I’m lying on the couch in a T-shirt and panties that are frankly ready for a demotion. The latest conga line of thoughts flash over me: Cliff—the kiss, the car ride home; Armin—his mom, the favor I owe him; Larry’s face, etc.; the fucking blazer I ordered.
As a coping mechanism, I move on to binge-watching some astronomy documentary, learning how big the universe is and how we are all teeny dust. It’s right as I’m having an existential crisis about the point of life when my mom’s picture takes over my phone screen, the ring vibrations drilling into my stomach.
I hit silence, automatic as a bot.
But the sound of Rhonda’s miserable sigh every time she gets Carl’s voicemail is dredged from my subconscious.
I make like Caitlin and find the least offensive background, shoving a pile of clothes off the couch and posing the camera away from the open chip bag lying beside me. “Hello.”
“You’re engaged?” is what she says, her tone incredibly even as she searches my face.
The phone nearly slips out of my palm. “Uh.”
Mom clucks her tongue. “I knew it was mistake. Aunty Parvin is always getting her gossip wrong.”
“Wait.” The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The aunty gossip network runs deeper than any cartel. “Who am I engaged to?”
“Aunty Parvin’s eyebrow-threading lady is friends with Nika, the woman who is making the best tahchin and selling on the WhatsApp, who said Babasheh congratulated her for her accounting executive son’s engagement to you. She was getting a radiation therapy and told Dr. Nasseri about it.”
Amazing. I can barely follow, yet I know exactly what she’s talking about.
But shit.
“So it’s mistake?” she says again. “I knew it.”
But if I tell my mom it’s a lie, that information will go all the way back down the gossip chain, back to Armin’s mom. Dread curdles my stomach. If it becomes known that Armin lied to his poor sick mom, not only will he probably change his tune about keeping my email access secret, but his mom will probably freak out, and she’s already frail enough.
“It’s, uh,” I stumble, thinking on my feet, trying not to make eye contact through the screen. “It’s not like an actual engagement. We just, uh, talked about it, and—”
A hard-core scream sounds through the other end of the line, so high-pitched it becomes pure crackle through the speaker. “Why do you keep a man secret from me? Send me a picture. Is he handsome? Very proud he is the executive. Should I come over?”
Shit. I may have triggered a wildfire in the Persian community of the western regions.
“I don’t want to make this a big deal,” I begin, but Mom’s camera is already turning into a blur as she moves around the house.
“Oh, my baby! Why didn’t you say you have boyfriend? I was worried you didn’t want to. I will get the best dress, and that ugly Minoo isn’t allowed to come. Actually she can, to see how much more beautiful I am than her.”
More dread sets in. What have I done?
“Mom. Mom!” I shout until she locks eyes with me through the screen. “Please, we must keep this under wraps. Our work doesn’t know, and we’re not allowed to date.”
“Okay, okay.” But the energy comes racing right back. “I didn’t think I’d get to be a bride mom. I’m going to throw the best wedding.”
The song in her voice. The smile. My brain doesn’t have the capacity to throw another log on the shit storm in my head. “Mom, please, you can’t say anything. We honestly need to keep this quiet. That’s why I couldn’t tell you yet.”
“Yes.” She throws her hand at the screen. “I never tell anyone anything. I’m very good with this and classy. I’m not Minoo.”
We hang up, and I stare guiltily at the pile of clothes I moved.
From: Armin Habib
To: Jolene Smith
Subject: Is this okay?
I open the attachment and a chuckle escapes me. I quickly stifle it when Rhonda casts me a disapproving look.
The picture Armin sent me is of himself in an oversized suit looking uncomfortable at the last regional conference. It’s nothing like the Armin of reality, but oddly perfect for the bullshit version we’ve perfected.
A message comes from him.
Armin: Thank you for making your thoughts so obvious and loud. I’m not a suit guy, okay.
Jolene: Sorry, it’s perfect—I’ll use it. I needed that laugh. But FYI my mom will be sharing this with everyone.
Armin: I somehow knew this exact picture was bound to be distributed widely from its conception, aunty network involved or not.
We both giggle in our seats, and Caitlin and Rhonda exchange a look—Rhonda confused, Caitlin salty.
Moments later, a message from Caitlin to Armin appears.
Caitlin: Are you and Jolene messaging?
Armin: Why do you ask?
Caitlin: I mean, if you’re hanging with her, that’s obviously fine, but just be on guard—I know I sound like a broken record, but the other night was my engagement party and she was there, but what’s more is she left as soon as Kyle and I came, and guess what?
My heart stops. I stop breathing. It’s now. She’s going to tell them about Ellie, about what I did. How I’m not to be trusted and everyone should fear me. I’ll never escape this, no matter what. Soon enough, they’ll all know what I was like and who I am.
My stomach clenches like a fist as Caitlin types. The keyboard clicking is the only sound in the world.
