5. Anouk
Anouk
By the time I leave the office, the sun has dipped low over the bay, staining the sky orange and sea-glass pink. The second floor is emptying—people packing laptops, saying goodnights, complaining about Muni delays, or Bay Bridge traffic.
I have a mint-green Linus I bought years ago. The chain squeaks, the gears complain, and the paint has dulled in places where my hands and thighs have worn it down over time. It’s perfect in an imperfect sort of way.
San Francisco is noisy, chaotic, and sharp around the edges. But as I pedal up Market and cut west toward Haight-Ashbury, everything in my mind softens.
Movement helps; it releases the buzzing static of the day, lets me breathe.
Because, man, it’s been a day, right?
I will work on a massively important project for the company, which is unbelievable for the girl who has trouble presenting her thoughts.
I’m confused about how to feel about what is clearly a victory, but the imposter bitch who lives inside me is certain this is a setup—a trapdoor straight into despair.
Stop with all the negativity, Anouk, I tell myself as I coast past the shops on Haight, the vintage bookstores, the murals, the smell of incense and weed drifting from open doorways.
Remember what Dot said? “You’re the best analyst ever.”
I want to believe her—want to so badly that it hurts. But there are so many other voices playing in my head on a loop.
“You think you can get into Stanford? In which universe?”
“You got into Stanford? Can you even afford that?”
“You have a scholarship? You’re so going to lose it before the first quarter is up.”
“You got a job at HelixSphere? They’re ruthless there. You go up, or you go out. How long do you think you’ll last?”
And then most recently, in fact, just this morning, “If you can’t present your own numbers, maybe someone else should own them.”
I pedal harder.
All my life, I’ve been told I’m not good enough.
My mother made sure of that, and because she had custody of me for most of my childhood, her voice is the loudest.
But then—for nine months—I lived with my father.
The stability of having food every day, of knowing he’d be home when I got back from school, of not having to lie about the bruise blooming on my face.
Papa was an artist and came to San Francisco from Ohio as a student and stayed.
He worked at galleries in Oakland, helping install exhibitions, stretching canvases, hanging other people’s brilliance on walls. He wasn’t well off—not even close—which is why he’d lost custody of me in the first place.
My mother, Cristina, was the opposite—a senior bank executive with a cocaine habit polished into invisibility. To the outside world, she was power suits and perfect hair. Behind closed doors, I was the target of her drug-fueled rages.
I remember watching Papa paint in his tiny studio—sunlight catching in his curls, the whole room smelling of turpentine and possibility—I believed everything was going to be alright.
I believed it with my whole heart.
And then it wasn’t.
One moment, Papa was humming to himself, sliding color across canvas, and the next, paint and blood were running together, dripping down the frame in horrific streaks.
In between those two moments was endless hell.
Me begging my mother to stop.
Me trying to protect my father.
My father trying to protect me.
Both of us failing.
Cristina was taken away in handcuffs.
I was taken to a state home, and the part of my brain that could speak cleanly didn’t break, exactly, but it shut down to survive.
For a while, I couldn’t talk.
For months and months, I couldn’t make a sound.
And then, slowly, I trained my vocal cords.
Doctors call it PTSD. A trauma response. Whatever DSM-5 label fits best on a chart.
I call it a broken heart, a shaken brain, a soul that took a hit it didn’t know how to absorb.
Some people wonder why I can’t just get over it, why I didn’t grow out of the stutter. They don’t understand that trauma doesn’t stay neatly in the past. It settles into the body. It changes how you breathe, how you speak, how quickly fear rises before thought can intervene.
If I’d been in an accident and lost the use of my hands or my legs, everyone would recognize the injury. But because mine lives inside—because it shows up in my speech—people assume it’s a flaw of character.
That I’m broken. Or weak. Or stupid. Or fragile.
They never think that maybe I’m still here because my brain found a way to protect me.
I shove the old thoughts aside—the sour ones, the self-pitying ones—and force them back into whatever dark corner they crawled out of when I stop in front of my apartment.
A converted Victorian with turquoise trim, crooked front steps, and a porch swing that squeaks whenever the wind hits it just wrong.
I own this place with my best friend.
Own it.
Two kids who grew up in state homes, bounced around like afterthoughts, now share a mortgage and a front door no one can kick us out of.
It still feels unreal some days.
We bought our home from an aging hippie who loved the building more than he loved money. He sold it at a below-market price because he wanted good souls to live in his old home.
Lucky us!
I haul my bike up the stairs and lock it to the porch railing. Then, I push open the front door and walk in.
Warmth hits me first. Then the smell. Something rich and savory—stew.
Score! Finn cooked, which means no takeout.
In our home, he’s the designated chef because he actually knows what he’s doing, while I’m a culinary disaster.
When I say, “I made dinner,” what I really mean is: “I boiled noodles and dumped jar sauce on them, so please lower your expectations accordingly.”
He’s home nights this week, and that’s really nice because when he’s on the night shift at the firehouse, I barely see him and have to eat said boiled noodles.
“Annie?” a voice calls from the kitchen.
“Yeah,” I answer—no stutter, no tightness, just me as I enter the kitchen plus dining area.
Finnegan “Finn” O’Connell sticks his head out from around the fridge, a beer in one hand, his shirt half-unbuttoned, like he forgot to finish dressing.
His hair is messy, and his face always looks smug.
His aura screams, I am trouble wrapped in flannel.
He is.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I quirk an eyebrow. “How do you know something is wrong?”
He pulls me into a hug. “I always know.” He kisses my forehead. “Out with it.”
I melt into him. “It’s been a long day.”
