Something like Desire

Chapter 1

ONE

I have a confession.

I don’t think I’m in the right job.

I know, I know—it sounds dramatic. But I’m not one of those people who complain about work just to have something to talk about. I really wanted to love this.

I’ve always been good at helping people—being a sounding board, talking them out of rash decisions—so human resources seemed perfect. There’s something satisfying about helping someone calm down or see things clearly.

I just didn’t expect most of my “helping” to involve issuing memos about not using the special-edition Superman mug in the break room because it’s someone’s prized possession, or gently suggesting that staff switch to unscented deodorant because floral scents give people migraines.

I wish I’d realized sooner that my career path would eventually have me refereeing stuff like this—before I spent four years studying human resources at UCLA. But hey, live and learn, right? And honestly, no one forced me into this field—I chose it, which makes the chaos all my own.

Fara from accounting is going on and on about something to do with the payroll clerk using Fara’s stapler without asking and I’m staring out the window at the poster in the bus stop across the street like I do every day.

It’s a car advertisement featuring towering evergreens and a trail that winds alongside a creek, the water glimmering in sunlight streaming through the spaces between the branches overhead.

I’m pretending I’m there, one with nature, instead of where I am right now: In a poorly ventilated office, sitting on a vinyl chair that’s sticking to the back of my thighs.

“This is hard for me, Lexi,” Fara says into the phone, and I snap back into reality. I grab the smiley face stress ball from the plastic bin of fidget toys on my desk and squeeze it vigorously, hoping it will help me focus.

“I hear you,” I say, the way I’ve been trained to. “I recognize how you’re feeling and want to help you resolve this.”

The number one rule in HR is to validate the person’s feelings, to empathize with their concerns, and I’m trying to do that so I can keep this job.

But to be honest, I can’t fathom a world where I’d be content working here, listening to complaints about stolen paperclip jars and distracting cactus displays.

Fara continues talking about how the payroll clerk has also been typing way too loudly with her new fake nails.

I let the fidget ball drop from my hand and go back to staring at the bus stop poster, imagining how soft the grass would be if I lay down on it, how warm the sun would feel beaming on my skin, how inspired I’d feel if I were there with my notebook.

What would I come up with if I had no interruptions, just natural beauty in every direction?

Jayden’s been talking about going away for a weekend. He keeps saying we should take a drive to Santa Monica, but how cool would it be to go exploring somewhere off the beaten path?

“What do you think I should do?” Fara asks in a shrill voice, sounding like she’s on the verge of tears.

“I’ve recorded your concerns and will bring them up with Alana promptly,” I say, hoping I sound genuine even though I’m just reading the script I’m required to use for every phone consultation.

“Your well-being is important to us at EcoPoly Solutions. I’ll call you after I’ve spoken with her to follow up on next steps. ”

“Thank you,” Fara says. “I have been suffering so much because of this.”

I’m so glad this isn’t a Zoom call because I don’t even think that being on camera could stop me from breaking into a smile at her melodrama.

“My pleasure,” I say in the most patient tone I can muster.

“Have a great day.” I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror, and I look as tense as I feel.

My skin’s paler than ever, my jaw set in a tight line, and my whole appearance gives off uptight vibes.

My wavy brown hair is pulled into a no-nonsense bun and I’m wearing a pleated skirt, pale blue blouse, and pumps.

I can’t wait to kick off these shoes, peel off these stiff clothes, and put on my jogging pants and tank top.

I end the call, close my eyes, and swivel in an exasperated circle on my rolling chair.

Without even realizing it, a low, frustrated groan emanates from the back of my throat, echoing in the near-silence of our office.

I take a deep breath and tell myself to hang in there—people count on me, even if they drive me crazy sometimes.

“Don’t let them get under your skin, Lexi,” Andy pipes up from the cubicle next to me.

He wheels himself around the divider between us and waggles his eyebrows.

“Instead, think about that sweet, sweet paycheck.” He laughs, and so do I, since we have pretty much the exact same salary.

With seven years under my belt as a human resources assistant, I make enough money to live comfortably but it’s definitely not a lot.

“Think about it this way,” Andy continues, “Some people can’t stop thinking about their damn jobs, even after they leave for the day.

They eat, sleep, and breathe their careers.

As soon as I walk through that doorway .

. .” He gestures to the front entrance with a dramatic flourish.

