Chapter 4
JAMIE
Three weeks later
The apartment Mom found is clean, in a nice building, near a subway station, allows cats, and just barely fits within my budget, which means the compromise is that it’s tiny.
It’s debatable whether it’s a one-bedroom apartment as the listing said, or a studio apartment with a large closet.
My full-size mattress and nightstand just barely fit in the ‘bedroom,’ but I actually don’t mind the bedroom being small—it’s cozy.
Especially with the bay window that looks out over an inner courtyard, offering a view of flowering trees lush with mid-spring color and squirrels bounding along their branches.
The main room is white and featureless with a utilitarian galley kitchen—more of a kitchenette with its undersized fridge and lack of dishwasher—but Mom assures me I’ll make it feel like home in no time.
“I’m exhausted.” I flop back onto a freshly assembled couch with the unpronounceable Swedish name. I know it’s the only way to get Mom off her feet—she thinks she’s been successfully hiding her wincing.
“Ah,” she sighs, propping her feet up next to me, pretending she’s being lazy and not trying to get the blood to drain out of her swollen foot. “I’m starving. Ooh! I’m ordering Chinese.” She pulls out her phone. “There’s no good Chinese around Pleasantwood…”
She grew up near a city. I wonder what else she misses from that life. She once told me, “There’s a freedom in being bound. In the devil you know.” She says those early years with Chuck were alright. But how much better could those years have been if she’d been able to roam safely alone?
An omega reaching thirty-one still unmated was unheard of when Mom was a kid.
My life has been safe but small, limited in other ways—ways that the pack of pills in the paper bag on the counter, flanked by the six foot long receipt of coupons from the pharmacy, can erase.
“Are you excited for your first day of work?” Mom asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“I’m trying not to think about it too much.” I regret putting the move off until the last possible second. I was reluctant to leave Pleasantwood, but now I’m wishing I had more time to adjust to the city before my first day of work tomorrow morning.
Nerves swirl in my gut. So much for not thinking about it.
It’s my first real job. First real apartment.
Grad school counts for something, but it’s not the same. It’s not… corporate. Being thrifty is a cherished asset in a graduate lab, but a liability at a corporation. Move fast, break things and all that.
I learned all this from the podcasts Mom’s been sending. They’re helping a bit—I’d rather worry now than be blindsided later.
But at this exact moment, ignorance is bliss, and I wish I could enjoy these last few hours together.
Last few hours? I’m sounding like Mom has terminal cancer, not like I’m moving two hours away. I’ll call her tomorrow and see her in two weeks, if not sooner.
Fuck, she was right. I do need to get out of the house.
The takeout arrives, and it smells amazing. Tastes even better. That’s it—focus on the food. I get the TV hooked up so we can watch Home Wreck Fixer as we eat and chat, like any other night.
Until Mom gets up, stretches, and says she should be heading home, limping subtly.
“Mom, are you sure you’re okay to drive?
It’s kinda late.” We’d gotten up early, hit the furniture store on the way into the city, moved all my shit, and assembled half the furniture.
A ridiculously ambitious plan, but one we’d actually managed to pull off.
Wait, I forgot groceries. Shit. At least there’ll be leftover takeout.
“I’m sure,” she says with finality, crushing my as-of-yet unacknowledged dream that she might crash on the couch and send me off in the morning. What am I, a kindergartner?
“Take your painkillers,” I say, leaning into a scolding tone to distract myself.
“Fine, Mom,” she says with a roll of her eyes. She downs them with a bottle of water, kisses me on the forehead, and heads for the door. “You better call me right after work tomorrow. I want to hear everything.”
“I will.”
She hesitates in the doorway. I can tell she wants to say more, but knows she’s just stalling. And I know she’ll miss me just as much as I’ll miss her. She’s being as selfless as she’s always been by nudging—well, shoving—me into moving here.
I hope she sees it on my face—how I get that the best thing I can do to honor her selflessness is to throw myself into this chance whole-heartedly. I’m going to give it everything I can.
“Love you,” she finally says.
“Love you too, Mom.”
And she closes the door, leaving me in the silent, empty apartment.
#
The next morning, I go through the motions that will become my new routine: wake to the sound of my alarm and pull back the blackout curtains that block out the city lights overnight; brush my teeth and swallow the dose of suppressant that will make the overstimulating city bearable as it renders my scent bland and uninteresting to alphas; pour a serving of French-press coffee into my thermos, half-jog down the stairs, and catch the next subway train.
