Page 48 of Loathing My Boss
His gaze drops to my nails, embedded in him, threatening to draw blood, but he doesn’t move. “I consider us to be friends.”
“I consider that a violation of work boundaries.”
“Then stop working for me.”
My stomach revolts.
Was I already planning to draft a two weeks’ notice tonight? Yes. Have I yet had the chance to create a new plan for the next decade in Canva Whiteboard?No.
My skin blanches. “Are you firing me?” Over one breakdown? After everything I’ve put him through?Thisis the final straw?
“I value our friendship more than I value you as an employee. So, if you can’t be both, I’d rather be friends.”
Is heinsane? I’ve never done a friendly thing to thisguy. Every time I’ve broken from professional expectations, it has been to calculate torture. Meanwhile, in the actual professional field of things, I’ve been a huge asset, growing his already formidable reach by leaps and bounds, organizing his countless assets into streamlined workflows that save time and money where management is concerned.
I’m afabulousemployee.
I absolutely abysmallysuckas a friend.
I’m not cool and collected and loving and kind and funny like Crimson. I’m a walking disaster waiting to happen. I bring nothing but problems and drama and insanity to a relationship.
So, I say the only thing I’m thinking: “Are you out of your mind?”
“That does not sound like something an employee would say to their boss, so I see you’ve chosen friendship.”
I close my eyes briefly, collect myself some. “Sorry. Are you out of your mind,sir? I’m taking a professional interest in the state of your mental health.”
“I’m taking an unprofessional interest in the state of yours.”
“That makes me uncomfortable.”
That makes him release me. “How do I get through to you, Crisis?”
“What are you talking about?”
“How,” he begins, slow, “do I,” slower still, “get through,” the slowest, “to you?”
I pluck a fresh tissue and blow my nose because the sheer tomfoolery going on here is overlapping my internal moral dilemma. “What in the world are you trying to get through to me?”
Exasperated, he says, “That I care about you. That I want you to be well. That I want to help you, if I can.” Hecusses, dropping the tissue he had been offering me in his lap before he plunges his fingers into his hair. “Come on, Crisis. Do you think I’m an idiot? I’m not drinking green garbage and sleeping on dog bed pillows because I’vegenuinelybeen convinced they’re a great idea. It’s because it makes you so happy. Iwantyou to be happy.”
Those words shock my system, turning my blood to ice. Gaping at him, I search his eyes. Baffle consumes me. I’ve not fooled him? He’s known that I’ve been a monster? He’s, consciously, allowed it?
Screw what’s wrong with me.
What’s wrong with him?
Who in their right mindsuffersthrough constant irritation and abuseknowinglyjust because it makes a monsterhappy? How…bad were his parents? How much of this response to me has been trained into him?
How much worse am I for it?
“This…” I say, mouth dry, “does not compute.”
“Do I have to spell it out for you, Crisis?”
“Yes. Please.” I wipe a final few tears off my cheeks. “Use small words, and then also speak very slowly.”
His brows knit, and he glares at me.
