Summer Worthington doesn't hate her corporate job, per se. It's her god-awful boss, Mr. Griffin - or, as her roommates like to call him, Mr. Grouchy - who's the problem. He's cruel, cold-hearted, and the most attractive man she's ever seen.
As his p...
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I CAN'T BELIEVE I'VE OFFICIALLY become that girl. You know, the one who's sneaking around with her older and very off-limits boss. But I have. And it's not as anxiety-inducing or life-destroying as I thought. In fact, it has some perks.
For one, I've reached my yearly quota of (non-self-given) orgasms in less than four days. It's a new record for me, and a testament to how easy it's been to get swept up in this bubble of friendship and trust we've built over the last few months. I'm happier—lighter—than I've ever been.
But it's more than that.
Deeper than that.
Max and I met up again on Friday night and hung out all weekend. We talked—yes, talked—about stuff I've never shared with anyone. Mostly how, when I packed up my life and moved across the country, I was isolated and incredibly homesick. My mental health was at an all-time low, and I'd never felt so trapped before—the irony. It started with me just lying in bed at night, unable to sleep and plagued by doubts. Thinking I'd made a colossal mistake moving out here. But then it progressed to shaking uncontrollably and losing my appetite. Worse, vomiting before class.
Eventually, after a lot of suffering on my part, I went to the doctor and was quickly referred to see a therapist.
Since then, it's been an eight-year-long battle to get to where I am today, and I still have my moments. I've gotten a lot better at keeping my anxiety at bay, but it's a lifelong skill, and one I'll probably never master. And that's okay.
Zac and Lauren know a bit about my past—hence the anxiety ring they gifted me—but it's easier to confide in Max. Maybe because I know he's struggled, too. He's tackled his own horde of demons, and his first instinct isn't to talk about it. He internalises things. He wears a carefully crafted mask, just like me. But when it's the right person—someone you are comfortable with, someone who understands—it's nice to drop the act. To have them just listen and be there for you.
I think there's a real sense of safety, of camaraderie, when you find someone who's almost as good at suppressing their emotions as you are.
So, this weekend, I was determined to step out of my comfort zone and connect with Max—on all levels, not just physically. We swapped mental health stories and breakthrough moments. Coping mechanisms that helped. Coping mechanisms that . . . didn't. Sweet childhood memories and equally scarring ones.
For someone who likes to avoid deep conversations, I didn't hate it. And for two people with a significant age difference and gap in social status, we have a lot in common.
Despite knowing everything about my boss—his go-to coffee order, his preferred clientele, what his slightly varied scowls mean—I got a forty-eight-hour crash course on Max Griffin, and it was enlightening. Then we settled into a companionable sort of silence, ordered our weight in Chinese, and binge-watched the entire first season of Heartstopper, which was wholesome and fluffy. Perfect for lightening the mood after the atmosphere in his living room became so serious and heavy.
