Max nods knowingly, likely very familiar with the corporate hustle and bustle. He has a company jet after all, something I would have appreciated instead of taking commercial flights four out of seven days a week every single week.
“When I originally started with the company, it was new and very entrepreneurial. Everyone wore a lot of hats. I was always someone who picked things up quickly, so I was given a lot of responsibilities that I was never really qualified for, but I liked it. It forced me to learn and grow quickly, which felt good at the time because I was so young. Plus, I’ve always liked a challenge, like you.”
I offer a wobbly smile to Max, hoping he can see a glimpse of himself in me. Like somehow, I need him to see my potential, which is insane because I want nothing to do with corporate life anymore.
“My coworkers were all young, not as young as me, but it was definitely a work hard, play hard environment. I was always kind of a quirky book nerd in school and wasn’t super social unless forced, and given that this was a small company, and we were together a lot, all my coworkers became my close friends. They would sneak me into bars at nights and on the weekends. I even dated a guy there semi-seriously. It was nice.
“The company I worked for always ran lean. They were all about making as much money as possible and doing it with the least amount of people, often forcing me to do jobs that weren’t a part of my job description. If you complained or requested more money, they basically told you that if you think you are worth more, then go out and look for another job.”
“Such bullshit,” Max interjects, shaking his head in disappointment. “A company should always know the value of their employees. That’s what annual reviews are for. Did they do those?”
“No,” I reply with a laugh, picturing my old boss sneering at me when I proposed a schedule of performance reviews for the staff. If I scheduled everything out, I thought it would help him say yes. It didn’t. It was a complete and utter waste of time.
“I didn’t grow up with a lot of money, so what I was earning seemed like more than I ever dreamed I could make,” I add, recalling the proud look on my parents’ faces when I told them what my signing bonus was. “So even though I thought I was worth more, I still didn’t think I could start over somewhere and make as much. Not to mention, I was so busy that I had no time to job hunt, let alone update my résumé.”
I pause and take another sip of my wine, feeling my body resist the emotions that place elicits, but knowing I want to power through this. I have to.
“My mental health really took a toll about a year ago when the company started to grow. They wanted to stay lean still but operate like a big corporation. So a lot more protocols, more reporting, more steps to basically everything, which meant even more work. I had to run every little thing by our CEO. He was busy and didn’t get back to me quickly, and then things wouldn’t get done, and I’d be blamed for it. I started to feel like I wasn’t even doing the job I was hired for, and I began questioning my ability and my purpose for even being there.”
My eyes well with tears, but now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop. “I questioned everything about myself…even down to the clothes I wore to work every day. I had zero confidence. I wasn’t eating. I was miserable all the time. But I kept showing up every day because all my ‘friends’ were there, and it felt like we were all in this together.
“I started having anxiety attacks where I couldn’t see. I’d wake up in the middle of the night after having another nightmare about work, and there would be black spots in my vision. The first time, I called 911 because I didn’t know what was happening. The doctors got me on some meds that helped, but it didn’t take away the stress I was still under.”
Max stares back at me with so much compassion that I’m not sure I can look at him for the next bit, so I decide to stare at my glass of wine.
“On Christmas Eve this past year, I was supposed to be driving home to be with my family. Instead, I was in the office working late with about eight other people trying to fix a huge mistake someone made. People were tired and cranky…everyone was pointing fingers at everyone.
“Then all of a sudden, I couldn’t feel the left side of my face. My arm felt really heavy, like I couldn’t lift it, and I opened my mouth to ask for water, and I couldn’t even understand what I was saying…I was just mumbling incoherent gibberish. It was weird because I could tell I wasn’t making sense, but I couldn’t make my brain fix the issue. The last thing I remember is everyone gaping at me as I fell to the ground.”
“Fucking hell.” Max reaches out to grab my hand splayed out on the table, but I pull away and cross my arms over my chest. I know his affection will make me break down, and I really don’t want to be the girl in ripped-up jeans crying in the middle of a fancy restaurant.
“My next memory was waking up in a hospital with a tube down my throat and my mother sobbing in the chair beside me.”
“Cassandra.” Max whispers my name so reverently that it causes tears in my eyes.
“The doctors said neuro stuff was all miraculously okay, but they weren’t sure if I would regain full function of my left arm.”
“Fuck.” Max’s pained voice is crushing to hear. It reminds me of my family’s tone as they huddled around me in the hospital bed, waiting for me to recover. His tone is thick when he adds, “I’m so sorry that all happened to you.”
I nod slowly. “I was in the hospital for a week and physical therapy care facility for two weeks after. I came home to do outpatient therapy, and it was my dad’s idea that I start doing some woodworking to improve my fine motor skills. Which…as you can probably tell, worked because I gained back the full function of my left arm. I guess I defied the odds.”
The corner of Max’s mouth tips up into a smile, but it’s a sad smile. One that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You said you left that job on bad terms…”
“Yeah…I haven’t even got to the bad terms part yet.” I inhale and shake my head, feeling the weight of those six years like a fucking storm cloud hovering over me. “The thing that really sealed the deal about me leaving that job wasn’t the stroke. It was the fact that none of my coworkers came to visit me in the hospital. Not one. I’d watch the door every day for people who I considered family for most of my adult life to check in on me, and no one ever did. My sister showed up, my parents did. Hell, even Dakota did once I let my mom tell her what happened to me. But none of the people who I spent endless hours with ever stopped by.”
“What about the boyfriend you mentioned?” Max asks, his face taut with poorly concealed rage.
“He texted me once.” I laugh, and it hurts. “We’d broken up several months before the incident, and he was with someone new. My boss emailed me about disability leave, but that was pretty much the extent of his communication with me.”
A look of disgust mars Max’s handsome face. “What company was this? Who was your boss?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I respond quickly, shuddering at the thought of even saying his name aloud. “I never stepped foot back in that building, and I never will. All that work, all that commitment to a company that didn’t care about me when I literally almost died in front of them makes me sick to my stomach. I never even went back to my apartment in Denver. As soon as I was released from the care facility, I went straight home to Boulder and moved in with my sister because I couldn’t handle my mom’s hovering and worrying. I hired a company to pack up my entire apartment. Most of my boxes are still in storage because I’m terrified if I open them up, there will be something that triggers a panic attack or worse, another stroke. I was twenty-five years old and had a stress-induced stroke at my job. How embarrassing is that?”