Cliff’s office is located on the fourth floor, down a remote hallway mostly used for storage and utility rooms that remain undisturbed and lifeless as I pass their droning hum. But then I catch the music—something acoustic and maybe whimsical—coming from what must be his office.
I reach his open doorway and spot his plaid-shirted back first. His arms are stretched behind his head as he leans back in his chair. He’s resting his actual feet up on the desk.
A rush of butterflies swoops through my chest. I’m reasonable and considerate enough to know you don’t just walk up behind people when they’re trapped at work, but Clifford is the only person to fix this situation—the one who messed things up in the first place.
I knock my knuckles against his open door because I still have some etiquette.
“What’s up, Jolene?” he says, without even turning around.
“I . . . How did you know it was me?”
He lowers his legs, swiveling his chair to give me a half grin. “I was pretty sure you’d pop by today.”
It’s the way his expression is so relaxed and certain—it throws my footing. I square my shoulders before I speak. “Oh, so you knew about this? A fun little joke you cooked up with the other HR buddies at the old HR mill?”
“The wha—?” His forehead wrinkles and his hands drop to his lap.
I take another step into the room. Crossing the threshold is like being wrapped in a warm blanket. The shelves are filled with video game trinkets, ’90s movie posters overtake the walls, and there’s a sugary scent wafting toward me from an identical donut box to the one he left me. I stop in my tracks and narrow my eyes at him. “Didn’t you just start here?”
“Been here for six business days. Why?” But he follows my gaze to the windowsill of framed pictures and bobbleheads. His mouth twists into a smirk. “I like to settle. Birds need a nest.”
“I see that.”
How can he feel so comfortable being himself here? I shake the thought away and continue. “The changes—the IT thing you did to my computer.”
“Ah.” He pulls a pen from a Luigi mug and twists it in his hands. “It’ll take some getting used to, but don’t worry. We’ll get you back on track so the computer can be normal again. That’s my job.”
I can’t even with this. “What are you talking about? My emails are messed up. I’m seeing things I shouldn’t, and it’s a huge privacy breach.”
He nods. “Yeah, I know it seems less private—like someone’s watching you with all those restrictions, but I promise that’s not the case. Your internet access has been limited some, but that doesn’t mean we’re tracking you.”
Again, this man smiles.
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” I could do without the panicky lilt in my voice, but my words are fumbling en route from my head to my mouth. “It’s all a big . . . a big mess-up!”
Cliff’s eyes soften. “I know, Jolene.”
When did I start breathing so loudly? I must look manic from his angle.
He continues: “It feels like a mess, but my hands are tied. I can’t make any changes until we’ve gone through the course.”
“But I’m seeing . . . everyone. Like, they’re talking about me. I can show—” I stop myself just in time. The idea of showing Cliff what my colleagues are writing about me makes me want to crumble into more pieces than any of the Lego figurines on his desk.
He nods, way too chill. “Working alongside your colleagues after that difficult meeting may feel awkward, but we’re going to work on ways to cope so issues of discomfort don’t affect you as much. Right now, you’re a tiny boat in the sea being pushed by every wave, fighting the current. We’re going to help you become a sailboat who flows with things.”
I absolutely give up on Cliff right then. I break my eyes away from his to stare at all his trinkets, from the video game merch to the little warrior army toys, and nod in understanding. Obviously this Cliff is not a serious person. And obviously, there’s been some kind of mistake. It’s like instead of having any restrictions added, I’ve been given some unauthorized top management access to everything on the server. But if Cliff’s more concerned with boat metaphors than hearing about his masterful fuck-up, then why should I fight him on it? This is what’s wrong with the world right here.
“Hey,” Cliff says, cutting through the silence when I don’t reply. “I get it. This isn’t enjoyable for me either. But I have a dog that needs fancy kibble and several low-stakes addictions that I need to fund, including the butter pretzel I’m about due for.” He pulls himself up and grabs a jacket from the hook on the door that somehow already has two other hoodies hanging from it. “Come on, I’ll buy you one too.”
I give him a shitty staredown.
“Or not.” He combs his fingers through his bangs to push them away from his eyes; his hair is kind of unique, sort of a shiny golden-honey hue. As soon as he drops his hand, the strands fall back over his temples. He exhales softly. “You seem like an agreeable person. I know this is a tough situation, but I think we can make it fairly painless. Maybe even nice. After all, I’ll be doing the course with you.”
But I’ve stopped listening to him. No point, if he won’t listen to me.
I follow him out as he says, “Thanks for coming by. It gets pretty lonely down here, as you can see.”
I’m about to say something snarky about this not being a social visit, but when his gaze locks on me, it’s like the ground softens below me. All these things he’s surrounded himself with, the tilt in his head, the tiny hitch in his voice. I think he means it, that he’s lonely.
“Oh, and thanks for the donut,” I blurt out, trying to say it like a farewell as I half turn in the opposite direction than he’s going.
He gives a small grin. “Thought you could use one. How was your birthday, by the way?”
The details of that night flash through my mind. No way can I lift the veil for this man.
I fully turn away from him, stepping down the hall.
I must not have heard him.