16.
Crystal
The following Monday, my cluttered desk is buried in an avalanche of reports as I try to sculpt them into something palatable for the public eye. It’s not just about selling the idea; it’s about making the science digestible. Rick Newman, the marketing lead at SHN, watches over my shoulder as I type out the last sentences that break down our electric vehicle battery’s complicated science into bite-sized pieces for potential buyers at the Automotive Showcase we have coming up.
Anyone who sells anything to the automotive industry—air bags, seatbelts, carpeting, equipment, robots—has a chance at this four-day convention to show off what’s new to carmakers. SHN has brokered this opportunity for us to show the industry what we have. We won’t have batteries to sell just yet, but if we can spark interest in the technology, EnergiFusion could get a cash injection from interested parties who will reserve the right to buy from us in the future. It’s a huge chance to make a big leap forward without having to get more funding from SHN.
“Crystal, this is impressive,” Rick says, his voice tinged with surprise. “You’ve managed to make quantum chemistry sound like a high school science project.”
I give him a half-smile, brushing off the compliment as I scan the document for errors. “Thanks, I guess eventually the tech talk kind of becomes your second language.”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s more than familiarity. You have a genuine talent for technical writing. You should recognize that.”
That brings a more genuine smile. It’s not often I get praise for work like this, which mostly goes unnoticed.
I check the time, and I need to get to the weekly staff meeting. I usually try to avoid them. I’d rather watch paint dry than listen to the guys talk during my workday about everything they already talk about at the apartment, when we go out for drinks and meals, and over coffee. But today I have to present my findings on a request from Mason Sullivan. He asked me to streamline costs, starting with our mobile phone package, and after doing some research, I have options for us to consider.
I excuse myself and approach the conference room, where Justin waves me in. When it’s my turn, I stand before the weary eyes of the team and lay out options for the new cell phone plan. “—and with this transition, we’ll not only cut costs but also streamline our communication,” I conclude, hopeful for some semblance of approval. Instead, the air hangs thick with silence. The guys just seem tired and disinterested.
“Any questions?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’m not moving my cell phone over to a company plan.” Rhys crosses his arms and stares me down.
Heat floods my cheeks as I reel from the sting. “I’m doing my job,” I snap.
“Whatever,” Austin says with a dismissive shrug. “I’m not moving my number either.”
My frustration boils over into defiance. Why do they have to argue with everything I do or suggest? I’m not a second-class citizen just because I have a vagina and breasts. Or because I wasn’t with them in the very beginning, back when we were at school.
“I think it’s a great idea,” Justin says. “I’m in if it saves us money.”
I throw my hands up. “I did this research at Mason’s request. You can take it up with him.” My voice is a blade, sharp and cold, severing the last thread of my patience. I spin on my heel and storm out, abandoning the battle. They are not worth my energy or time.
The door slams behind me, echoing my inner turmoil. Back at my desk I snatch a sticky note and scrawl out for the day on it. Even that is more than they deserve.
I’m so upset that I don’t stop until the waterfront greets me with its briny kiss, a welcome reprieve from the bitter taste of the morning’s events.
I pause, leaning against the railing, watching the cars cross the Bay Bridge. Treasure Island rests like a jewel amidst the waters. I need a break.
Berkeley also lies out there, a beacon of possibility. An urge, magnetic and sudden, propels me toward the BART station. The train settles me with its soothing motion as I leave San Francisco behind and head toward a new opportunity.
When I arrive, the Berkeley campus unfolds before me like a promise. I let the thrum of student life wash over me, each step lighter than the last. The shadow of the office fades. It’s been a year since I spent time with the frenetic and carefree pace of campus life. As eager as I was to get out of Georgia Tech, I find I miss this.
After a moment I gravitate toward the library, an edifice of quiet grandeur nestled among the trees. I smell the books, and my heart calms as I walk up to the desk. “Do you have a course catalog?” I ask the librarian.
“Of course,” she replies, her smile soft as she hands me a thick booklet. “You can keep it.”
