Page 6 of Loathing My Boss
It takes approximately eighteen months to three years for the chemicals in one’s brain that result in feelings known often aslove, but more accurately asinfatuation, to calm down. For most, thosefeelingstaper off at around the two-year mark.
I’m at the two-year mark.
But I’m still struggling to think of anything but filling my hands with Crisis’s hair and kissing her senseless.
Worse, I…likeher. Her character. Her work ethic. The way she jokes with my brothers. She made Lukas aShut Up, Your Brother Is IN AN INTERVIEWflier for today.
And Lukas texted me a picture of it…duringmy interview.
Which is just funny all the way around.
What I feel for Crisis isn’t a bundle of chemicals. If I allow myself five seconds to draw my idiotic brain out of its virgin gutter, I loveher. Her determination. Her laugh. The nonchalance that will—ultimately—stop my heart in the face of a disaster one of these days. She’s peace and discord all wrapped up in one.
I can rely on her.
I can trust her.
While her torment is uniquely dissimilar from what I knew growing up, its presence means she doesn’t shock my system like kindness and tenderness would.
I love Crisis.
And, since my two-year rule of not acting on a crush has officially come to an end as of today, it’s finally time to do something about my feelings.
Which, of course, is easier said than done, when it’s so very obvious…that she hates me.
Chapter 3
?
The scarlet goddess, my darling, my love.
Crisis
“You are a waste of space,” I tell my reflection, going through my usual affirmations while I attempt to tame the mousy brown wisps of hair I’ve just dried. They are not cooperating, because they hate me, I can only assume. “You’re not worth the carbon monoxide you create. Not even the plants appreciate you.”
My hair.
It just.
Won’t.
Huffing, I startle when my phone begins to ring in my bedroom. No more of a main character than I was before my shower, I leave the bathroom, find my phone on my nightstand, and learn that it is still five in the morning. Yet Viktor’s calling.
Unprecedented.
Concerning.
This must mean he’s had enough of my current “research endeavor.”
Time to provide a false sense of hope and hit him where it matters.
Faux chipper, I answer, “Why, hello, sleepyhead! Hasyour body adjusted to these hours? We’re making progress! We can go over the spreadsheets I’ve put together this afternoon during your lunch break and assess how this schedule has impacted your work.”
“That won’t be necessary,” his deep voice murmurs.
A cuss pricks my skull.
The ice bucket.
