"I hope you do it one day," I tell him honestly.
The smile slides off his face and the more serious expression returns. He swallows nervously but nods. "Me too," he says quietly.
* * *
The rest of my workday is fairly uneventful. The coffee continues to stay spiked and the people in the office continue to be on edge, but after Cassandra, the attitude seems to stay away from my cubicle, at least. I force myself to work through another two projects before deciding to actually stop working when I'm supposed to. At 5:00, I head down to the gym in the basement.
I end up running five miles, my conversation with my coworker running on repeat in my head. I rarely meet anyone in the workplace that regrets taking their job or that wants to be doing something else. Or maybe people are just better at hiding it than I realize, since I had no idea he felt that way. But most people seem to be enamored with the money and comfort of working a well-paying 9-5 where, for the most part, they can just coast through their work. Most of my coworkers will admit that they're not enamored with their jobs, but that they use the time and money gained from it to follow their real happiness outside of work. That's how people end up settling for this kind of job for the length of their entire career.
I never thought I'd fall into that same category. I even got a tattoo on the day I graduated college that was meant to signify that although I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, I vowed that I would never settle and would find something that makes me happy and makes a difference. Settling was—and still is—my biggest fear, and I never meant to stay with something just because it's comfortable and easy.
Yet here I am, three years after that tattoo was inked into my skin, doing exactly what I vowed not to do.
I know I don't want to stay in this job, or in this industry. Not only am I not happy, but often I'm actually veryunhappy. I don't want to live like that.
But the idea of quitting without a backup plan, without knowing what I would do otherwise, is fucking terrifying. If nothing else, it would be hard to come by a job that pays as much as my current one does. And since I'm used to a certain level of comfort in my life—including rent that’s not cheap—I can't exactly just leave my job.
I need… something before I can leave.
That frustrating conclusion has me itching for a drink by the time I’ve showered and left the building. When I see the lights of my favorite hole in the wall bar flashing at me down the street, an idea takes root in my head.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, I start to walk toward Andy's Dive Bar. It's one of the older bars in the city, and very out of place among the other up and coming bars surrounding it in the Business District. But somehow over the years Andy has managed to keep his bar the same dive that it's always been, never conforming to the pressure that's surrounded it.
It's also not a place I'd ever see any of my coworkers. It's too rundown for that. Not a lot of people know about Andy's Dive, which makes it the perfect place for what I suddenly feel like doing.
For the first time in years.
I order my favorite IPA before settling in at the table at the very back corner of the bar. Since it's a Tuesday night there are not a lot of patrons in the bar, just the usual couple of drunks sitting at the counter. I open my laptop with a deep breath.
Without letting myself think too hard about what I'm doing or why, I start writing. I write random ideas, scenes, plots, anything I can think of. It's a mess of words on my screen, but it's more than I've done in years. Typically, when I sit down to write, I get stuck because I start to think too hard. But tonight, with a few beers and the determination to avoid a life of regret, I let the words flow.
I sit there for hours. I barely take my eyes off the computer, doing so only to gesture for another drink every once in a while.
It's the freest I've felt in a long time.
For once, I'm not tense. I'm not stressed about work, or meeting deadlines, or feeling frustrated about having to do work that's not mine to do.
I'm not stressed about what I'm writing or whether or not it'll be a massive failure. I'm just… letting my brain take my fingers where it wants.
All of a sudden, I notice the bar has emptied out and the bartender is giving me dirty looks. I realize with a start that it's almost 11:00 and they're starting to close up.
"Sorry, sorry," I call out. I start to pack up my computer. "I'm leaving, I'm sorry. I didn't realize how late it was. Can I close out my tab?"
The older lady behind the bar gives me an angry glare before walking over to the register to ring me up. I pay my tab quickly and walk out of the bar.
It isn't until I'm getting out of the Uber a few minutes later that I suddenly remember that I'm walking into a house with a certain roommate.
"Fuck," I mutter under my breath. Wrapped up all my happy feelings, I completely forgot about everything with Tristan.
I take a deep breath to remind myself that I need to ignore him, that I need to keep my physical distance and act like I’m not borderline-obsessed with his glorious dick.
Just… stay away from him,I remind myself. Hopefully he's already asleep and I don't even need to deal with him right now.
* * *
But when I walk into the house, I find Tristan sprawled on the couch, flipping through channels with a bored look on his face. His eyes light with a mischievous twinkle when he sees me.
"Remy baby," he teases. "Where have you been? Curfew is 11:00."