I sink into a chair by the window, light filtering through stained glass, casting mosaics of color across the open pages. The technical-writing course description beckons, the words aligning with my newfound interest. It’s more than interesting, actually; it resonates, vibrating with the possibility of what I could become.
The ride back on the BART is a blur, the catalog resting on my lap like a treasure map. Marketing classes leap from the page, stirring something within me. Applied mathematics was a path chosen, not discovered, but this? This ignites a fire that math never did.
Later, Justin takes me out for dinner, leaving the guys to what they usually do—go to a bar and drink a beer and eat pub food. All of the day’s frustrations bubble to the surface as we eat. Justin listens, his expression revealing the tension he feels, bearing both the role of CEO and confidant. I pour out the indignities I suffer and the weight of the constant burden of proving myself.
“Crystal, just ignore them,” Justin says, reaching across the table, his touch meant to soothe. “You’re incredible at what you do. If you want to stay, stay. If you want to go, maybe it’s time they learn just how much you do for us.”
He wants to be supportive, but his words leave me caught between loyalty and the desire to forge my own path. Does he really mean that? What would happen if I left? Stay or go—each option opens a different battlefield, filled with its own landmines.
“Maybe,” I murmur. I’m not sure what to do, but I like the idea of classes that could lead to a life where I am seen, acknowledged, and valued.
When we return to the apartment, it’s empty, and Justin gets that look in his eyes. He reaches for my hand and pulls me close. His lips seal over mine, and I nearly float away. When we break, he pulls me to our bedroom.
The click of the bedroom door shutting behind us resonates through the quiet of our apartment. Justin turns the lock, and his hands find their way to my shoulders, the warmth of his touch chasing away the chill of the outside. “Let me take care of you,” he says, eyes brimming with an empathy that tugs at the tension knotted within me.
He eases me out of my jacket, and it falls forgotten to the floor. He deftly unbuttons my blouse. I allow the fabric to slip from my skin, baring myself to his gaze. He whispers words that weave around me like a spell. Beautiful, smart, amazing—each one soothes the bruises of the day.
With a gentleness that masks his excitement, he undresses me fully, guiding me to the bed. The sheets are cool as I lie on my stomach, waiting, exposed but unafraid. I close my eyes, surrendering to the sensation of his hands gliding over me.
Justin’s touch is firm yet tender as he massages my shoulders, kneading the knots to bring relaxation. I let out a sigh, sinking deeper into the mattress.
His hands travel down my spine, igniting trails of fire that flicker along my nerves. And then, his touch becomes teasing, dancing across the more intimate folds of my being.
A gasp escapes me. “Please, Justin,” I whisper, the words spilling forth unbidden.
He obliges, and the movements of his fingers are deliberate, rhythmic, circling and coaxing until the pleasure swells and crests within me. A delicious climax shatters through me, radiating out from the center he’s meticulously focused on, washing away the remnants of the day’s shadows.
In the aftermath, I lie breathless, every nerve ending softly buzzing. For these few moments, all the complexities of life fade. I’m truly cherished.
The heat of his body warms me as he spoons from behind, his breath on the nape of my neck. His heart beats a steady rhythm that echoes my own, and I tilt my hips back toward him, an invitation he answers with gentle urgency.
Justin enters me slowly, and we move together, a shared pulse in the quiet space of our room. I close my eyes, savoring the tender love we create, floating on the waves of intimacy that only seem to grow stronger with each shared breath. I’m in love with this man. There isn’t a doubt in my mind.
Our crescendo builds at a leisurely pace, a counterpoint to the frenetic energy of the day. With each careful thrust, Justin anchors me to the here and now, to the truth of us. And I cling to him, lost in the intensity of sensation.
Afterward, we lie entwined, a tangle of limbs and contented sighs. The warmth of his chest against my back is comforting, grounding. Yet questions again churn in my mind, and I speak before I fully register the thought.
