4. Chapter Four
CHAPTER FOUR
MAVEN
The spreadsheet on my screen blurs before my eyes, numbers swimming together into meaningless patterns. I’ve been staring at the same column for twenty minutes, my brain refusing to process anything beyond the simple fact that it’s payday and Friday and I just need to get the hell out of here.
My coworkers shuffle papers and shut down computers, the ambient noise of their preparations for freedom creating a low hum throughout the office.
I add my own contribution by shoving files into my drawer with more force than necessary.
The metal scrapes, earning a side-eye from Chris in the next cubicle. I don’t care.
Two more minutes.
When the clock finally displays 5:00 PM, I’m already standing, cramming papers into my bag.
My fingers brush against the small plastic baggie of sour candies I keep for emergencies—the kind of where my blood sugar drops from lack of food and the world tips sideways.
Or when I need something to focus on besides the screaming void in my head.
The baggie catches on something in my purse and slips from my grip, scattering neon-colored sweets across the ugly carpeting. Tiny sugar-dusted planets spin out in all directions, some sneaking under my desk, others traveling as far as the walkway.
“Shit,” I mutter, glaring at the mess. A deep sigh escapes me as I drop to my knees, the carpet rough against my palms as I collect the fallen candy.
Each one I touch leaves tacky residue against my fingertips, along with lint and dust they collected, rendering them inedible.
My stomach tightens—I’ll need to get more.
“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?
Outside, the January wind slashes at exposed skin like tiny knives. I pull my coat tighter around me, burying my chin in my scarf. The sidewalks are busy with other office workers migrating to various happy hours and dinners, everyone hunched against the cold.
The bar is only a block away, tucked into the first floor of an older building in the business district.
A warm glow spills from its windows, promising shelter from the brutal winter air.
The sign above the door features a dark wood with bright letters, each capitalized as if to scream its presence to passersby.
Inside, the space is a study in contrasts—modern light fixtures hanging from the ceiling, sleek metal barstools resting next to tables made of reclaimed wood. The noise level sits just below uncomfortable, a steady hum of conversation punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter.
Nadia leads us to a table in the corner that’s been reserved, and we shed our winter layers before arranging ourselves around it. I end up sandwiched between Chris and Zahra, the table small enough that our elbows brush whenever we move. I’m going to puke.
A server appears almost immediately, tablet in hand, ready to take drink orders.
“First round’s on my department,” Chris announces. “End-of-month targets were hit.”
Everyone cheers except me. I missed that memo—if it ever existed—but I’m not about to turn down a free drink. When it’s my turn to order, I scan the cocktail list quickly before picking something called a Montréal Mule—gin, ginger beer, and lime juice. Might as well try something local.
As the server departs, the others continue paused conversations and I catch fragments about weekend plans and a new Thai restaurant someone tried.
Chris complains about a client who calls every hour for updates.
Normal people talking about normal things, the mundane details of lives that have roots and connections.
My drink arrives in a copper mug, condensation beading on the side. The first sip offers a pleasant burn as the acidity of lime cuts through the bite of the alcohol and ginger. Not bad.
“So, Maven, what brought you to Montréal?” Zahra asks, now facing me with what appears to be genuine interest.
I grip my mug tighter, the cold metal stinging my palm. “Just needed a change,” I say, the practiced line falling from my tongue.