Page 3 of Pucking Matt
Truth is, I've been asking myself the same question lately. Why am I here, working two nights a week at a job that pays a fraction of what I make pushing papers?
“Look,” I say, leaning against the counter. “My corporate job? It's not all it's cracked up to be. Sure, the money's good, but imagine being stuck in a hamster wheel, running your ass off but never actually getting anywhere.”
Jen nods. “So, like, existential crisis?”
“More like a quarter-life crisis,” I laugh. “I've got a degree and somehow landed a job that has me drowning in spreadsheets and PowerPoint presentations. It's like playing dress-up as a businessman, pretending I'm a real adult.”
“Hey,” Jen says, nudging me. “If you pay taxes, then you are a real adult.”
“Yeah, taxes and hating your job. Two signs you’re in the club.”
She chuckles. “So why stay?”
It's a question I've been avoiding for months. Why do I stay in a job that makes me miserable? The answer is complicated, tied up in knots of expectations and fears and the desperate need to prove something.
“Because,” I say slowly. “It's what I'm supposed to do, right? Climb the corporate ladder, make something of myself. Be stable.”
The word tastes bitter in my mouth. Stable. The opposite of everything my parents were.
Jen's quiet for a moment, then says, “You know, being stable doesn't have to mean being miserable.”
I laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Tell that to my bank account. Or my therapist.”
“So, this job,” Jen gestures around the café. “It's what? Your rebellion against corporate America?”
“More like my sanity check,” I admit. “Two nights a week to relax at a job where I don't have to pretend to be someone I'm not. Where I can just be.”
“You mean like writingassholeon a customer’s take-out bag and getting away with it?”
I grin, feeling some of the tension leave my shoulders. “Try doing that in a board meeting. You’ll get sent straight to HR.”
She smiles. “I think you’re actually crazy.”
I shrug. “Probably.”
As we finish closing up, I realize that for the first time since Matthew walked in, I'm not seething. Sure, seeing him brought up a lot of old crap, but talking with Jen helped.
Maybe that's the real reason I took this job. Not just as an escape from the corporate rat race, but as a reminder of who I really am. Not the polished, professional facade I put on for the office, but the real Amber. The one who's not afraid to call an asshole an asshole, even if it's just in Sharpie on a paper bag.
And if Matthew Pearson doesn't like it? Well, there are plenty of other cafes in the city. Let him get his protein shakes and sandwiches somewhere else.
Chapter 2
I push open the door to the Grind Stone, the bell chiming overhead like it's announcing royalty. This is my third time here, and I'm hoping the third time's the charm. Last visit, Amber Hughes was nowhere to be seen, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed. After all, what's the point of gracing this place with my presence if she's not here to witness it?
My eyes scan the cafe, landing on her immediately.
There she is.
Amber Hughes is behind the counter, hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing an apron that's seen better days. For a split second, I'm transported back to high school, watching her stride down the hallway with her chin up, daring anyone to cross her. She used to attack my confidence for arrogance, but she has the same nature as I do.Cocky. Arrogant. Confident.
I've got a mile-long mental file on her.
Straight-A student, president of three clubs.
Overachiever much?
Fist-fights solved all her problems.
