The second Caitlin slinks out with Garret at five p.m., Rhonda marches into my cubicle guns blazing—and by guns, I mean the two giant Party City bags hanging from her arms.
“You’re my only decorator tonight,” she announces, all business. “Garret’s busy delaying Caitlin, and Marla’s out sick with the stomach flu. Who gets the stomach flu this time of year? It’s just a hangover or laziness.”
Damn it, the stomach flu was going to be my excuse to leave the party early tonight.
Rhonda actually grabs the back of my chair and pulls it out so I’m forced to stand up. “We have so much to do. I’ve told Garret to give us one hour. I got these spirals at Party Plus during lunch to put up in the bar.”
Part of me wonders what Rhonda would do if I just turned around and ran for the hills now, without any explanation. But her bright gaze, the lilt in her voice . . . her desolate Silver Timings profile she checks as often as she calls her son. She lives for this. And it’s not like I can judge her for not having other things to do.
Her frosty peach lipstick that has surely been discontinued is different from her normal shade. She’s paired her nylon tights with heeled sandals, and her big toenail looks on the verge of cutting itself free. She dressed up for tonight . . .
But it’s not only that. I think of her smile when I was presenting in the multi-unit meeting. Her shy thank-you when I taught her how to use the online archive. I’ve always suspected that Rhonda was part evil, but maybe that part isn’t as big as I thought.
I take one of her bags and say, “Just let me know what you’d like me to do.”
The way she grins makes it feel like an act of mercy.
I can be the bigger person here. And it may be best to give Caitlin a nice send-off, after all.
The bar sits down the street from our building. As it’s located in a corporate section of downtown, it’s mostly frequented for office functions like ours. I’ve never been inside, but perhaps this is another thing I should start getting used to. If I’m going to be the new document lead in a few weeks’ time, I may have to socialize with my team more.
We climb down the creaky wooden staircase into the dimly lit basement room that boasts hardwood floor and walls and a lot of brass items throughout. The stale liquor scent roils my tummy. I try to imagine being a regular here—one of the few who go for Friday drinks. Except the place has got all the workings of a bad time. The lighting is too bright to hide from, and there are too many standing tables so people can stare at you from all angles. Still, maybe with enough practice, it wouldn’t be bad either. It could even be fun.
Rhonda finds our reserved area in the back. She somehow produces a third giant bag that reads Dollars Plus and crinkles with every step as she marches to plop it on a corner table. Purple streamers spill out the sides; this decor is going to be so ugly and pointless. But the fact that she went to three different party shops crushes me.
“Right.” She claps her hands together. “How are you at standing on tables and making spirals with dual ribbon colors?”
“I like to think I’m pretty great at that,” I mutter.
She actually squees. “Wait until you see the paper flowers I found!”
I keep my smile plastered firmly on my face. It’s like she’s testing how far she can pull this shit without me getting angry enough to leave something not fully dead under her desk.
We get to work tacking up weird paper shapes to the walls—me mostly standing on the tables, and Rhonda handing me tape and telling me where to put it. I’m careful to follow her instructions as best I can. When we’re done, she grabs my arm. “The fund has enough for everyone to get one drink, but if we order a few bottles of wine to share instead, we can have a drink now.” She winks at me, all rebellious.
“Actually, I might not stick around too long.”
Her mouth puckers so small that it cracks her lipstick. “What? The party hasn’t even started. Have a drink with me; you’ve earned it.”
I stare toward the staircase. “I’m not sure . . .” I start to say, but she’s already at the bar.
I’m not a social drinker anymore. People get in the way of real drinking. And socializing is the last thing a drunk person should be doing. Hasn’t anyone else figured out this life truth?
Before I can leave with my vibe intact, she returns, bottle in hand, and says, “Oh, come on, you’re not going to leave me with this bottle of rosé alone?”