“Justin,” I whisper, “have you and the guys thought about a share of the company for me? You know I’ve been here from the start. I understand that you don’t have a lot of money right now, but I believe you’re going to succeed in the end. Couldn’t I have a small stake in that?”
There’s a pause, a silent stretch that seems like hours. Justin shifts slightly, his hand tracing idle patterns on my arm.
“We haven’t really figured out what we’re going to do about that yet.” He pauses again, seeming to search for the right words. “We don’t want to confuse things, and we aren’t sure we ever want to go public. Keeping EnergiFusion private means we’re not forced to do things for stockholder gains. We can just do what’s right for the company.”
I turn to face him, trying to read his expression in the dim light. His eyes hold sincerity but also a hint of unease.
He continues, “Cameron has found an electrical engineer who might be able to help solve the charging issues. If he can, we’ll probably have to give him a share of the company for his effort.”
I chew on my lower lip, absorbing this information and trying to settle the anger that’s rapidly taking shape. This was not even remotely the reassurance I was looking for. Is my value to SHN’s future so uncertain? I can’t solve the battery issue, but I solve a lot of other problems for them. This feels deeply unfair, but as I look at Justin, all the fight goes out of me. I can’t add this burden to his shoulders. All I can do is ask, I suppose. Try to advocate for what’s rightfully mine. Hopefully, they’ll come around.
“Okay,” I reply, nestling back against him. “Maybe if you cut him in, it won’t seem so scary to cut me in eventually.” I try to focus on the comfort of Justin’s presence rather than the whirl of my thoughts. Staying in the moment, I let the security of Justin’s arms shield me from the storm of doubts gathering on the horizon.
The next morning I sit on the edge of the bed, the light casting a soft glow across the room and onto the crumpled sheets. The warmth of Justin’s arms has faded, and in its place is a knot of frustration sitting heavy in my stomach. It’s not just about a share of the company; it’s about being recognized as a member of the team and being valued for the countless problems I solve every day for EnergiFusion.
My phone buzzes with an email notification—a reminder of today’s appointment with Dr. McKay. I swipe it away, my fingers lingering over the screen as if they could swipe away my discontent as easily.
“Underappreciated and underpaid,” I murmur to myself, acknowledging the bitter truth. I pull on a pair of jeans and a comfortable sweater, my movements automatic as my mind races through yesterday’s conversation with Justin. I know he didn’t mean to downplay my role, but the sting still hurts.
Later that morning, ensconced in Dr. McKay’s office, I unburden myself of all of this. My resolve not to share my secrets with her seems to dissipate in this space.
She sits across from me, her gaze steady. “Crystal, what are your options?” she asks.
I sigh. “I’m not sure anymore. I could look for another job, maybe go back to school?”
Dr. McKay nods encouragingly. “Going back to school could open doors for you. And perhaps finding a new job where you are more appreciated would be beneficial to your well-being.”
Her words plant seeds of hope amidst the thorny tangle within me. Back at the office after the session, her advice echoes in my mind as I sit at my laptop, the cursor blinking expectantly on the search page for job listings and school applications.
I start with the course catalog I picked up from Berkeley, the one that sparked something within me yesterday. Technical writing courses, marketing classes—they seem to call to me, promising a future where I have more control.
Yet when I check the application deadlines, my heart sinks. I’m too late for the fall semester. Still, I press on, starting the transfer process, refusing to let this setback derail my newfound determination.
Turning my attention to job listings, I quickly realize the market isn’t brimming with opportunities, even for someone with a year’s worth of experience. My position has not changed much from when I first arrived here. My resume is thin, almost laughable, but I pore over it anyway, trying to add weight to my accomplishments at EnergiFusion.
“Maybe it’s time to show them how much work I do,” I whisper to myself, bolstered by Justin’s suggestion. But I also need to show myself that I’m capable of more.
The office is silent. With each application I send, I feel a subtle shift within me. It’s like I’m climbing out of a box they’ve put me in. When I’ve finished, I close my laptop, leaning back against the chair. I’m going to embrace the uncertainty, see it as the opportunity it is. I know things can be better than this.