Anxiety is like walking through a dark tunnel with no lights at either end. Except it’s not even a real tunnel, it’s an imaginary tunnel. You aren’t actually in the dark, confined space, it just feels like it.
Even if you’re out in the open air, all you can see is the darkness.
This is me. Trapped in a tunnel of my own making.
I know this. Logically, I know it’s all in my head. I’ve gone to therapy, I’ve tried the pills, I’ve heard the theories and used the various tools to soothe the monster under the bed. But it doesn’t make it go away. It doesn’t make the fake monster any less real. The monster is still there, waiting to jump out and scare me as soon as I let my guard down.
I have to change me, and to get through this, that means I have to talk to Alex.
I think.
Either way, I’m going for it. I’m going to have a conversation with Alex and I’m not going to freak out and he’s going to invite me to the show again and I won’t leave, I’ll be normal. I’ll just talk to him. People talk every day. All the time. Most people can’t shut up. I can be that person.
Footsteps pound the pavement behind me, thumping in time with my heart.
“Hey, Jane. You okay?”
I try to breathe through the nerves. “No. Not really.”
“How did the pitch go?”
“It didn’t go well at all. Terrible, actually. Really, really bad. Horrible.”
I wait for him to invite me to his show. But he doesn’t. He says, “I’m so sorry, Jane.”
And that’s it.
I stare at him. Waiting.
He glances back at the building. “You’re leaving?”
“Yeah. I need to go home.” I widen my eyes, lifting my brows, as if the motion might compel him to ask the question. Why isn’t he asking? Didn’t he ask yesterday when I told him it went badly? What else did I tell him? I try to remember but it’s hard to think straight when my stomach is rolling and my knees are shaking.
“Do you need a ride?”
“No, I don’t need a ride. I—” I need you to ask me to your show. The one I’m not supposed to know anything about yet.
My face heats. Nerves collide inside like pinballs in a machine. The tunnel shudders and shakes around me. I can’t panic in front of him, even if he won’t remember it tomorrow.
“I-I gotta go. Bye.”
I walk away, confusion thrumming through me. I need to calm down and think. Why did he ask me yesterday and not today? Or any other day, for that matter? Yesterday was the first time he invited me. My steps slow. He only invited me when I told him—“I got fired!” I blurt out, spinning around, ready to march back and tell him.
But he’s already gone.
“Hey Jane, you okay?”
“No. I got fired.” The words are quick and high pitched and loud. An embarrassing gunshot of words. Gah, I annoy myself sometimes.
His mouth pops open in shock. “Um. You. What?”
I guess I’m not usually so forthright. Or shrill.
My face heats. My nerves spin around in my stomach like I’m stuck on a wonky carousel from hell. The tunnel is collapsing.
Dammit.
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. Close it. Ugh. Spinning on a heel, I flee.
“Hey Jane, you okay?”
Play it cool, Jane. I’ve been practicing. It’s a script now. I can do this.
“I’m,” I clear my throat, “not great. The pitch didn’t, um, it didn’t go good.”
I could never be an actor. I can barely speak. I’m like the animated version of the children’s books written with my namesake. See Jane run. See Jane fail. See Jane pull her tongue out and stomp on it for all the good it’s doing her.
“What happened?”
“I got fired.”
“Oh, Jane. Hey,” he dips his head to meet my eyes, “that really sucks.”
“Yeah.” I sigh and look into the distance, giving it my best thousand-yard stare. Be forlorn. So sad. So, so sad you should invite me out. Don’t I look like I need a night out?
“Hey listen, I’m in a band. We have a gig tonight. I mean, it’s not a big thing, we’re the opening act and it’s at the Saloon, but you should come. I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Yes. Oh, um. I mean, yeah, cool. Maybe. Maybe I’ll see you there.” I back up slowly.
Walk away before you screw this up somehow.
I spin around to stalk off.
“Eight o’clock!” he calls after me.
And I’m very glad I turned around before he could catch the full-on grin stretching my face. I did it! I wave a hand behind me in acknowledgment and keep walking.
Time to prepare.
I spend the rest of the day coming up with a list of things to talk about. I don’t know why I haven’t done this before. Lists are my jam, my go-to strategy almost every time I have to talk to people, or in front of a group. I use them for everything. Make a list, memorize it, repeat it over and over so I can hopefully speak through my nerves without stuttering too much, or sounding like a complete dolt.
I sit in my living room with my notebook and brainstorm.
I can ask him about the band, how he got started, why there’s only two of them . . . Wait, is that an offensive question? What if it’s because they suck and can’t get anyone else? I mean, they seemed good to me, but what do I know? I cross it out.
I can ask about his family, maybe? Is that boring?
I suck at this.
