The Simple Wild (Wild 1)

“So why’d you quit then?”

“I didn’t,” I finally admit through a shaky sigh. “You know, restructuring.”

“Oh, yeah. I know it well.” He pauses, studying me intently. “Did you love it, though?”

“Does anyone actually love their job?”

“You’re too young to be that cynical.” He chuckles. “Did you at least like the people you worked with?”

I think about my group. Mark, my micromanaging boss with chronic coffee breath who books meetings simply to validate his purpose and makes note of the minute you leave for lunch and the minute you return to your desk; and Tara, the obsessive Type A with no life outside of her job, who spends her weekends sending long-winded emails about process improvement suggestions with “Urgent! Action Required” subject lines to hijack everyone’s in-box first thing Monday morning. Raj and Adnan are nice enough, although they’ve never gone out for drinks after work and can’t accept a simple “Good morning, how are you?” from me without their faces turning beet red. And then there’s May, who sits one cubicle over, who never sends her dailies on time and who eats fermented cabbage at her desk, even though there’s an HR policy against bringing strongly scented food into the office. I have to leave my desk or spend ten minutes gagging.

Every.

Single.

Damn.

Day.

“Not really,” I admit. To be honest, I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have to drag myself out of bed, or didn’t watch the hours pass. I loved the feeling that came as I switched off my computer and grabbed my coat each night.

“Maybe being forced out is a good thing, then.” He grins at me.

“Yeah. Maybe.” Davisville station is approaching. With a sigh of relief that I can end this conversation without being overtly rude, I slip out of my seat. Balancing the cumbersome box in one arm, I hold onto the bar with a tight grip and wait for the subway to stop.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it. You’re young.” The guy hefts his body out of his seat as the car comes to a jarring halt. “Those jobs are a dime a dozen. You could be swiping your access card at another bank in a couple weeks.”

He’s just trying to make me feel better. I offer him a tight but polite smile.

The doors open, and I step out onto the platform.

The man lumbers close behind. “You know, I was you, fifteen years ago, carrying my own box of things out of my downtown Toronto office. Sure was a big hit to my ego, but it was also a kick in the ass. I decided to take the severance and start a cleaning business with my brothers. Never thought that’d be my calling, but turns out it’s the best thing that ever happened to me. And I wouldn’t want to be doing anything else, even on the worst days.” He winks and waves the rolled-up newspaper in the air. “This is fate. You’ve got bigger and better things ahead of you, pretty lady. I can feel it.”

I stand on the platform, hugging my cardboard box, watching the enthusiastic custodian stroll toward the exit. He’s whistling as he tucks the paper into the recycling bin on his way, as if he’s ­actually happy with a life of cleaning toilets and mopping floors.

Maybe he’s right, though. Maybe losing my job today will end up being the best thing that could ever happen to me.

Giving my head a shake, I begin heading for the exit. I make it three steps before the bottom of my box gives way, scattering my belongings over the dirty concrete.

My skin is coated in a thin sheen of sweat by the time I trudge up the stone walkway of our house, a ten-minute walk from the station. Mom and I have lived here for the past fifteen years with my stepfather, Simon, who bought it at below-market from his aging parents, years before. A smart investment on his part, as the value of houses in Toronto continues to skyrocket. We routinely get real estate agents cold-calling us, looking for a chance to sell the substantial three-story Victorian, clad in brown brick and well situated on a sizeable corner lot. It’s been fully renovated over the years. The last appraisal put the place at over two million.

It’s almost noon. All I want to do is take a long, hot shower while I cry, and then crawl into my bed and avoid people—well-meaning or otherwise—until tomorrow.

I’m almost at our front steps when the side entrance that leads to Simon’s psychiatry practice opens and a mousy, middle-aged woman in an ill-fitting black pantsuit darts out, sobbing. Our eyes cross paths for a split second before she ducks her head and runs past me toward a green Neon.

She must be a patient. I guess her appointment didn’t go well. Or maybe it did. Simon always says that real breakthroughs don’t come easily. Either way, it’s comforting to know that I’m not the only one having a shitty day.

Once inside the house, I kick off my heels and let the faulty box fall to the floor, glad to finally be rid of it. Two of my forty-dollar lipsticks smashed on the concrete platform, and my left running shoe—from a brand-new pricey pair, no less—is still lying next to the subway tracks. I briefly considered climbing down to retrieve it, but then I imagined the ensuing headline: “Dejected Risk Analyst Leaps to Her Death,” and I decided that that’s not how I want to make the news.

“Hello?” my mom calls out from the kitchen.

I stifle my groan as my head falls back. Crap. That’s right, it’s Thursday. She doesn’t go into the flower shop until two on Thursdays. “It’s just me.”

The hardwood floor creaks as she approaches, her rose-colored wrap skirt flowing breezily around her ankles with each step.

Simon follows close behind, in his usual plaid sweater vest, button-down, and pleated khaki pant combo. It doesn’t matter how hot it is outside, he keeps the air frosty in here.

I stifle a second groan. I expected him to be home—he’s almost always home—but I hoped he’d be tied up with his next patient and not hear me come in.