something light and expensive. I glance up to see Nadia from the tax department, her dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, makeup still perfect despite the eight-hour workday. We’ve exchanged maybe five words since I started my job, all of them variations of ‘excuse me’ as we passed in hallways or reached for the same creamer in the break room.

“Thanks,” I manage, the word feeling like a liability on my tongue. I hate owing people.

She scoops up a handful of candies, depositing them into the baggie I hold open. “These are my weakness too,” she remarks, a smile playing at her lips. “Though I usually hide them in my desk drawer so no one sees me mainlining sugar at two PM.”

I offer a noncommittal noise that could pass for agreement, focusing on retrieving a candy that’s rolled under the partition. My shoulder aches from the awkward angle.

“A bunch of us are heading to the bar,” she continues, undeterred by my silence. “It’s just around the corner. They have great cocktails and half-price appetizers on Fridays…would you like to join?”

My finger finally hooks the wayward candy, and I drag it back toward me, adding it to the collection of dead salvation in the bag. I freeze mid-reach for another piece as her invitation registers.

My first instinct is to decline. The thought of extending my time with coworkers beyond the mandatory hours makes my skin crawl. Why would anyone willingly spend more time with the same people they’re forced to see every day? It’s like some kind of corporate Stockholm Syndrome—trapped together in fluorescent lighting until you convince yourself you actually enjoy each other’s company.

But then, it’s been weeks in Montréal, and I haven’t ventured into a single bar. My apartment contains exactly one bottle of cheap wine I bought my first night here, still untouched. It’s payday. My bank account will have that brief, illusory fullness before rent and bills devour it.

And going out with colleagues means I won’t have to drink alone in some random bar, looking like the sad, pathetic person I actually am.

“Sure,” I hear myself say before I’ve fully committed to the decision. “I could use a drink.”

Nadia’s eyebrows lift slightly, as if she hadn’t expected me to agree. “Great! We’re meeting at the elevators in ten minutes.”

We finish gathering the ruined candy, and she leaves with a small wave, her heels dully clicking against the floor as she returns to her desk. My throat tightens. What the fuck did I just agree to?

Socializing requires energy I simply don’t have. It means answering questions about my past, my interests and plans—all topics I avoid even in the privacy of my own mind. It means smiling when nothing is amusing and nodding along to conversations that feel like they’re happening in another language. Well, that happens a lot here. I don’t speak French like most, so I find my mind subject to the jumbled words that pass through my ears.

But I’ve committed now, and backing out would require an explanation. Explanations mean more conversation, more lies, more energy, and promises to join next time. Easier to just go, have one drink, and slip away early with some excuse about a migraine or an early morning appointment. Then I don’t have to do it ever again.

My stomach tightens as I approach the elevators, where Nadia, Chris, a guy I don’t know, and two women I’ve seen but never spoken to wait. They all smile as I approach, and I force my lips to curve upward in response, though the expression feels so foreign.

“Maven! Glad you could join us,” Chris says, too enthusiastic for someone addressing a virtual stranger. His wedding ring catches the overhead light as he gestures. “Have you met everyone? This is Tyler from IT, and Zahra and Mei from marketing.”

I nod at each in turn, already fumbling which name belongs to which face. It doesn’t matter. After tonight, I’ll avoid all of them. Or try to.

Fuck…will I need a new job? Interviews are my literal hell.

Tell us about yourself. This is the ninth city I’ve been to, I have no friends or family, I’ve tried to off myself a few times, and my therapist stalks me.

Why do you want to work here? I don’t.

What makes you a good fit for this role? Absolutely fucking nothing other than my need to get paid.

But of course, I can’t answer those questions truthfully, so I make up elaborate lies and do my best not to contradict myself.

The corporate world is filled with fake people and misogyny. I hate it.

The elevator arrives with a cheerful ding that feels at odds with my mood. We crowd inside, bodies closer than I’d like. The scent of various perfumes, colognes, and the lingering coffee on someone’s breath creates a sickeningly sweet mixture in the confined space. My fingers dig into the strap of my bag, anchoring me against the urge to flee.

“So, Maven, where are you from originally?” Tyler asks, his glasses slipping down his sharp nose as he studies me.

“Boston, most recently,” I answer, deliberately vague. No need to mention the other seven cities before that, each one a failed attempt at finding somewhere I could belong.

“I love Boston! The Freedom Trail is so cool,” one of the marketing women—Mei?—chimes in. “Did you live downtown?”

The elevator shrinks with each passing second. “No, just outside,” I lie, having stayed in four different apartments during my time there, none of which I remember with fondness.

Thankfully, the doors open before anyone can inquire further, releasing us into the lobby. The group moves as a unit toward the revolving door, continuing conversations that must have started before I joined. I hang back, calculating how long I need to stay to satisfy social convention. Does our time walking there count toward that?