Cliff’s all business, his grin stiff as I enter his office. The sun shines across his trinkets, rendering the whole situation somehow even more vivid.
“How are you doing today, Jolene?” He faces the stack of paperwork on his desk as he says this, his voice ten miles away. He nods toward the donut box. “They had a Persian donut today—pistachio rosewater. Of course I had to get it for you.”
My heart breaks as I take it. It’s the nicest thing in the world.
I smile and hold my voice as steady as possible. “Nice.”
Cliff nods his head but doesn’t look up. He hasn’t looked at me once.
“Cliff, last night with my mom, that’s a whole mess that I can explain. I’m not actually into Arm—”
“Don’t worry about that.” His gaze finally pulls up to mine, but it’s indecipherable. “It’s none of my business.” He grins, though it’s not as wide as usual. It’s like a part of his smile is gone.
“But I want to. Armin’s like—we’re not into each other at all. Our families are just . . .” I rack my brain for a way to explain this that won’t come down to me being a liar. “It’s just complicated.”
Cliff’s blink is measured. “Sounds like it. But honestly, Jolene, I don’t need to know more, as your HR.”
I nod as my heart turns hard as a scone from Artistic Coffee. Our friendship could never work.
He’s HR. Just HR.
His email to Sanjay this morning scrolls through my mind like a ticker tape. Thanks again for speaking with me. I’d be excited to do something meaningful again. This place got to me worse than the others.
Cliff slides one of the packets on his desk toward me without looking up. “We’re getting close to wrapping up our training. Any specific questions or concerns?”
Yes: After all this, if I save my job and everything, do I just go back to my life here? The one without you in it?
I shake my train of thought away and ignore the heaviness that rests in my bones. “Oh no!” I force my voice to brighten. “I’m just looking forward to diving back into my studies. I have a feeling it’s teaching me more than I’m teaching it.” If we can just laugh and go back to being us.
“That’s good,” he says, another empty reply. His lip doesn’t even twitch in that cute way it does when he’s trying not to laugh—not that I notice it much.
I sink into my chair. This place got to him. I got to him.
Cliff pulls his packet open, and as he starts to go over internal biases, my mind wanders. I think of taking dull bus rides down the same roads I drove with him—the ice-cream shop, his bowling alley. I think of coming to work here without seeing his icon flashing as online.
Cliff stops midsentence and stares at me with a raised eyebrow. “Jolene, have you listened to a word I’ve said?”
I nod. I definitely did not.
He sighs. “I really want you to pass this course, so can you please focus?”
I almost nod again, but my gaze snags on the donut he got me, and I blurt, “Why do you want me to pass?”
Cliff’s eyes widen, finally revealing a hint of emotion. “What?”
I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. “Why do you want me to pass? Honestly, what difference does it make to you if I fail?”
“Jolene, what?” He looks at me with an assessing tilt. “It’s obvious.”
“Then tell me,” I demand.
Cliff looks completely baffled. He throws his hands up. “I mean, because I’d like for you to keep your job. I want good things for you. I like you.”
His words fall between us and we both lock eyes. Even though there’s a desk separating us, he’s so close that I can feel the warmth of him radiating toward me, smell the sugar on his breath from the donut he ate. I’m again so aware of exactly how many inches are between us. It’s not much, but it’s the whole world.
“Cliff, I li—”
But Cliff shakes his head, his expression almost scared. “You’re my friend, Jolene. Of course I like you.”
His words cut through me like pellets. I’m so stupid.
His jaw is tight. Again, he won’t look at me. He knew what I was about to say.
It’s like falling into a pit inside myself.
Fuck him. Fuck his donuts. Fuck every trinket in his office.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I was going to say.” My nod is too hard. “We’re friends. Such great friends.” Cliff stares at me tensely, something brewing behind his eyes. All my thoughts muddle as I blurt out, “Except you’re moving back to Vancouver. What kind of friend doesn’t even share that?”
Cliff blinks at me, his jaw stiff, as my stomach plummets. “What?”
I found the line and crossed it.
I continue: “I saw your phone yesterday when I was picking the music.”
I watch him as my words sink in. “Jolene, that’s not . . . You went through my phone?” His brows twist together.
He doesn’t know the half of it. Guilt tumbles into the pit inside me.
“I’m sorry,” I backtrack. “I just—it was an accident.”
His jaw ticks. “Yes, I was looking into it. It’s complicated and actually not your business.”
Of course it’s none of my business. Other people know that. Other people wouldn’t demand answers.
“I’m really sorry,” I say through my tight throat. “You’re right. You’re HR. It’s my job to tell you personal things, and it’s your job to keep at a distance.”
Cliff sets his jaw. “Our roles come with boundaries.”
His words crush through the room, crush through me. I spit my next words out, like they’ll release the pain. “So maybe we should stop making this so hard for ourselves, keep things simple. Stop being friends. Stop the carpooling, everything.”
But as his face drops, silent for a beat, every cell in my body wants him to argue. To stop it.
But Cliff stares at me before letting out a strained sigh. “Okay,” he says, and my insides knit together. “I agree that’s for the best.”
My brain feels like it’s ringing.
Then an actual alarm rings.
The damn fire alarm—the anxious person’s nemesis—has become my savior.
“We have to go.” Cliff actually looks a little panicked. I’d expect no less from an esteemed HR representative.
But for three years I’ve been very much not evacuating for fire alarms.
“Jolene?” He’s standing up, but his gaze clings to me.
“I’ll get myself outside,” I say, and dart past him, running for the stairwell before he can follow.
I reach the bathroom on my floor, slam the door shut, hide in my stall, and try my best not to inhale the wet-sponge stench that seems to come from all angles as I suck in tight, anxious breaths that mirror the clang of the alarm. I have to be ready to lift my feet if some fire marshal comes by to ensure we’ve all evacuated.
