Chapter 5
The sushi place Stella recommended is only a couple of blocks away from the office building, so we decide to walk.
As we stroll down the street, I try to mentally convey to Aashiq to hang back so I can talk to him in private.
But to my annoyance, he’s a huge hit with Faye, Stella, and Sofia, who are all loudly laughing at one of his jokes.
Just a couple of minutes ago they were eyeing him like he was an interloper, and now they’re all fawning over him.
A few minutes ago, no one but me could even see him.
Aashiq peers over his shoulder at me, then tilts his head to the side, as if to ask why I’m not walking with their group.
I narrow my eyes, then glance to my left to indicate to him to come to my side.
Thankfully, he gets the hint, and he slows his pace.
The other women keep walking ahead, engaged in their own conversation.
By the time I catch up to him, anger flushes my cheeks.
“I thought I was the only person who was able to see you,” I whisper.
“You were, at first,” he confirms. “But you are proving to be very stubborn, so I’ve had to manipulate things so others can see me.” He shrugs. “Seems like the only way to get you to do anything is peer pressure.”
My jaw drops. “That is not true.”
“It got you to agree to invite your coworkers to lunch, did it not?” he presses.
“That’s different. I was just being polite.”
“Because I peer-pressured you.”
“Whatever!” I pause, then point a finger at him. “Wait a second. You’re telling me this whole time you could have made it so anyone could see you, but you chose to keep yourself hidden so I looked like I was talking to nobody?”
He bites his bottom lip. “I didn’t really choose it, but yeah, I guess that’s what happened.”
“You made me look ridiculous!”
“Ziya, you’re a writer. You’re all a little bit ridiculous.” He pats my shoulder, then continues on his way.
I suck in my cheeks but follow him. Aashiq catches up to the others, and when we get to the restaurant, he holds the door open for all of us.
I come up last, and as he steps forward and lets the door close behind us, he places his hand on my lower back.
I startle as warmth abruptly seeps through my coat, but I don’t push him away as he ushers me to the area where the others are waiting to be seated.
When he drops his hand, I can still feel the imprint of his palm against my clothes, like it’s burning a hole through the material.
Once we’re all seated, the fact that I’m close to none of my coworkers becomes extremely apparent.
They’re talking to each other with ease, referencing inside jokes and other times they’ve hung out, telling a story about a waiter from the last time they were at this sushi place.
The laughter that bursts from them is natural and full, and it makes me feel self-conscious.
Do I have my attitude toward work all wrong?
To me, this is just a place for me to keep my head down, do my tasks, and then go home so I can write.
I usually skip out on company dinners, only attend mandatory events, and don’t make the effort to talk to any of my coworkers.
But seeing the easy way Faye, Stella, and Sofia converse with each other as they give recommendations on the menu…
maybe I’m missing out on more than I thought.
After we’ve all placed our orders, I resign myself to spend this lunch hour just observing as they all start talking again.
Aashiq claps his hands, bringing everyone’s attention to him. “So! As the new guy in the office, I don’t know a lot about the rest of you. What kind of work does everyone do?”
Faye speaks up first. “Well, I’m the accountant for the firm,” she explains. “It’s my job to make sure we’re operating properly at a financial level, including balancing the budget, managing the payroll, and warning about potential overspending.”
I almost make a comment about what the budget would be like for an education funding package, but I hold it back.
I can’t go behind Colin’s back and ask about something he would need to approve first anyway.
If I did, he might be even more reluctant to fund my studies.
It’d also be weird to ask Faye anything about it when we’re not exactly close.
“Sounds like a very important job,” Aashiq acknowledges with a dip of his chin. He turns to Stella. “And you?”
“I’m the records clerk,” she answers. “I work with the attorneys and the paralegals to make sure files are properly organized, labeled, and stored away. It’s a little boring because it’s mostly just keeping things in order and transporting files to different places, but it’s good enough for me.”
“That also sounds like a very important job.” Aashiq turns to Sofia. “What do you do?”