I definitely don’t want to talk about work. I tap my pen on the notebook, thinking.
Maybe I can ask if he has any other late-night hobbies? Oh wait, that might come across as sexual. Late-night hobbies, wink wink.
Just ask about hobbies, minus the late-night bit. Any hobbies other than playing guitar. I write it down. I could ask where he got his guitar, when he started playing guitar, how long he’s been playing guitar . . . I write those down and look over my list. He’s going to think I’m obsessed with guitars.
Okay, Jane, it’s not a big deal. You won’t be the only person there, he will be talking and asking questions too, right? I can’t be responsible for all aspects of interactions. I’ve had plenty of conversations with Alex, but we were also working together so there was always a fallback topic.
And that first night, he didn’t say anything either.
Maybe he was nervous too?
I chuckle. No way. Nervous? Why would he be nervous? It’s just me. Just plain ol’ Jane. And he’s Alex Chambers. The Alex Chambers.
Nervous crows turn into pterodactyls in my stomach and I have to focus on my breathing.
I can do this. I’m going to do this, every night, until I can have a normal conversation without panicking. No reason to fear. After all, there is literally no tomorrow.
I sit at the bar in the same spot as last time, sipping my drink, smiling at the music, and going over the list in my head.
When their set ends, he jumps off the stage, just like before. I avert my gaze from the leggy blondes.
A half a minute later, he’s next to my barstool. “Hey. You made it.”
“I did. Thank you for inviting me.” I smile through my nerves.
We go through the same motions from the night before as he orders our drinks.
When the bartender puts my drink down, I give a nod of thanks, take a long sip, and then force a few shaky breaths in and out. I can do this. I’m not running away. I am going to ask him questions. I am prepared. But as I’m opening my mouth, he speaks.
“I’m really glad you made it. I’m surprised you,” he glances around to confirm, “didn’t bring Mark with you? What did he think about you getting fired?”
“Mark?” I couldn’t be more shocked if he asked me why I didn’t bring a bright pink dancing flamingo with me.
My face heats. What does Alex know about Mark? What has he heard? Did Mark say something to him? I’m mortified at all the possibilities. The things Mark might have said. The things Alex might now believe.
Apprehension threatens to blast through my skin and paint us all in tension. I can’t let my anxiety tell me what it thinks. I need to find the truth, not my mind’s own terrible version of a false reality. Maybe a false reality. Please be a false reality.
Focus on the conversation, Jane.
“Oh. Him. Yeah. No. I didn’t bring him and he doesn’t know. He’s not—we’re not—we’re not together. We’re not even friends, really.”
His mouth pops open, brows lifting in surprise. “What?”
“Did he tell you something about me?” I don’t want to know but I have to know. Maybe the truth will be better than my imagination. I hold my breath, waiting for his response.
He shrugs. “Not really. He—” He considers me for a second, and I might run away now, before he can tell me something awful, but then he comes to some sort of internal decision. “I may have asked him about you, one night when the office went for drinks at Tunnel Top. He made it seem like there was something going on. Something between you two.”
Surprise pierces through the thick layer of fear cloaking me. “Wait. You were asking about me? Why?”
My mind can’t quite grasp it. Before Alex can answer and I can work it out, we’re interrupted.
“Alex!” His bandmate is there, slapping him on the back and grinning at me. “Introduce me to your friend.”
“Leon, this is Jane. Jane, Leon.”
Leon’s bright smile grows impossibly wider. “Oh, this is Jane? I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“You have?” I shake his hand and lift my brows at Alex. He’s talked about me?
Alex flushes slightly and looks away and my heart flips in my chest. What does this mean? What has he said? Did he tell him about the closet? Was he like, I had to invite this sad woman Jane to our show tonight because she’s lonely and pathetic and I’m the type to bring lost puppies home?
The music starts, the next act taking the stage, and conversation is forced to a halt.
“Let’s dance!” Leon yells. Without waiting for any kind of response, he struts out to the extremely tiny space for dancing and jumps around to the music, all by himself. It’s pretty awe-inspiring. And he’s actually quite good even though . . . is that the sprinkler?
“Can we talk, outside?” Alex leans into me, speaking into my ear.
I nod and follow him, weaving through people coming in to head outside onto the street.
We’re at the top of Telegraph Hill. Behind Alex, Coit Tower is lit up like a giant concrete beacon against the stark night sky. A guiding light or a warning?
“I have to tell you something, and I really hope you won’t hate me.”
I swallow. Nothing good could ever follow that statement. I don’t want to know, but at the same time, I have to ask. “What is it?”
He takes a breath, his eyes searching mine for a moment before he speaks. “It’s my fault they moved you from my team. I asked for you to be transferred.”