Eventually, all the footsteps and voices outside the door evaporate into nothing.
I finally exhale.
Just as I’m about to leave, the bathroom door swings open so hard that it bangs against the wall.
The fire alarm stops ringing.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.” It’s Rhonda, but her voice is torn up like I’ve never heard before. “But I love you. I really do.”
She takes a wet breath. Shit, she’s crying. Her sobs bounce around the tiles, filling the room.
“I only want you to be safe and okay. You’re my baby.” Rhonda sobs again, sudden and breathy.
I try to stay perfectly still, to not breathe, to stop my heartbeat. It’s been long enough that if she catches me, she’ll think it’s weird I didn’t make my presence known.
Then she whimpers in the worst way. “I love you, but I can’t do anything for you. I can’t give you any money you’ll use for something that could kill you. When my credit card went missing, I was so sick with worry. I thought it meant your last breath.”
The mumbled moaning on the other end of the line comes through. The cry Rhonda lets out seems to come from somewhere deeper than inside her. “Your life is worth trying to save,” she begs. “You know that.”
My whole body shakes. If she wasn’t crying, she’d hear me.
After a few seconds, or several hours, I hear the faucet turning on, then the paper towel dispenser. Finally, the bathroom door squeaks.
I let my legs drop, and my chest heaves in relief.
“Who’s in here?”
I freeze at the same rate my insides turn to stone, but it doesn’t matter.
“I see your shoes, Jolene.”
Shit. I open the stall door and tentatively step out.
Rhonda’s face is pale in some places, red and patchy in others. She’s holding a balled-up tissue tightly in a fisted hand.
I have no words.
“You shouldn’t have listened in on that,” she says, disturbingly calm.
“I know.” I scramble for some sort of explanation. “I didn’t realize you were here, then when I did, I . . .”
“Hid in a stall?” Rhonda raises a brow.
“I’m not spying on you,” I blurt out.
Rhonda’s stare narrows in on me, scanning my face. I don’t know what she finds, but she sighs and wipes the raw spot on her cheeks. “I can tell that you’re upset too.” Her knuckles whiten. “It’s so, so tough loving someone who is sick. Sometimes it feels like he’s already gone.” Her eyes widen and her skin pales a full swatch, like she’s haunted by her words, by her thoughts. “He needs money for food, but . . . I can’t. I can’t give him anything. It might hurt him.”
I take a few steps closer. It’s like I’m carrying all the pain from today and my life with me with each tile I pass.
My reflection catches in the mirror behind Rhonda. It’s like a mug shot—all the terrible things I’ve seen and done have caught up to my face. Nothing like the girl from the other day at the meeting. I’m nothing like her. I’m also splotchy, and maybe that’s what does it for me. I don’t start to cry so much as I finally release whatever it is that needed out. Big heaving heavy gasps come all at once.
“I’m sorry.” I quickly wipe my tears and force myself to harden. Rhonda’s jaw tightens. She won’t look me in the eye. I’m the one crying while she’s pouring her heart out. So I catch my breath and force myself to stop. Deep breaths. “I’m not going to . . . It’s none of my business.”
Rhonda finally moves, grabbing a tissue from the counter and handing it to me. “My son would be mortified if he knew what he was doing. He’s not that person.”
“I get it.” The fear in her gaze dissolves a tiny bit at this. Just three words, and she’s less alone.
Rhonda’s voice shakes. “When they’re young, we think that everything’s going to be perfect, and it all seems so manageable. We can control the world they live in. Then the world gets bigger and harder and . . .” She fades out and it’s as though something in her foundation crumbles. “It’s impossible. I have to mourn him while he’s alive. I have to wish he goes to jail. I’m not allowed to have him stay with me, help him. That’s enabling, apparently. But my son’s still sick, and if I don’t enable him, then what if . . .” She lets out a gasping breath, and another.
The absolute agony of what she’s been dealing with, going to her cube each day with her lonely secret—it’s unbelievable. “Is there anything I can do to help? Or someone I can call for you?”
Her chin collapses. “No, there’s no one, dear. My husband is gone, and somewhere along the way I lost all my friends.” Her eyes are vacant, looking somewhere just above mine. “I’m going to be too old to work here soon. No one needs me anymore. I’m already useless.” She closes her hands over her mouth—the shimmer in her nails puts on a depressing show against the dull lighting—as the sobs pull from her.
I need to comfort her. But what can I even say? I never know how to navigate these situations. “Can I give you a hug?” My voice comes out in a croak.
Before I even know what’s happening, Rhonda wraps her arms around my shoulders and pulls me in. My arms go stiff, but as she tightens her grip on me, I soften against her chest.
My heart pinches. My mom hugs the same way.
“You’re not alone,” I whisper. “You’re not.”
The moment stills between us. She lets me go abruptly and wipes at her face, as if just becoming aware of what she’s doing.
We both take a step apart, like waking from a trance, our moves slow and uncertain.
“Thank you, dear,” she says, though she addresses this to my reflection in the mirror. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
She whips out of the bathroom, the door swinging in her wake, the automatic dispenser grinding as it rolls a paper towel through its gears.
I stare back at the pale mug shot in the mirror and force myself to breathe. The chemical bleach scent bleeds into my lungs.
I practically stumble onto the main floor, then beeline for the copy room. I pull a glass from the cupboard. It’s impossible to ignore the water marks that cover it.
I search the cupboard under the sink, then add the Jet-Dry to the spot in the dishwasher, and it’s like a farewell. A weight drills into my chest, hollow and heavy. It’s like there are these pockets of sorrow waiting to be uncovered right below the surface. But we see them only sometimes, only by chance.
Otherwise, we never know.