24

Marianna.

There's a Wendy's three blocks from Kinetic.

I know this because I passed it on my way to orientation this morning, back when I was still a person with dignity and professional prospects and a functioning sense of self-worth. Back when I hadn't been publicly rejected by a client in front of my new employer on my literal first day.

That was approximately four hours ago. A lifetime. A geological era.

Now I'm sitting in a plastic booth that smells like industrial cleaner and broken dreams, surrounded by the gentle hum of fluorescent lighting and the distant beeping of the drive-through.

Two Baconators. Large fries. A Frosty. Chicken nuggets—the twenty-piece, because I'm not a quitter.

The total came to $27.43.

I have approximately $14 left in my checking account after this purchase, which means I just spent almost double my net worth on fast food. This is either the worst financial decision of my life or the best, depending on how you feel about emotional eating as a coping mechanism.

I feel great about it. Fantastic. Ten out of ten, would recommend.

Grease. Salt. The specific joy of processed cheese melting against beef that's been sitting under a heat lamp for probably too long. It's disgusting. It's perfect. It's exactly what I need right now—something simple and filling and uncomplicated, something that doesn't ask questions or make demands or look at me with those dark, unreadable eyes and say I don't work with trainees.

I shove three fries into my mouth before I've finished chewing the burger.

This is not cute. This is not the dainty eating of a rom-com heroine, delicately picking at a salad while her love interest gazes adoringly across the table. This is a woman who just got emotionally eviscerated by her crush in a professional setting, cramming carbohydrates into her face like she's preparing for hibernation.

I want someone else.

I eat another bite. Bigger this time.

Get me someone senior.

The Frosty is too thick to drink through the straw, so I'm scooping it with fries like a goddamn animal.

Five months. I have a test session in two days. I need someone who knows what they're doing.

I know what I'm doing. I know exactly what I'm doing. I diagnosed his injury from across a conference room before I ever touched him. I treated him in his apartment and he reported significant improvement to his team. I am qualified and capable and I do not deserve to be dismissed like—like—

Like I'm nothing.

Like I'm less than nothing.

The second Baconator disappears faster than the first.

My stomach is starting to protest—there's a limit to how much grease and salt the human body can process at once, and I'm approaching it at alarming speed—but I keep eating anyway. Because if my stomach is full, there's less room for the other things. The shame.

I can't do it.

The chicken nuggets are next. I dip them in the Frosty because I've lost all self-respect and there's no one here to judge me except the teenage employee mopping the floor, and he's got his AirPods in and is clearly dissociating from this entire establishment.

Same, buddy. Same.

My phone buzzes. The cracked iPhone that Duane gave me, because apparently my humiliation needs to be sponsored by his charity.

Jill: How's day one????

Jill: Are you saving athletes???

Jill: Are you touching famous muscles???

I stare at the screen. Consider lying. Consider telling her everything is great, that I'm thriving, that I'm definitely not sitting in a Wendy's covered in special sauce and shame.

Me: It's fine.

Jill: That's not an answer

Jill: That's what people say when things are NOT fine

Jill: Spill

I should tell her. Jill would understand. Jill would say the right things—that Duane is an asshole, that I deserve better, that his loss, etc., etc., all the supportive best-friend platitudes that are supposed to make you feel better but never actually do.

But I can't make my fingers type the words.

He rejected me. Again. In public this time. In front of my new boss. On my first day.

It's too pathetic. Even for me.

Me: Just tired. Long orientation. Tell you later.

Jill: ...okay

Jill: But I'm watching you

Jill: ?

I put the phone face-down on the table and finish the nuggets.

The salad stares at me accusingly from its plastic container. I stare back.

"I'm not eating you," I tell it. "You represent everything I'm rejecting right now. Health. Moderation. The illusion that I have my life together."

The salad does not respond. Because it's a salad.

I throw it away on my way out.

The walk back to Duane's building takes twenty-three minutes.

I know this because I count the steps. All 2,847 of them. It's something to focus on besides the growing nausea in my stomach (too much Wendy's, not enough dignity) and the plan forming in my head.

I'm leaving.

Tonight.