Clark and Jeremiah joined us on the dance floor for a few songs, and then I made my way back to the bar to get us more drinks, pulled like a magnet to Luke.
“I didn’t expect to see you here tonight,” I said.
“Not my usual scene, but my friends drag me out a couple of times a summer.”
I nodded, watching his face for longer than I’d dared to in the daylight.
“Where’s your boyfriend tonight?” he asked. The slight flush on his cheeks told me he might be a little drunk, too. His eyes moved slowly from my face to the rest of me, raking down my body and back up again. Unrestrained. I could melt under the heat of his gaze.
Butterflies filled my stomach.This is my chance to tell him.With the way he was looking at me, I wanted nothing more than to confirm I was single now.
But I didn’t get the chance. My best friend’s familiar arms wrapped around my shoulders, one hand taking a full drink from the bar in front of me and the other pulling me back into the crowd.
I woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and a smile on my face.
I’m pretty sure Luke said I’m adorable last night.
28
Sitting at Luke’s kitchen table two days later, my throat tightened as my fingers flew across my keyboard.
I wanted to believe everything Luke had said to me when we went to the beach the day I quit—the myth of sunk costs, that it was valid to choose to exit the corporate race and pursue different passions—so badly, but Max’s words still struck a nerve. I told my therapist about Max calling my life a mess, and as my therapy homework, Wendy recommended I write about some of my experiences at Peters & Dowling as a way to process my departure.
It was more difficult to find the words to describe my fainting incident in John’s office than I imagined it would be, and as I wrote each painstaking word, my shame came roaring back, but also my indignation. Articulating it in detail helped me see what happened through a more objective lens. I didn’t deserve the dressing-down he gave me. I’d been working so hard, and I hadn’t made any mistakes or missed any deadlines.
By the time I got to the part where I’d turned to flee but couldn’t make it to another office fast enough to stop myself from fainting, it was hard to swallow, and my eyes were full. Writing itfelt like reliving it—the panic, the embarrassment. My pulse thundered in my ears, just like it did that day.
“Val?” Luke’s voice called from the front hall, making me nearly jump out of my chair, my psyche yanked suddenly from the fiftieth floor of Peters & Dowling’s New York office back to Luke’s house in Edgartown. He rounded the corner toward the kitchen and said, “You know, I’m starting to get—” I tore my eyes from the screen. He stopped when he saw my face. “Hey, what happened?” His brow furrowed, voice laced with concern. “Did you get bad news?”
I shook my head. “No.” My voice was hoarse. “Sorry.” I cleared my throat. “I was just writing something that made me kind of emotional.” But Luke’s presence was already having a calming effect on my nervous system, causing my pulse to quiet.How does he do that?
He closed the distance between us. “Wanna talk about it?”
“It’s okay.” My forced smile was weak and unconvincing.
“Well, I want to talk about it, if you think it would help. But I understand if you don’t want to tell me.” Worry was written all over his handsome face.
Suddenly, I did want to tell him.
“My therapist told me to write about some of the events leading up to my burnout. She said she thought it would help me process them and make peace with the decision to leave. In addition to being a good writing exercise, since she knows I’ve been writing.”
Luke nodded, clearly following along with every word.
“I was writing about something that happened at work the week before I left, and it brought back some…feelings.”
“What happened?”
I wasn’t sure how to explain it. But of course, I just had. “Want to read it?”
“If you want me to.”
I nodded and turned the laptop toward him. He sat down and pulled it closer. I watched as his pupils moved side to side, his facealmost immediately turning cold. His brow furrowed deeper, his lips a thin line. I knew when he was done because he stood up from the dining chair violently. It fell over with a slap.
“This really happened?” His tone was menacing. I could tell he wasn’t asking whether what I wrote was the truth, but expressing disbelief that it happened at all.
“Yes.”
“What the fuck? I can’t believe he said all those things to you, made you so upset you fainted.” He started pacing, fists clenched at his sides. “What a sexist piece of shit.” His hand reached up and gripped the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I feel like I’m supposed to be supportive right now, butthat”—he pointed at the computer—“pisses me off. No wonder you left. Fucking assholes.”
