Chevelle's Story

chapter 8.2

"So where do you work?" Abel asked.

Chevelle sighed. She'd known this question would come up eventually, but she still dreaded it all the same.

A lot had happened in Chevelle's life this year; she'd had to finish school all while dealing with the aftermath of a catastrophic breakup—both from her boyfriend and from her family. Although she knew she needed to (and actually really did want to) get a job that she was passionate about—a job that could set her up for a better future—she just hadn't been able to find the drive. She woke up every day drained, and it was just easier to live the life she already had rather than to build the one she really wanted. And thus, she remained working the same job she'd worked for the past three years as a part-time maid for a rich man with...interesting proclivities.

All things considered, it was a pretty good job. Her boss, Julian, wasn't nearly the worst guy Chevelle had worked for in her life. He paid her well, he was kind to her, and although he made her wear a silly French maid's costume at work, he didn't stare too much. Just the right amount. And Julian was actually quite handsome for a man of his age, so Chevelle really didn't mind the extra set of eyes.

If she didn't feel as comfortable as she did in that job, she would surely have quit years ago, but it was easy money and minimal effort. Getting a real job that was actually in her field of training required work, and that wouldn't be a problem if not for the fact that Chevelle felt constantly burnt out, every second of every day.

Ever since her life had imploded, even waking up in the morning had become a chore. Things that used to feel easy, like talking to her friends or meeting new people, now felt daunting. And although Chevelle pretended—tried to act like she wasn't drowning inside her own body—she could only fool herself for so long. She could feel the façade cracking; the lies she'd been telling herself were slowly catching up to her, and she knew that she needed to find a healthy way to cope with her pain. She knew that, but still...on some level, she didn't want to cope. There was a sick, twisted part of Chevelle that had actually grown to find comfort in the pain—the constant reliving of her trauma in a continual loop, the never-ending suffering. Her trauma had become a part of her identity that was now indistinguishable from the rest, and without this pain for her to hold onto, what else did she have to make her feel alive?

Chevelle's best friend, Sasha, had suggested therapy a few months ago, but Chevelle had given Sasha some vague answer about social workers being agents of the state and a psychology degree not being enough to make someone worthy of her trust, and it hadn't been brought up since.

Taking a deep breath, Chevelle brought her attention back to the Jenga tower. "I work as, um...an independent contractor," she said, gently pushing on a block from one of the upper rows.

Abel frowned. "What are you contracted to do?" he asked.

"Like...housekeeping management stuff," she murmured, holding her breath as the block began to slide out from the tower smoothly.

Abel raised a brow at her. "Housekeeping management?" he repeated, clearly confused.

Chevelle, who had been expertly avoiding Abel's gaze for the past minute or so, finally flashed her eyes up to look at him. It was just a glance, but the very moment Chevelle's eyes landed on Abel's curious face, the tower on the table between them came crashing down.

The blocks scattered everywhere, startling them both, and although Chevelle was a fairly competitive person, she couldn't even bring herself to care about the game she'd just lost. Her mind had already moved past it and was now running through all the possible reactions Abel could have to what she was about to tell him.

She brought her hands to her temples, groaning, and Abel assumed it was because she had just lost the game, until she finally spoke again.

"Okay, fine, I'm a maid," Chevelle muttered, watching Abel intently for his reaction. A few seconds later, when there was none, she continued, too nervous to wait for him to speak. "It pays well though! Like $50 an hour," she said, not fully sure why she felt such a gripping need to justify her life choices to this man, but doing it, nonetheless. "And I know that you're going to tell me I need to find a real job and follow my passions or whatever...I mean, yeah, that's why I got this whole degree in the first place, and I know that I need to, but it's just been a hard year, okay? I'm really hoping for better in 2017."