Page 2 of Somewhere Along The Line
Get it together. Can you act like a normal human for once? One with a brain and the ability to stop the words from spilling out of your mouth at sixty miles per hour, word vomiting on this specimen of a man who doesn’t have the time or desire for this interaction?
The answer is no, it turns out. I cannot. The spew continues.
“I said that ‘cause I figured you’re a banker like my brother. I mean, I can tell—I worked in corporate finance before things went totally to shit, which is another story for another time, but anyway, I said that so you know I know what I’m talking about. About the shoe repair, I mean.”
If my body had a meter to measure the nervous energy flitting off it right now, the gauge would show max capacity.
“Really, it’s fine.” His mouth is attempting to approximate a smile, but it’s not working. “It’s just a shoe, the train is crowded, it’s…” He gives half a shrug as the words trail off before turning his attention to his jacket and fiddling with a button between his long fingers.
Oooookay then. Had I known this morning would devolve into an awkward stand-off with Banker Man, I would've let myself miss the train.
The next few minutes pass in stony silence until a group of rowdy high schoolers gets off at the Robertson stop, opening seats near the back of the car.
The man darts to claim one by a window the second it’s free, pulling out his phone with an intent look.
Not that I’m looking. At him. Or at his expression. Or at what he’s doing with his perfectly groomed eyebrows, or how his thumb swipes at the screen in a way that feels obscene to someone imagining his thumb and this swiping motion elsewhere.
Which I am not… though the warmth building in my lap suggests otherwise.
I take a deep breath, air pushing at my ribs from the inside out, and find a seat of my own as far away from Banker Man as possible. With both feet planted on the floor, I push my hands down my thighs. It’s a sensory thing, this action I’ve done for as long as I can remember—a means of providing necessary pressure to calm my racing mind.
My therapist says it’s a strategy called “embodiment,” and it works by bringing attention to your body from your head, into the present versus the past or the future. That’s what I need. Because one thing is certain: my bodymust agree with my brain that this man—and this morning’s pathetic exchange—are notsomething to fixate on.
It doesn’t matter if he’s exactly my type, over six feet tall with a starched collar and curated hair, plus the ability to make my heart flip at a glance. The fact he’s my type is the reason I can’tspend any energy on him.
I don’t need another banker to come in and destroy my life. I don’t need anyone at all, I remind myself.
It’s not lost on me that this week marks two years since my corporate job (and my relationship with my corporate boyfriend) went up in flames. Every good thing in my life burned down in one afternoon, leaving me without a place or a person to witness the carnage, much less to bandage me up.
I will neverlet that happen again. The thought of it clenches at my chest, squeezing tight around my ribcage.
I never wanted the job at Fundament. I said as much to Kent, and, like the oppressive big brother he is, he’d already arranged it with HR.
“You won’t make me a fool by quitting before you set foot in the door.” Like the people-pleasing middle child I am...was?... I complied.
It made sense to put my business degree to use. While I would’ve loved to join a non-profit or an advocacy group, stepping onto the bottom rung of the corporate ladder felt like the smart move. One that could help me manage my student loans, afford an apartment on my own, and bankroll the trips I wanted to take. Gosh, I wanted to take those trips.
So, I set my heart aside, pulled on some (thrifted) Jimmy Choo pumps, and convinced myself that click-clacking away on a computer creating value was what I wanted. Because why wouldn’t it be? That’s what everyone else wanted for me, and everyone else seemed to know me better than I know myself.
It’s no wonder I have anxiety.
And when a handsome, smart, clever, and charming man named Henry joined the firm and decided I was the sweetest thing he’d ever seen? I jumped in headfirst. I’d bring him coffee and he’d bring me salads and we’d sit around the conference table, him formatting pitch decks while I worked to make the numbers tie.
We laughed and climbed and built our American Dream on the backs of the nameless and faceless people we ignored because that’s how capitalism works.
We were happy. It seemed like we were happy.
I thoughtIwas happy.
Until the whole thing went to shit. Until Henry Sierra was screaming at me for fucking up his life and tanking the company, his face burning red and spit flying between his teeth.
That’s enough to make you realize that whatever happiness you thought you’d found wasn’t actually happiness. That existing in a world with people like Henry wasn’t the way to get it.
There will be no more bankers for Piper Paulson.
The chill of the train car’s metal frame radiates from behind me, sending a shiver down my back as I tuck my tote bag across my chest. The warmth from my breakfast seeps through the canvas, and it’s a welcome distraction from the glances Banker Man occasionally throws in my direction. I hate that he’s catching me looking at him, but it’s only because he keeps looking here first.
His fault, I decide.
