Page 2 of Holiday Wishes and Tentacle Dreams

“So, tell me about a time you had a conflict with a coworker.” Ah, he was going with a classic. Jake could roll with that.

“Well, I pride myself on getting along with…” As he spoke, Chuck pulled out his phone and scrolled through text messages.Confused, Jake pushed through and finished. There were a few seconds of empty silence before Chuck noticed he’d completed the answer.

Jake wasn’t getting the job.

The whole interview lasted all of twenty minutes. Chuck asked a few more cliché questions before wrapping up. By the time Jake stepped out of the glass skyscraper onto the busy Manhattan sidewalk, any hope he’d had of gainful employment was long gone.

And not just regarding this one job. The market was a disaster, and Jake was damaged goods. He might have excellent references, but no one would ever call them. They’d take one look at his employment gap alongside his recent stint of joblessness and write him off.

How had he gotten the interview in the first place? The HR lady must have been feeling generous. Maybe she was a lesbian and could sense the queer vibes wafting from his resume. Solidarity.

The trip back took two trains, and both of them were running behind schedule. Jake sighed when he squeezed his way onto the first one. Delays often meant crowded trains, and crowded trains meant humiliation. New York was a diverse city, but one thing united the citizens. People from all walks of life gave him the stink eye when he tried to squeeze his large body into the throng.

He’d gained a good amount of weight. Antidepressants would do that to you, and he’d never been thin to begin with. The medications had also saved him, so he couldn’t betooannoyed about it. But it made him the target of all the skinny New Yorkers’ ire. The grumbling and theatrical sighing he heard when boarding was ridiculous.

Chubby people had the right to ride the train, too.

Not that he’d complain about it. Instead, he wedged himself between an electric bike and an oversized piece of rolling luggage and held on to the pole.

An hour later, he exited the subway station a total mess. His lower back was damp with sweat, and his deodorant was struggling to do its job. All he wanted was to get home and collapse on the bed. New York apartments were tiny, but the one thing Phil and he had splurged on was a big queen-sized bed with an expensive, supportive mattress.

He could forget most indignities after a decent night’s sleep.

Dragging his ass up the four flights of stairs, Jake was huffing and puffing by the time he reached the entryway to their flat. He paused outside the door to catch his breath, his hand pushing against the dimpled plaster for leverage as he bent over at the waist.

Jake wasn’t in any mood to hear Phil’s admonitions about how regular exercise would help his mental healthandmake it easier to get up the stairs. He knew that already, but when it took every ounce of energy he had to force himself out of bed, a trip to the gym wasn’t in the cards. Besides, wasn’t the mile and a half he’d walked going to and from the job interview enough of a workout for the day?

When his heart rate had slowed a bit, he swung open the door, hoping that Phil had at least started on dinner.

There wasn’t a meal waiting for Jake. There wasn’t a boyfriend waiting for Jake. There wasn’t evenfurniturewaiting for Jake.

It was all gone.

For a long moment, Jake just stood there, frozen a few steps into the narrow galley kitchen. His brain couldn’t process what he was seeing.

The coffeemaker was missing. So were the canisters and spices. So were the couch and television in the living room justbeyond. As well as all the chairs. Every piece of furniture. The acrid smell of lemon-scented surface cleaner filled the air.

The only thing left was a single piece of white paper, sitting ignobly on the beige laminate countertop.

Jake stumbled toward it, his feet leaden. He leaned over the counter. There were words on the paper, that was for certain, but he’d lost the ability to read.

He stared at the note, reminding himself to breathe. Some part of him, some primal instinct of self-preservation at the back of his brain, understood what this letter meant, but it wasn’t sharing with the class. So, against his better interests, he forced his eyes to focus.

Jake,

I’m leaving and I’ve taken my stuff. You need someone who can take care of you. Maybe a sugar daddy who’s also a psychiatrist or something. I can’t support you while you keep screwing up.

I assume you didn’t get the job, but if you did, give me a call and we’ll talk.

Phil

That asshole.

Jake glanced around the kitchen. Had Phil taken everything? Technically, it was all his. When they’d moved in together, they’d decided that, since Phil’s furniture and kitchenware were nicer, Jake would get rid of his old ones. But didn’t that mean that what they had was community property? He shouldn’t end up with nothing.

The betrayal cut deeper by the second. Had Phil leftanythingfor him?

Jake would be fine.