4. Chapter Four #2
“From Boston? That’s not much of a change,” Tyler jokes. “Still cold as balls.”
A few chuckles ripple around the table. I allow my lips to twitch in what might pass for a smile.
“Family here?” Mei asks, sipping something pink and frothy.
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intend, and I sip my drink again to cover the awkwardness. “Just me.”
There’s a slight pause, the kind that happens when people sense there’s more to the story but are too polite to press. Chris fills it with a question about the difference in tax codes between the US and Canada, directing it at Nadia, who launches into an explanation so technical my eyes glaze over.
The alcohol won’t settle fast enough. I drain half my drink in one go, savoring the burn that travels down my throat and blooms in my chest. Maybe if I get drunk enough, I’ll stop feeling like I’m performing humanity rather than experiencing it.
“What about you? Any family in the States?” Chris directs his attention back to me, persistent in his attempt to include me in the conversation.
I shake my head. “No one.” The truth slips out before I dress it up in something more palatable. “Foster care,” I add, as if that explains everything.
Another painful pause, this one filled with the kind of pity I’ve spent my life avoiding. It flashes between their exchanged glances as the skin softens around their eyes.
“That must have been tough,” Nadia replies in a soft tone, her perfect eyebrows drawing together.
I shrug, already regretting having shared even this much. “It was what it was.”
The table falls silent for a moment before Tyler, bless his heart, changes the subject to something about a system upgrade happening over the weekend that will affect everyone’s access. The tension dissipates as complaints about IT protocols take over.
By the time I finish my first drink, my body slightly disconnects from my mind—I’m not drunk, just not as sharp around the edges. The noise of the bar seems both louder and less grating, and the constant press of Zahra’s arm against mine no longer makes my skin sizzle quite as much.
The server returns for a second round, and I order the same, thinking perhaps this night won’t be as unbearable as I’d feared. Maybe I can do this—this normal-person ritual of drinks after work.
But as my second drink arrives, something shifts in my gut. A heaviness, like a stone sinking through water, embeds in my stomach. The lime suddenly tastes cloying, too tart against the back of my throat. The ginger becomes unpleasant.
The bar’s temperature rises ten degrees at once, and sweat beads along my hairline and upper lip, my insides twisting. The lights overhead grow too bright, each one sending needles into my eyes when I glance up.
“You okay?” Chris asks, noticing my sudden stillness.
I nod in answer, not trusting my voice. But I’m not okay. My body is rejecting this. Every cell screams for solitude, for the quiet of my apartment and the calm that only appears when I’m alone.
No, not alone. When I’m dreaming.
The realization floods me. I don’t want to go home to an empty apartment…I want to go to bed and dream of places I’ve never been. I want to feel that presence watching me, to experience the comfort of being seen by someone.
Since when did my dreams become more appealing than reality? Since when did I long for sleep not as an escape but as a destination?
My phone buzzes in my pocket—a welcome interruption from the spiraling thoughts.
I tug it out to find Dr. Voss’ name on the screen, the second call from her today.
Our session. Right. In all the chaos of the workday and this impromptu happy hour, I’d completely forgotten our rescheduled appointment.
“I have to take this,” I say, already standing, relief rushing through me at the perfect excuse. “It’s my doctor.”
Nadia looks concerned. “Everything alright?”
“Fine, just a follow-up call I forgot about.” I gather my jacket and bag, hoping I don’t appear too eager to escape. “Thanks for the drinks. I’ll see you all Monday.”
Before anyone can protest, I’m heading for the door, answering the call as I go.
“I know, I forgot,” I say by way of greeting, the cold outside a blessed reprieve against my overheated skin.
“Don’t let that become a pattern, Maven,” Dr. Voss replies, her voice disappointed.
“I was out with colleagues.” A weak defense. It’s strange in my mouth as I navigate toward the nearest metro entrance. This disaster of an experience might do some good, after all, and keep me from a scolding. “Didn’t notice the time.”
A pause on her end, though whether from surprise or suspicion, I can’t tell. “That’s a positive development. Making connections is important.”
My jaw tightens. “It was just drinks. Don’t read too much into it.”
The underground welcomes me with its artificially regulated temperature, the familiar scent of recycled air and distant food courts filling my lungs. The tension in my body begins to ease as I distance myself from the bar.
“How are you feeling otherwise?” Dr. Voss asks, cutting to the chase as she always does. “Sleep patterns stable? Taking your medication?” She must think I was having some kind of meltdown yesterday and lied.
I suppose I did.
I think about the dreams, about the faceless figure and the flowers that appear each morning. About how sleep has become something I look forward to rather than just another biological necessity.
“Like I said yesterday, fine.” A forced breath fills my lungs as I step onto an escalator that carries me deeper underground. “Everything’s the same.”
We talk for another ten minutes as I offer just enough detail about my week to satisfy her professional curiosity without revealing anything meaningful. Yes, the job is going well. No thoughts of self-harm. Yes, I’m eating regularly. No, no unusual symptoms or behaviors.
By the time we hang up, I’m nearly back to my apartment, a flicker of keenness buzzing my nerves. A current of expectation flutters beneath my skin, as if I’m not returning to an empty apartment but to a meeting that’s been waiting for me since I woke this morning.
The thought should disturb me more than it does. That’s another lie—nothing really disturbs me at this point.
As I unlock the door, there’s that feeling again—the one that strengthens each day. Like I’m being watched. Perceived. The hair along the back of my neck stands at attention as my eyes scan the space, of course finding nothing out of place.
After my routine, I slide beneath my cool sheets in just my underwear, tucking them under my chin. My eyelids grow heavy, thoughts slowing as exhaustion claims its due. I don’t fight it. I welcome it with hungry need.
I wonder where I’ll go tonight in my dreams. What beautiful, empty landscape will form itself around me? And will he be there, watching from behind his veil of white fabric?
The questions follow me down into darkness, into the space between waking and dreaming where reality shifts. As consciousness slips away, I think I smile.