The Definition of Fate

Chapter 23

Every letter
that she types;
every keystroke
that she strikes-

To spell your name
again and again,
is all she ever
wants to write.

- Lang Leav

Of course it's Josh. He leans against the front desk of the Post and chats with Alaina, who is clearly charmed by his attractive grin and arresting eyes. In typical Josh style, he wears a pair of ripped jeans, a faded flannel shirt, and a pair of dirty work boots. Combined with his lazy stance, untrimmed beard and long dark hair, and ever-present smile, he sticks out like a sore thumb in the Post's professional office.

"Hey, delivery boy," I call out.

Josh sees me and his face lights up. "Rach! There you are. I was worried I was at the wrong ewspaper."

I walk up to him but shake my head when he goes in for a hug. I can almost hear the gossip spreading. "What are you doing here?"

He grins at me. "No one should have to eat lunch alone, and you bought last time. How do you feel about burritos?" A smile spreads across my face, and I don't care who sees it.
Josh shows me a bag from Chipotle and my mouth waters. I could definitely go for a burrito right now, especially if there's extra cheese. "That sounds awesome. Give me ten minutes and I'll meet you outside?

"Sounds good."

I race back to my desk and finish the last line for the first of my three articles for the day. I was planning on having a working lunch and eating mushy microwaved pasta I cooked last night, but I don't care how late I have to work to make up for it, I'm taking my lunch break. I can't fight the smile on my face--it may be something as stupid as eating burritos outside of work, but it makes me happy.

"Where's your food?" Quentin asks when I return.

"Waiting for me outside." I flash him my most winning smile. "See you after lunch!"

As I leave work with Josh at my side and walk into the sunshine, I fight the desire to never come back. I feel way too much relief when I walk out of these doors. I take a deep breath and feel like I can finally breathe.

"Josh, thank you. You're my hero; this is amazing."

We find a spot on a picnic bench and Josh passes me my burrito. God bless him, he got us each our own so we didn't have to share. He knows me so well.

"What's going on at work? You look stressed."
I rub the wrinkle between my eyebrows self consciously. "I am. It's just--they keep expecting me to write these poignant, meaningful articles on topics that are just stupid. Who freaking cares about axe throwing contests or snail poop moisturizers?"

Josh's eyebrows raise. "Actually, I kinda want to know what you're talking about now."

"Seriously though, they're stupid. All of my articles. I don't know what they want from me! I'm not Jesus. I can't turn water--or in this case, poop--into wine." I take a vicious bite out of my burrito and try to let the delicious taste of cilantro drown out my frustrations.

Josh doesn't say anything as I devour the rest of my food, pausing only to continue my rant. "What if I actually suck at this? So far I've only written one article--one--that our Editor in Chief actually praised."

"Well, it has to be hard to write about topics you don't care about."

"Exactly! It is! But what am I supposed to do?" I turn to Josh.

I don't really expect him to have answers, but it feels so good to actually talk about this. I can't say anything at home for fear of Chloe hearing me, so this is the first time I've told anyone how I feel about work.