Harsh blow. I swallow. I knew this, or I guess I assumed. Having it verified is . . . Why is he telling me this?
Is this where he tells me how embarrassing it was when I thought he was going to kiss me? Also, he just likes me as a friend and please stay away from him now? He invited me out here to, what, point out my awkwardness? Hand over a restraining order? Couldn’t he have done this earlier today?
He’s still speaking. I struggle to focus on the words through the rush of blood in my ears.
“It wasn’t because you weren’t doing a great job, you were. And it’s not that I don’t like you, but because I do.”
I open my mouth. Shut it. Open it again. What is he talking about?
“Remember, that day, in the storage room. We were joking about paper and dodgeball?”
After a few seconds, I nod, unable to force words out.
“I backed off not because I didn’t want to kiss you, but because I did.”
The roaring blood in my ears freezes, the world gone silent. Wait. What? My mind scrambles, attempting to make sense of his words. “You . . . made me feel like an idiot because you like me?”
He winces. “I never meant to make you feel bad. I know it sounds horrible, but it wasn’t fair to you. I’m a client, and I didn’t want you to feel obligated, you know? I was basically your boss on the team, which makes it an imbalanced power structure and I really didn’t want to put you in that position. So instead, I did something stupid. I pushed you away, and then I did something selfish and asked for you to be transferred from my team.”
I can’t figure out what he’s saying. I mean, I understand the letters and the meanings of the words, but it’s not computing.
“I don’t understand. You ran away and then had me moved off your team because you like me? But you never said anything. Even after you . . . traded me off.” My voice is rising, anger overpowering the normal nerves.
How could Alex do this? I liked him. I trusted him.
Is he why I got fired?
He holds up his hands. “I was going to say something. I wanted to ask you to dinner or something sometime,” the words come out in a rush, “but then Mark told me you guys were seeing each other.”
I blink. Wait. The timeline isn’t gelling in my mind. For one, Mark himself told me we aren’t a thing even though we’ve been sleeping together for the past month, and for two, we weren’t sleeping together when I was transferred from Alex’s service. In fact, around that time was when Mark started hitting me up with the heavy flirting.
Wait a minute. Did Mark only take an interest because of Alex? Holy shit. Mark started hitting on me after Alex asked him about me, like I’m a shiny toy and he’s a toddler, only interested when someone else wants to play with me. Which is just douchey enough to make sense.
Alex keeps talking when I don’t respond. “And now, I feel like an even bigger fool because you just told me you and Mark aren’t a thing. Weren’t ever a thing. Either he was lying, which fits with his bigger picture, or . . . ?”
I rub my head. Is he serious? “He, we weren’t ever serious. We may have—” My eyes fall shut. This is mortifying. “We may have had some physical moments. But it started a couple months ago and ended . . . well, today. And it was never, he never really liked me, like that.”
His jaw tightens. “Mark’s an ass. I’m sorry. I really hope that my asking for the transfer didn’t have anything to do with you getting fired today. I was very clear to Drew you were an excellent employee. But I can call them and make sure, if you want. Not that you need me to fight your battles, but I feel really terrible that I might have had something to do with it.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. I—” I blow out a breath. “I’m not sure.”
You don’t fit, doesn’t exactly mean Alex likes you and therefore you’re fired.
I mull over everything I know about this day, the number of times I’ve been fired, the different questions I’ve asked, ideas I’ve tried at work, and I come to an inescapable conclusion. As much as I would love to deflect and blame someone else, I got fired not because of Alex, but because of me.
“No. It’s not your fault. It’s mine. You’re not the idiot. I’m the idiot.”
“So.” He tips his head down, nudging the tip of my shoe with his. “What would you think about being idiots together?”
I laugh. Our eyes lock. His wry smile sinks into a more thoughtful expression. His eyes darken. His gaze drops to my mouth. My entire body flashes hot and my stomach squeezes tight. Is this really happening?
“Jane.” He steps closer, into my space, forcing me to tilt my head back to hold his eyes.
His head dips down. This is incredible. Amazing. Fantastic. I stretch up. We’re so close, his breath feathers my lips.
Oh, no. I’m going to screw this up.
Panic pushes up from the ground, starting at my feet and racing to the top of my head in a gush of dread. At the last minute, I wrench my head to the side and his mouth connects with my ear.
“Oh.” He shifts back. “Um. Jane? I’m sorry, I thought—”
“No. I’m sorry. I-I—” I take a deep breath, or attempt to, but panic is a set of muscled arms wrapping around my chest, squeezing. I can’t breathe.
Black spots cloud my vision.
Not this. Not now, of all times. Roaring fills my ears with white noise and my vision blackens. “I have to go.”