I stare at the maps app on my phone, counting the stops to be doubly sure I don’t miss mine. Once I emerge from the rumbling subterranean tunnels of the subway, I’m surrounded by gleaming skyscrapers, cooing pigeons, and hurried commuters.
I can still note the cacophony of scents on the wind, but the suppressant is doing its job of dulling them enough to be tolerable.
I glance at my maps app again, but as I round the block, the Artemis Pharmaceuticals headquarters building is impossible to miss.
Outside, it stands apart from the rest with its wood-look paneling and space-age curves.
A larger-than-life statue of the goddess who lent her name to the company stands with bow raised and pointed out over the city, muscled curves draped with lifelike silk, all made of stone.
The company’s minimalistic logo, ARTEMIS PHARMA circumscribed by a crescent moon, glows from a laser-cut metal panel over the door.
Inside, it’s the most impressive building I’ve ever seen.
Its lobby is a sweeping glass-draped atrium, filled with tropical plants flourishing in the soft warmth and humidity.
Natural wood tones trace the organic curves of balconies above, and beyond them, state-of-the-art labs gleam behind floor-to-ceiling glass.
There’s nothing medical or sterile about it, and I think that’s on purpose. I think it’s supposed to make me feel like I’m part of something bigger than just a company—like a whole ecosystem or something. It’s working.
I hand my ID to the person working the front desk, who smiles warmly and gives me a name tag.
“You’ll get your badge at orientation. Go down this hall to the right, last door on your left.”
I worry I’ll get lost, even with such simple directions. But there are freestanding signs lining the hallway, with big font and arrows pointing out the orientation room, the bathrooms, the kitchen.
I get the sense that whoever planned this orientation is the type of person who prints out labels for every compartment in their drawers, even though they’ve memorized the layout.
I like that kind of person. Like I can hear them saying through the signs, I know it’s overwhelming. It’s going to be okay. I feel a bit more at ease.
I think I expected a sharper edge from Artemis. More of a corporate ‘sink or swim’ mentality. The graduate labs had certainly been that way. So I don’t totally let my guard down, but I breathe a little looser as I step into the orientation room.
The two dozen other new hires are mingling and chatting, also looking both nervous and relieved.
A handsome beta man cracks a joke, and the others around him laugh and giggle. I’m like two seconds into the corporate world and I can already tell he’s in sales.
I find a chair at a table on the far side of the room, not quite up for introducing myself yet. I don’t even know if I’m going to see these people again—this company is huge.
A chipper young woman with her brown hair up in a high ponytail comes in, introduces herself, and welcomes us.
The orientation runs like clockwork, polished corporate slides walking us through the schedule for the week, the structure of the company, their various benefits.
We’ll spend our first week in this class, then report to our various departments.
“And,” the woman gushes, “this is a very special week! Friday is our fifteenth anniversary! You’re all invited. I know you might still be feeling new, but please come. It’s a fantastic way to meet new people! And you can ask literally anyone anything. We have a full open-door policy here.”
I quietly doubt that. Not the intent, just the hyperbole. I don’t really want to meet so many new people yet. I’ll probably stay home.
The woman makes eye contact with me, looking hopeful.
Reflexively, I smile and nod. Shit. She must have clocked me as an introvert and has now artfully ensnared me with a social contract.
She’s just being nice, I remind myself. And welcoming.
I hardly realize the morning has flown by until she says, “Now, before we break for lunch… let’s do some icebreakers! Everybody stand up!”
I groan internally, but comply.
She produces a beach ball with little phrases scribbled on it in permanent marker.
“Now, I’ll throw the ball. Catch it, then share your name, your pronouns, and your department. Whatever question your right thumb lands on, share with the group. Then, toss the ball to the next person and sit down. When everyone’s sat down, I’ll stop torturing you all and let you break for lunch.”
She throws the ball to the sales guy.
“Chad, he-him, Sales,” he says with smooth, charismatic confidence. “Let’s see… my dream vacation destination? Cancun for sure.”
Of course his name is actually Chad. He tosses the ball to a pretty woman with soft auburn curls.