“Beer?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Let’s talk. Stew will be ready in half an hour.”
We take our beers and go into our living room. We’re on a San Francisco local-brewery kick these days—trying anything that comes out of Cellarmaker, Fort Point, or Standard Deviant like we’re conducting a very serious research study. Tonight’s selection is Fort Point KSA.
We settle on the couch next to one another. He puts his bare feet up on the coffee table, and I angle myself so I can look at him.
I take a long draw of beer and look around, feeling safe as I always do.
We’ve made our apartment cozy. We bought everything new when we first moved in. We never buy used. I think it comes from wearing hand-me-downs and sleeping on beds and bedding that were old, slept in, and not ours.
Our furniture isn’t crazy expensive or flashy, but it’s well-made—pieces we saved up for.
We have blankets everywhere because I’m always cold.
According to Finn, that’s because I need to “pump iron and build some muscle,” since I don’t hold on to weight the way most people do.
Not because I’m dieting—God, no—but because growing up, food wasn’t always available, and my hunger cues didn’t develop properly.
My body didn’t trust that food would be there, so it ran on adrenaline and habit instead of appetite.
It was a survival response.
I’m fine now. I eat three meals a day. I don’t skip. I don’t forget. However, I still don’t put on weight.
Finn also carries baggage he’s still healing from.
When he was a child, one of his foster mothers used to lock him in a closet for hours at a time.
He isn’t claustrophobic anymore—not the way he once was, which is fortunate, because that would be a severe liability for a firefighter—but he sleeps with the windows wide open, no matter the season or the weather.
There are speakers in every room, too. If one of us is alone, there’s always music or white noise or rain sounds filling the space. Silence can be loud when you’ve lived the way we did.
So much of how we live is intentional—built around care. Around survival. Which is why our home is warm. No sharp corners. Just tenderness.
Trauma can make you cold. Finn and I know that. That didn’t happen to us because we found each other—lost siblings.
We connected instantly when we met on day two of my stay at the state home. He had a split lip and gentle eyes. I had a stutter and eyes that didn’t meet anyone else’s.
We became a unit—a family.
“Talk to me,” he urges.
I drink some beer. “You know our new CEO started today.”
He nods. “You had the early meeting.”
I lick my lips.
“Annie, please, tell me what happened.”
He knows I keep things inside—another survival mechanism.
If you showed weakness in the home, you’d be done for—bullied, beaten. I just kept quiet and learned to control my emotions as best as I could. Finn used his fists to protect himself and me.
“He asked a question,” I whisper, shame creeping up despite knowing better. “In front of everyone. I…I couldn’t get the words out.”
Finn’s jaw flexes. “And?”
“He got impatient. Erin…you know that horrible woman who started a couple of months ago?” He nods. He knows. I tell him everything. “She talked over me. People snickered.” My voice trembles. “Luther…that’s the CEO, he told me, since I wasn’t able to present…I don’t deserve to own the data.”
Finn mutters curses so colorfully, I’m certain half the saints of Ireland are blushing.
“Say the word,” he growls, “and I’ll show up at HelixSphere with a hose and blast him through a window.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Please don’t.”
He leans forward, eyes warm. “You’re brilliant, Annie. You hear me? You’re the smartest person I know.”
“I don’t feel brilliant.”
He sets his beer bottle down on the coffee table, which we picked up in Guadalupe de Valle last Christmas.
Since we have no family, and it’s just us, we travel for the holidays, somewhere we dreamed of going as kids but never thought we would. Now, we both have well-paying jobs, and we’re determined to make some of those old dreams come true.
He puts an arm around me, draws me close. “You had a trauma spike. It happens. It doesn’t define you, Annie.”
I snuggle into him. “Dot said he wants me on this big project. You know, the one with Novagene.”
I tell Finn about my work, and he tells me about his. We talk about everything to each other.
Best friends. Siblings. Survivors.
He pulls back, a smile on his face. “Well then, the guy isn’t completely stupid.”
“Do you…ah…do you think he’s giving it to me because he was an ass to me?”
He cups my face and kisses my nose. “No, Annie. He’s giving it to you because you’re brilliant.”
Tears flow down my face. He wipes them.
“I’m scared,” I confess.
“Of messing up?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“Of being seen?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
Finn’s expression softens. “You don’t have to be anyone but you. If they can’t see your worth, that’s on them—not you.”
“Really?”
He grins. “Yeah, Annie, really.” He gets up and pulls me along with him. “Come on, let’s eat. Get some meat on your bones.”
I laugh at that. Finn always makes the bad lessen in intensity. I do the same for him.
That night, when he says goodnight, I ask the question I always do. “Tell me one good thing that happened today.”
He flashes a grin. “Saved a cat stuck on a fire escape. Tiny gray fluffball with one eye and no concept of heights. She belonged to this blue-haired old lady, Mrs. Costanza.”
I smile. “That’s very superhero of you.”
“Obviously,” he says with a dramatic hair flip. “Mrs. Costanza cried and told me I reminded her of her late husband.”
I snort. “Because you saved her cat?”
“No, because I’m ‘built like a brick shithouse,’” he deadpans. “Her words, not mine.”
I chuckle.
He leans against the doorway. “Your turn, Annie. Tell me one good thing that happened to you today.”
A lump forms in my throat.
I think about the meeting. The whispers and gossip. The conversation with Dot.
I think about my bicycle ride home. The warmth of the apartment. The smell of stew.
I think about the fact that even on my worst days, I still get to come home to someone who asks me about my bright spot—who believes it exists even when I can’t see it yet.
“Dinner. With you.”
He smiles. “Good answer.”