Chapter 10 #2
Checking his smartwatch, Misha announces, “Speaking of which, it’s about lunchtime. Fancy joining us?” His eyes twinkle with mischief, clearly not ready to let me slip away so easily.
I shake my head, desperate to hide in my own office. “No, thank you.”
But Misha, undeterred, places a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
He’s so touchy-feely, and I’m not quite sure if I like it.
Delusional Amelia strikes again.
“Oh, come on. It’s the least we can do to treat you to lunch,” he cajoles, his grin infectious.
I let out a small laugh, feeling the tension in my shoulders loosen slightly. “Elysium pays for our lunch.”
From the other side of the room, Grey mutters, “And who do you think brings in the money that pays for those lunches?”
His arrogance is maddening, like a cat who not only got the cream but convinced you to open the bottle for him.
Rolling my eyes, I concede, “Fine, lunch it is.”
Putting in any more resolve at this point would just be childish. But seeing Oliver’s surprised face, I guess they didn’t really believe I would join them in the first place.
Fuck, did they count on me saying no?
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 a panini 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 that the Grey 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 tuck myself 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 Elysium mystery 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 with OMG and wonder what they’re doing with me.
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 simple conversation 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 spend some time 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.
They aren’t my friends.
They don’t care about me.
They don’t want to eat with me because they think I’m such a nice person.
I know this.
It’s ridiculous, really. I’m getting sentimental over lunch with colleagues I haven’t spoken more than a few sentences to. But I can’t seem to help it.
Growing up without affection left its mark. I drink it greedily from any hand that offers a gentle touch, from every mouth that talks kindly to me.
Ah, fuck it.
I can think about how to handle the fall when it comes.
Misha is back at the table and sets down our trays with a flourish that lifts the heavy thoughts swirling in my head.
“Voilà, vegetarian delicacy, as requested,” he declares, grinning as he slides the tray in front of me.
I inspect the meal—a chickpea and spinach curry—and muster a genuine smile. “Thanks for buying, Misha.”
Grey snorts from across the table, and I notice he has the same lunch as I have in front of him.
Is he a vegetarian too?
“You’re very welcome,” Misha retorts, winking at me before turning back to his meal.
We eat, and I’m surprised by the rich flavors of the curry, the warmth of the spices seeping through me.
Grey starts ribbing Misha about forgetting to collect the laundry again, and for a moment, I let myself get lost in their banter.
I almost feel like part of their group, even though I’m just listening, much like Oliver.
But they seem fine to just let me be and eat.
Being part of such a close-knit friend group would be incredible.
As I continue eating, a strange sensation starts to build in the back of my throat. Initially, I dismiss it as a scratch—perhaps from the spices—but with each bite, the sensation worsens.
Is this anxiety?
I thought I was finally relaxing a bit.
But then my throat feels tighter, my breaths become shorter, and it hits me—this isn’t mere discomfort.
It’s an allergic reaction.
My pulse skyrockets, a frantic rhythm of dread as I realize there must be peanuts in the curry.
No, not now.
“Amelia, you okay?” Oliver’s concern-laced voice cuts through my rising panic.
I try to speak, but my voice is barely a whisper, strained and hoarse. My fork clatters to the floor as my hands clutch at my throat, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. When I stand to reach for my backpack, my vision begins to blur alarmingly at the edges.
Misha notices my distress. His usual playfulness is instantly replaced by alarm. “Amelia, what’s wrong?” he asks, rising swiftly from his seat.
Oliver is by my side in a flash, his chair scraping against the floor as he moves. I reach out for him, feeling my legs buckle, and he catches my arms, gently lowering me to the floor.
“Amelia,” he whispers urgently, bending over me, his eyes wide with fear searching mine.
The scent of strawberries fills my senses.
Why does he smell like Twizzlers Twists?
God, I’m going to die.
As my throat tightens further, I can’t seem to talk anymore.
I can’t find my voice to explain or direct them to the EpiPen I always carry.
In a desperate attempt to communicate, I extend my left arm toward Oliver, my hand trembling.
The silver, delicate medical alert bracelet on my wrist catches the light, the charm engraved with the words Peanut Allergy.
Oliver catches sight of the charm, and his eyes widen with realization. He takes my wrist and turns the charm, reading what is engraved on the back.
Carries EpiPen in purse.
“She’s allergic to peanuts. She has an EpiPen in her bag!” he shouts to Misha, who starts frantically searching through my backpack within seconds.
Misha’s hands tremble as he finally locates the auto-injector, but he hesitates.
Grey steps in, his movements steady and sure, not a smidge of panic to be found. He takes the EpiPen from Misha’s grasp, flips off the safety cap, and says in a calm, assertive voice, “Hold on, Amelia.”
He doesn’t hesitate to slam the injector against my thigh, ready to inject straight through my trousers.
The click of the mechanism sounds impossibly loud in my ears.
He holds it there for a few crucial seconds while the epinephrine is delivered.
The sharp sting of the needle is a minor discomfort compared to the tight grip of anaphylaxis around my throat.
As I wait for the medication to take effect, my vision narrows, the edges growing dark.
No, this can’t be it.
The fish.
I only rescued four of them.
The tense silence stretches, the guys hovering motionlessly.
After an agonizing few moments, the drug starts to work, and I lean my head back, gasping for air. My breathing is still labored, but gradually, the terrifying tightness begins to lessen. Grey holds eye contact with me and firmly grasps my shoulder, grounding me.
My hero with the scowling face.
I look up to find Oliver and Misha hovering close, their faces etched with worry, while Misha dials for an ambulance.
“Breathe, Amelia. Help is on the way,” Grey reassures, his usually detached demeanor now showing genuine concern.
I must look like shit if I’ve managed to crack Grey Donovan’s cold exterior.
“I’m sorry,” I manage to gasp out, the room spinning.
“Don’t talk, just breathe.” His voice is calm, but there’s an undercurrent of urgency.
Oliver’s hand squeezes mine gently, and I glance over to find him beside me again. His eyes are brimming with tears as I finally manage to take deeper breaths.
I traumatized the poor guy.
Misha’s stern tone draws my attention away from Oliver. “Give her room to breathe!”
I see the blurry figures of people who have gathered to watch the spectacle of my near-death experience.
They will never want to have lunch with me again.