“I’m an associate attorney,” she says. “I’m one of the lower-tier lawyers. I give clients legal assistance, and I work with the paralegals to help them do their jobs more efficiently.”
“Wow,” Aashiq nods thoughtfully. “Sounds like a very—”
“Important job,” Sofia finishes, a teasing smirk on her face. “You’ve said that about all of us. Makes me wonder whose job is actually important.”
Aashiq furrows his brows. “I said that because all of your jobs are equally as important,” he says.
“If you think about it, if your firm lost any one of you, it would mess up the entire way you operate. It’s why whenever someone leaves, they have to replace them.
” He lifts his hands. “Ergo, everyone’s job is important. ”
They all nod thoughtfully. “I guess that’s true,” Stella allows.
“So, Aashiq,” Faye starts. She places her elbows on the table, knots her fingers together, and rests her chin on top of them. “What did you say you’re doing at our firm, again?”
“Oh, I’m here to watch Ziya and help her,” he chirps.
“Help her with what?” Stella asks.
I speak up for the first time since we got here. “He’s shadowing me to see if he’d be happy in this role based on if I’m happy with my job—which I am ,” I say, extra emphasis thrown behind my last word while I make deliberate eye contact with Aashiq. “I’m fulfilled and don’t need anything else.”
That brings on a bit of an awkward silence, and for a moment no one speaks, until, of course, Aashiq breaks the quiet. “So,” he begins, “have any of you read Ziya’s writing?”
My body freezes. A numbness spreads through my limbs, dulling my senses and causing my nerves to crackle under my skin. A heavy weight drops into my stomach, like someone catapulted a huge rock into my gut. He did not just do that. He did not just do that.
Everyone’s attention turns to me, and they all wear identical expressions of surprise: raised brows, parted lips, and curiosity flickering in their eyes. “Oh, I didn’t know you were a writer, Ziya!” Stella gushes.
My mouth dries like someone rubbed sandpaper along my tongue.
I suck my cheeks in, and the only thing I can do is offer an uncomfortable smile.
“I, uh,” I stammer, and when my desperate gaze flickers over to Aashiq for help, he just gives me an encouraging nod, like he’s done me a favor by starting the conversation.
I’m definitely not getting any help from him. I run my clammy palms along my pants. I swallow thickly. “It’s not a big deal.”
Aashiq’s eyes widen. “Not a big deal?” he repeats, though his incredulous tone differs from my insecure one. “Of course it’s a big deal!”
I give him a stern glare by flexing my brows. “It’s really not ,” I insist. “It’s just something I like to do in my spare time. I don’t tell very many people.”
As always, he doesn’t take the hint. “You should be telling more people! You being a writer is absolutely amazing.”
Man, I know some beta readers exist just to give you good feedback to boost your confidence, but if Aashiq glows any brighter, he’s going to burn my retinas.
“It’s really not ,” I stress harder, as hard as I can without completely ruining the mood.
“I promise it’s just a little thing I do. It isn’t anything.”
“Aashiq’s right,” Stella says, gesturing to him. “Being a writer is pretty cool. I don’t know how you have the time for it on top of your job.”
By constantly ruining my sleep schedule and not eating proper meals is what I want to say, but I want my coworkers to think I’m a functional adult human being, so I grit my teeth.
“Yeah, well…” I say, and while it’s not a whole sentence, I hope it’s enough to get them to drop it before they ask the one question all writers absolutely dread, which is—
“So, what do you write about?” Faye asks.
Damn it.
There isn’t anything necessarily wrong with the question.
All writers should be prepared to answer it, because it’s literally what they do.
But I’ve always been a little embarrassed whenever someone I don’t know finds out I’m a writer (or hell, even when someone I do know finds out).
One, because I have nothing to show for it, and two, because people judge you based on what you write about.
It’s like whatever genre you write in determines your legitimacy.
Horror and thriller writers are revered; they’re applauded for being able to think of such great plot twists and for their super tight narration.
People regard nonfiction writers as extremely intellectual; after all, you’re writing about real facts, so a lot of research goes into the process.
Fantasy writers have big brains—how else could they create such rich worlds that leap off the page?