Nata

The chair under me creaks as I twist in my seat because the pangs in my stomach feel worse. I shouldn't've drank the fourth coffee of the day and pretended it would replace a meal. Apart from breakfast, Phillip brought me to eat this morning, coffee is the only sustenance that made it into my mouth. The first sip of the green-brown smoothie that's supposed to solve my nurtitional disbalance tastes like dirt.

If work weren't my life I might've had a chance to think about the reason why Phillip changed his morning schedule to stand in his kitchen and watch me make coffee and attempt at making cappuccinos and flat whites for me at 5 a.m.

He doesn't need to impress me: the contract is signed and my financial situation hasn't changed over the last month for me to afford to move out of the duplex or abandon our deal and pay for an IVF treatment. If he were drinking the coffees, I could see him wanting to learn, but he doesn't even like the stuff.

I check my phone. It's past my usual dinner hour. By the time I make it out of the office, I'll either have to stop at a drive-thru or a 7/11. My meal tonight is a choice between a greasy variation on chicken and day-old sushi I'm better off putting onto a petri dish than into my stomach.

"Natalia, are you even listening?" Samson's question is ripe with reproach.

I wish I didn't have to. I made the decision, and Samson isn't supposed to drag me through an hour of explanations.

"My ears are wide open." I tuck my hair behind both to make them visible to Samson.

He narrows his eyes at me.

I twirl my coffee-shop smoothie I picked up before the meeting as a last attempt to focus and complete my pro and con columns for each applicant we interviewed. Instead of making me less hungry, it only succeeded at giving me indigestion. Or it could be Samson's glare. He might as well burn a whole in my stomach, he's been staring at it so much. If angry stares could act as contraception, people would've been using them for thousands of years.

What I thought was a courtesy meeting about the slam dunk of a decision I made is turning in the inquisition of my nightmares.

Samson brings his candidate back to the screen. “You don’t understand what you'll be losing. He knows everyone in this field. Think of the names you can add to your papers.”

He adds a scowl to his glare and waits for me to what…agree with him because he repeated the argument he's been badgering me with since we started discussing who is a good candidate for the new hire for my new lab? My. MY. The word seems to be escaping his understanding.

“I don’t need influential names on my papers." My insides are hurting. Too much coffee, a questionable smoothie,  and Samson's arrogance create waves of nausea I should not be experiencing. I drop my pen onto the table with a clank. "I need a brain that can both learn and offer new and innovative ideas.”

“You’re making a mistake." He goes back and forth in front of the screen. "You need to think bigger, think like a manger. If you don’t produce the papers that your peers view as valid, you won't receive any approvals.”

My teeth clench. I attended the same graduate and postgraduate programs as him, received even better grades than him, and have the same number of years of experience. Does he think I somehow lost part of my memories in a bout of selective amnesia?

“There will be no papers if we don’t have the ideas and do the work first,” I say in the voice of a patient who went through throat radiation therapy, my body is so tense and tired.

“You'll have the interns for that," he says.

Because of Samson’s way of explaining things I already know, I want to shout, to storm out of the too-hot meeting room, and slam the door in his face. Instead, I squeeze every body part and keep my emotions under control.

Has he always been mansplaining, and I chose to ignore it in the past? He always liked to explain and over-explain, but he's never irritated me so much before. I've always thought of it as his way to draw my attention to the areas he worried I was overlooking. My rose-colored Samson glasses no longer shield me from the truth. He just wants me to do what he tells me to.

I lean back in my chair and attempt to get us to the end of the discussion we shouldn't even be having. “That is my lab. I want the people who work for me to be here for the right reasons.”

“And what are those?” He cocks his eyebrow.

“My research." My gut roils. I don't have anything else to throw on the table. Banging my head on it would not be a good look. I point at the screen Samson is blocking. "The new hire needs to want my research to be their research. I’m looking for people who won’t be afraid to try new things and make mistakes. Take risks.”

"Risks?" Samson plasters both his hands to the sides of his head in exasperation. “Don’t ever say that word to the boss. Your funding will dry up. As it will if you don’t produce tangible results and actual progress.”

The tempest in my stomach escalates to a storm. Samson might be my colleague, and we'll have to work side-by-side, but he isn't my boss. I rise and ignore the rules of civility I should be following.

“That’s where you and I differ.” I motion with a finger between us. "I'm in this job because I want to help treat cancer, not please assholes who only care about the optics."

Samson's face crumples. His exasperation vanishes, and hurt seeps from his gaze. “When I helped you get this lab, I thought we were going to be partners in this." He steps closer to me. "That I’ll be your unofficial right hand.”

Partners. That word yanks off the rest of my restraints. The storm in my gut reaches a hurricane level. Hurricane Nata. I step closer to Samson because I'm no longer afraid of being near him. I square my shoulders. “When I accepted your proposal of marriage, I thought we would be partners and discuss everything as well.”

“Don’t put that on me." He shakes his head. "I’m not the one who quit on us.”

How does he always make me sound like I'm the one in the wrong, even if I am in the right? “I didn't quit on us." I huff and wag my finger. "You lied to me.”

The knock on the meeting room's door shuts both of us up.

“Do we have the final decision?” Fiona pokes her head in.

“Yes.” I say as Samson says “No.”

“Well, I have to leave, we could notify the candidates that we’ll delay the decision until Monday.”

“No.” I stand. “I'm the hiring manager. I know who I want. We’re hiring Regina DuPont.”

Fiona looks at Samson, checking with him.

“Fiona. I. I, and not Samson, am the hiring manager.”

“Right,” Fiona says. “I'll call and congratulate her then.” She smiles with the tight and awkward smile that makes me feel like I’m the one throwing a childish tantrum here and not making a decision on a hire in my lab.

“Thanks.” I collect my notebook and pen.

Fiona leaves us alone.

“When this mistake, and hiring this nobody from nowhere is a mistake, blows up in your face, I'll be here to help you. As always. Because I don’t quit on people I love. I hope you will change your mind.”

“On hiring Regina or getting back together with you?" I pause with my hand on the door.

“Both." He turns off the screen and closes his laptop."You know I’m the right person for you." He speaks with a slow confidence of a person who consulted a crystal ball and knows the future. "We'll figure it out. We belong together." He smiles in a calm and reassuring way therapists used on me in the past. "You know it. I know it. But I’m going to give you the time to stop lying to yourself." He packs his laptop into a backpack and approaches me by the open door. "We might no longer be new and shiny, but we are tried and true. And in science and relationships, that is worth something." There's no threat or malice in his tone. Only certainly. His face hovers inches away from mine. "You can have your early midlife crisis and see what else is out there before you’re ready to commit to real life and not the one in your imagination.”

I slam the door into his face.

Dang, that felt good. Saying my piece felt even better. I hold my hand to my angry middle as bile rises into my throat. I'm not Samson's anything anymore. It's his imagination that's creating improbable scenarios. I clamp my hand over my mouth, run into the nearest bathroom, and vomit into the toilet bowl. I feel instantly lighter, like the cocktail of Samson's poisonous words is finally out of my system. Like I can be myself again. I wash up and walk back to my office with a smile on my lips.

I'm going to prove him wrong in both my professional and personal lives. I will not fail. I'll be the one who made all her dreams come true.