Caitlin: She volunteered to help Rhonda with my party decorations and then took off. Isn’t that suspicious?
Oh my god.
Relief swoops in and floods every part of my being. She doesn’t know. Did Kyle really not tell her? I don’t understand it.
I divert my eyes while Armin looks my way.
The guy needs some serious lessons on being covert.
Jolene: STOPP looking at me!
Armin: Are you just reading our convo? It’s kind of obvious with the way you stare at your screen FYI. It’s so weird having an audience.
Jolene: Please stop looking at me.
Armin: I’ll try. You stop reading how bout?
Jolene: Fine.
Armin messages Caitlin back next:
Armin: Hmm that is suspicious. Have you considered dipping her mug in the toilet to teach her a lesson?
My mouth twitches. Armin is a fucking imbecile. I type while glaring at the back of his head.
Jolene: You jerk. I’m seriously reconsidering our arrangement.
Armin: Cheers—was just a test. Also, you know you can’t.
Caitlin’s reply to Armin pops in.
Caitlin: Um . . . no, I hadn’t considered that. ANYWAYS. Good luck. I tried. She’s sketch.
Caitlin clicks the chat shut and pulls out her hand mirror, beginning her first teeth and eye inspection of the day.
As Caitlin fiddles with her hair, it’s like a rush—the realization. In about two weeks’ time, she could be gone. Caitlin would simply fade into an echo of Supershops’ past, and I would be free, completely. I won’t have to worry about her or Kyle saying anything. I won’t have to worry about anyone’s emails. I can be exactly who I want.
A beeping at the door draws all our eyes.
“Does a Caitlin Joffrey work here?” The question comes from a tiny man holding a giant bouquet of chocolate-covered strawberries and mango on skewers. We can barely see his face as he tiptoes into the room, unsteady. “I’m looking for Caitlin Joffrey.”
Caitlin’s face goes pink and she puts a hand to her chest, a perfect picture of modest delight. “Yes, that’s me.”
“Oh, goodness.” Rhonda stands up to examine the giant display as the man lowers in onto the worktable next to our desks. “Who is this from?”
Caitlin walks over to the arrangement and pulls out the card. “Oh, it’s my Kyle.” Her smile is wide, her lipstick freshly applied. “That’s so sweet. Last night I was saying we should have a chocolate fountain for strawberry dipping at the wedding, and he sent this!”
She holds out the card to Marla and Joy, who’ve already come over for the show-and-tell portion of the morning, excited for a reason to stand around. “Oh my god!” Joy says. “The card reads: ‘Until we get our own chocolate fountain.’”
“Aw,” Marla and Rhonda squee in unison, while Stu, who has now joined the fray, mumbles something about putting the rest of them to shame.
Rhonda claps once. “Adorable!” When Caitlin grabs a strawberry, Rhonda tilts her head. “Oh, dear, where’s your ring?”
Caitlin’s gaze shifts to her empty hand. “We’re just getting it resized. It didn’t quite fit. Anyway, eat some of this, please! Enjoy!”
Caitlin walks back to her seat, playing with the levers to adjust it, making it creak. Her phone buzzes twice, and she picks it up to read the texts but doesn’t respond. She grabs her water bottle, sips it, then drops it. We all look up as it clangs down on her desk. She picks it up, sips it again, puts it down. She pulls her hair back, twists it into a bun, then takes it out and reties it twice more. She huffs, then drops her pen and drills her hands into her temples, leg twitching under the table.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say this is starting to look like an anxiety attack—except this is Caitlin, so she’s probably just dopamine drained since her last Instagram post (some brunch eggs she somehow deemed grid-worthy) didn’t even reach twenty likes. Still, an odd tightness seeps in. Her phone buzzes again. She hits some button that seems to kill it and stuffs it in her purse.
I turn back to my inbox, looking for a distraction. Cliff has a new notification from his LinkedIn account, which everyone knows is just a hookup site. Still, I click on it.
The notification says there is a reply to a message sent to some guy named Sanjay Singh at People Power in Vancouver, dated yesterday afternoon.
Cliff: Hey Sanjay, I can’t believe it’s been over a year. How are things going? I wanted to reach out. I left the insurance company and recently started at Supershops—still HR. This place is a bit of a nightmare in all the ways we talk about and it’s getting hard to tolerate. Because of this, I wanted to follow up about that open offer. Would you be available for a chat this week? Definitely best to do after work hours.
Sanjay: Cliff! So glad you reached out, man. Of course I’d be game to chat. Want to have a call tonight? Things are busy as usual around here, so I’ll be working late anyway. Let’s connect around 7:30 PT/8:30 your time—sound good?
It makes perfect sense. This place is a nightmare, and his grandma doesn’t need him anymore—I saw it myself. It’s just like Grace wanted. He can go back to a job that makes a difference. A job that’s not a living nightmare.
He doesn’t owe me anything. We’re just friends—if we’re even that anymore.