Page 109 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
“Kat…” I start slowly. “I can’t.”
“Oh?” She straightens up, blinking at me through her trendy glasses. “Because I took a look at your Jira workload and it seems like you have availability. Is there something else on your plate?”
I press my thumbs into my fingers, cracking them one by one.
“No,” I say finally. “It’s not my plate necessarily. Or not my work plate. It’s more, my life plate.” Kat just stares at me. I need to do this better. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I quit.”
This does not seem to register. “Quit what?” Kat looks for all the world like she’s expecting me to say I quit smoking or something irrelevant to work. Of course, that’s because I’m going about this all wrong, like the main character in a movie. What people do in the real world is send a well-written email giving their two weeks’ notice. But I can’t back out now. And weirdly, instead of feeling like an anxious, guilty mess, I suddenly feel light, like a fresh, sunny breeze is blowing right through me.
“I quit… this.”
The people around us have started poking their heads up like gophers with headphones dangling from one ear. So they can look up for office drama but not for someone sobbing at her desk over a potentially dead grandpa. I almost laugh, realizing that I won’t haveto deal with this passive aggressive—no, aggressively passive—office culture anymore. Good riddance, gophers.
Kat pouts her lips out, like she’s confused and slightly hurt.
“Did something happen? We can schedule a meeting with HR if—”
I cut her off. “Nothing like that. It’s just me. I need to move on.”
“Did you get another offer? Because typically people give us the option to match whatever—”
“No.” She is really not getting it. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I quit.”
I think it finally sinks in. Kat’s posture crumples the slightest bit; she looks disappointed to lose me, which is oddly gratifying.
“So, your last day is two weeks from today, then?” she asks hopefully.
I shake my head, removing the badge from around my neck.
“No, Kat. It’s today.”
I leave the badge on her desk and walk away, trying my best to hold my head high as the gophers gawk openly, watching me every step of the way.
Chapter 37
Sitting on my couch, the jubilant feeling of victory has disappeared. It’s been replaced by a hollow what-have-I-done feeling as I scroll through my bank accounts, seeing how much I have left.
I’m not going to starve immediately. But it was undoubtedly reckless. I’ve been clinging to that job for dear life for such a long time, it’s terrifying to suddenly be cut loose. But—I pause in my mental calculations—I can take my expensive Seattle rent out of the equation. Which means the little money I have will last a bit longer.
Because that was part of this decision. (Maybeepiphanywould be a better word, since most of the decision-making was subconscious.) Leaving my job means I can leave Seattle. For real this time.
Just because I’ve lived somewhere my entire life doesn’t mean it’s home. Living here these past few years, I’ve been anonymous, overlooked, superfluous, and many variations on the wordlonely. Living in Reina Beach for just a month, I felt seen, important, needed. My life felt fuller, and it wasn’t even my real life. But it could be.
I’ve been thinking of myself as a coward for such a long time. Maybe it started with the way I ghosted Alex instead of breaking up with him properly, or maybe it started years earlier when I got rejected from law school and couldn’t bring myself to apply again. And I know that staying with a job I hated just for the paycheck wasa sensible financial decision—but I also realize now that it was cowardly. And I’m shedding that part of myself. I’m ready to be brave.
It turns out that breaking up with your life is easier than you might expect. The first call I make is to my landlord. I expect him to tell me I’ll have to find a sub-leaser to finish out my lease, but as it happens he’s happy for me to leave so that he can list my unit at what he calls “current market rates.” Yikes.
I contemplate getting a storage unit for my stuff—just in case—but decide I don’t want a fallback option. I want a fresh start. So I list my prized possessions online for sale at dirt-cheap prices, hoping they’ll sell quickly. It works. I spend the next three days letting strangers carry off my furniture in exchange for a Venmo transaction. I keep two boxes’ worth of stuff I don’t want to part with—my favorite mugs, blankets, art prints, gadgets—to ship across the country to Gramps’s condo. The clothes and shoes and personal items that I’m keeping, I’ll stuff into my two suitcases. By the end of the week, my place is all packed up. Even my bed is gone, so I spend my last night at Mom and Dad’s.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Mom keeps asking. “Florida is so far away. It’s so hot. And so… Republican.”
I give her a sardonic stare over my toothbrush. This is the third or fourth time she’s given me this spiel today. I spit out toothpaste and wipe my mouth.
“I’m sure. Like I’ve said a hundred times.”
“And what are you going to do for work? I can ask Trish if she has any leads.”
I consider this as I zip up my toiletries bag.