I don’t really hear her words. I’m too focused on dreading my turn. Maybe if I crouch down slowly enough, the orientation leader won’t notice that I sat without taking my turn…
But the ball flies towards me, and I catch it awkwardly to keep it from smacking me in the face.
I lower the ball, and everyone is staring at me. “I’m Jamie, Research,” I say. “And um…” The question under my thumb is upside down, so I spin the ball.
“And your pronouns?” the orientation leader asks.
I see the calm curiosity in her eyes—in everyone’s eyes. I know they clocked my chipped nail polish, long hair, skinny jeans, oversized sweater.
I hear in the question, What are you?
I’d like to know the answer myself, I want to mutter back. My gender is please-do-not-perceive-me.
But a placating smile finds my face. “He-they,” I say sheepishly, knowing they won’t believe me if I just say he-him, that they’ll take it personally if I don’t feel comfortable enough to ‘be my whole self.’ This sort of thing also happened at grad school.
It’s not that I dislike they-them, it’s just…
I’d rather people think about my gender as little as possible and think about me as little as possible.
Other people want that spotlight—are affirmed by it. Not me.
I drop the beach ball as I try to turn it right side up, losing my place. “S-sorry,” I stammer, hating to have attention on me for any longer than necessary.
The orientation leader says, “Just answer whatever.”
I pick the ball up again, paralyzed by the sheer number of questions. But then my eye catches the words ‘ice cream’ and I’m saved.
“My favorite ice cream is cookie dough,” I mutter, then toss the ball to the nearest person as if it’s a ticking bomb.
“Thank you, Jamie,” the orientation leader says, as if applying something she’d just learned in a workshop on inclusion and belonging.
I’d rather not be included, if it’s all the same to you, I think to myself. But I’m finally allowed to sit down, and I half-hide behind the table, dreading lunch.
Now that my turn is over, I can half-listen. And my ears perk as I hear another quiet answer from someone in research. We gravitate towards each other as the group breaks for lunch—she’s about my age, mousy, black hair, East-Asian features.
We make eye contact. I nod and say, “Hey.”
“Hey. You a fresh PhD too?” She has a Midwest accent. I’m sure people comment on it. I am so happy to not.
“Pretty much.” I’d rather not get into the whole gap year thing if I don’t have to.
“Well, then, nice to meet you, Doctor,” she says with a nervous giggle. “Sorry, that was weird. I get weird when I’m nervous.”
“Me too. I’m Jamie.”
“I’m Lily. But I’m, um, really bad with names. So please don’t be offended when I forget.”
“Same. The only person I remember from earlier is Chad. It’s a blur after that.”
“Right? I’m so glad I’m not the only one.”
We chat our way through lunch. It’s really easy to talk to Lily. I’d kinda forgotten that making friends didn’t have to be torture, that Artemis was going to be filled with my kind of people, and that I was far from the first bewildered PhD to stumble into my first day.
And as we return to the orientation room, I hate it, but I have to admit that the icebreaker kind of worked. Neither Lily nor I would have braved introductions otherwise.
The rest of the day and the week fly by too.
Lily and I sit next to each other, chatter about our dissertations, find out we’re both only children, bond over Home Wreck Fixer, and resolve to keep meeting for lunch even if we get placed in different departments.
I think I’m making a friend, I tell Mom. A good one, at that. Mom’s elated.
It’s Friday afternoon, and Lily and I are debating whether to skip the anniversary party.
“I am exhausted,” Lily says. “But also, the grad student in me never turns down free food. No matter what.”
I think about my empty fridge, and how Wednesday’s takeout leftovers only got me through dinner yesterday.
“Shit, you’re right,” I mutter.
“And I heard it’s like really good food. Like, this caterer also does the Met Gala or something.”
“Really?” I’m not sure I love the idea that even a fraction of a penny of what I’m now spending on suppressants goes into overly-fancy catering.
But then I realize I won’t actually be paying for suppressants anymore.
Our legitimately excellent insurance plan covers them.
And whether I partake tonight or not, the money is already spent.
I chew my lip, then force myself to stop. I’m trying to break the habit. “Maybe I’ll just come for a little while…”
“We’ll get in early,” Lily affirms. “Eat our fill of hors d’oeuvres. Leave right after the big speech, home by nine, bada bing, bada free food.”
I smile, and for the first time since starting at Artemis—maybe since way before that—it’s a real, honest-to-goodness smile.
“I like that plan.”