“I leave this place and all its nonsense behind. I don’t give it another thought until I’m back the next morning. No stress. It’s a beautiful thing.”

“I wish I had your attitude,” I say with a sigh. “That sounds amazing.”

Andy shrugs and runs a hand through his bleached hair. “I was hoping it would rub off on you by now.”

It’s annoying that it hasn’t, because every day here is a soul-sucking experience during which I visualize fantasy scenarios—like the building going up in flames (after we’ve all escaped of course); or a headhunter for a publishing company coming in telling me she’s heard about my talents and absolutely needs to recruit me; or the organizer of one of the many sweepstakes contests I’ve entered calling to tell me I’ve won big money, enough to quit this place for good and pursue my dreams. If manifestation is really a thing like all the self-help books I’ve read testify it is, it should have worked by now because, believe me, I’ve been trying every strategy I’ve studied.

Andy scoots forward a few feet and shoots me a dazzling white smile, looking like the trendsetter he is in his form-fitting white shirt, tailored vest, wide-leg trousers, and platform shoes.

“Drinks after work with me and Santiago? It’s karaoke night, Ms. Swift.

” He winks, assuring me that he and his boyfriend will never let me live last month down.

I drank my weight in vodka cranberries and sang virtually every Taylor Swift song ever recorded.

There were even some dance moves: the worm, the sprinkler, and a little air guitar.

At the time, I thought I was a superstar .

. . but the video footage strongly suggested otherwise.

“I’m meeting my mom after work,” I respond, turning back to my computer and trying to psych myself up to dig into another complaint case.

“Your mom? I thought she was avoiding you. My guess is a tummy tuck. She probably wanted to heal before the big reveal.”

I crack a smile. Mom’s the last person in the entire state of California who’d get any work done. She’s never been superficial. Since she retired, she’s been very into gardening and home improvement. “My guess is she renovated the house and wants to surprise me.”

“Nice. Love me some good house makeovers. Come out after you meet her and give me the scoop . . . ?”

“I’ve got plans with Jayden.”

“Bring him along,” Andy says. “I’m confident that with the right balance of encouragement and amaretto sours, I can convince him to get up onstage and let his inner rock star out.”

I picture Jayden onstage, the top buttons of his shirt undone, belting out a song while Andy and Santiago form a mosh pit in front of the stage and I let out a loud laugh.

There’s no way Jayden would ever perform karaoke, but the image is a good addition to the reel of funny things I picture when I’m trying not to cry about something in public places.

Andy hums his go-to karaoke song, “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’,” and I have to admit karaoke with him and Santiago might just be the uplifting evening I’ve been craving, but ditching Jayden on the one night I’m free this weekend isn’t something I’d feel good about.

Andy spins around in his chair, dips his body to the side, and kicks his legs out. “Well, what do you say?”

I look over from my computer and shake my head. “Jayden and I are going to stay in and have a quiet night.”

Andy fakes a yawn. “Borrrring. How about Saturday?”

“Helping Gia with wedding stuff.” Ditching my sister would not go down well. That girl has a checklist detailing all the things that need to happen to make her wedding the day she’s dreamed of, and Lexi being by my side, every step of the way is number three.

“And are you going to enjoy your riveting weekend?” Andy asks, raising his perfectly groomed eyebrows at me.

“Sure, I will,” I say in an overly pleasant tone, even though I can only remember one experience in the last fifteen years where I did something that made me feel excited.

During my gap year, I went on a trip across Europe with my best friend, Maren.

We visited so many remote places that don’t show up in travel magazines.

I still remember the buzz of adrenaline that charged through me during the entire trip.

“If you say so,” Andy says in a disbelieving tone and wheels himself back to his desk.

The next couple of hours are filled with three more phone consultations, answering twelve emails, and having a resolution meeting with two customer service reps dueling over a coveted office chair.

When work’s done, I text Mom.

Finished for the day. Should I come by now?

Her reply comes quickly.

No. Let’s meet at Chrissy’s instead.

My mother’s asking to meet me at a coffee shop when she makes constant digs about me wasting money on ten-dollar lattes . . . ? First she avoids me for weeks and now she wants to meet at an expensive café? It doesn’t seem like my guess about her home glow-up is accurate.

Something’s definitely going on. Maybe it was just the egg salad sandwich I had for lunch, but I have a bad feeling about this.