She waves it in front of me, the pink liquid inside sloshing around and glinting against the bright lighting. Oh, if only Rhonda knew how familiar I am with this particular eight-dollar bottle.
I glance at the time on my phone. Caitlin & Co. won’t be here for a while yet. And I can’t stand the idea of leaving Rhonda to sit here, drinking all by herself, mind wandering where it always goes when a lonely person is alone.
So I resign myself to my fate and say, “Hit me.”
Once the wine is poured, she clinks our glasses together and says, “Cheers! You’re not half as bad as I thought.”
I cough into my drink. Leave it to Rhonda to say exactly what she means. But I can respect it. I give her a small smirk and whip back, “Neither are you.”
Her grin sharpens, her eyes wrinkling with mirth. And my chest lifts. She’s not so bad.
And, as it turns out, Rhonda can hold her own with a bottle. She quickly polishes off her first glass and pours us both a second, then makes quick work of that too.
I’m idly listening to her tell a story about her latest knitting project when she suddenly pats me on the shoulder. I jolt, looking at her glossy plum nails against my plain black shirt.
“I know you’re not one to be overly friendly with people,” she says, her eyelids drooping as she stares into her empty glass. “And that’s fine. You like to keep to yourself. But I always wondered if you were mad at me for something.”
I shake my head. “Not at all!” And maybe that’s true, if I can ignore all the times she’s annoyed me, all the white-ink emails I’ve sent her through the years.
Her gaze locks on to me, eyes soft and glassy. “I thought my Christmas decorations were nice.”
All the air deflates from my lungs. So I’m not the only one holding on to that little tiff from six years ago when I moved Rhonda’s tinsel. I really am a miserable jerk.
“Yeah, Rhonda, I’m really sorry I wrecked your decorations. That wasn’t nice. I’m no fan of glitter, but I could’ve handled that better.”
Rhonda’s face goes slack, like I’ve just relieved her of some momentous weight. “Thank you, dear. I shouldn’t have held a grudge. I just love Christmas. But maybe you don’t like religion in the office. It didn’t used to be an issue, but I don’t like to make people uncomfortable.”
I nod. “It wasn’t that. I celebrate Christmas.” Which, nowadays, is just an obligatory dinner at my parents’ house, a small gift exchange, and a depress-y night in the apartment with whichever neighbor likes to blast Wheel of Fortune all evening.
She brightens and grabs the wine bottle, pouring us both another glass. “Does your mom do a big turkey?”
“An amazing one! Which is interesting since she grew up in Iran and didn’t do Christmas there, yet she mastered it.”
Rhonda pauses, her wineglass halfway to her lips. “You’re Iranian?”
I involuntarily brace myself; I’m usually more aware of when I “come out” as Persian, but the wine loosened me up. Being white presenting, talking about my background is like playing Russian roulette. Most people are normal about it, but I’ve encountered enough of the type who get twitchy and start talking about their one friend or masseuse or whatever. And then there are the people who act like I intentionally tricked them into not being racist by holding back this crucial info—and they always make up for it.
Rhonda smiles and pats my arm. “Like Armin! Not that you’re the same, but I’m sure it’s nice to have someone you work with share the same culture as you.”
Relief washes over me as the warmth of her hand seeps in. “Yeah,” I say, and nod. So what if the majority of the total conversations we’ve had in our four years working together happened this week?
Rhonda twists the stem of her glass. “I know Armin gets annoyed with me, especially when I talk about Carl. But I can’t help it, it’s my life.”
A lump forms in my throat. I take another gulp of wine to wash it down.
She follows suit, taking another heavy swig of her own. She stares at the now empty bottle sitting between us, eyes glazed over. “I know I talk about him a lot, but he made me very proud. Even when he did something disappointing, I was always so proud, so full of joy, to be his mom. It was the best time of my life.”
She’s speaking in past tense.
I can’t help but think of my own mom—the messages she sent today asking how work was going and to tell me about the newest fucked-up show she found on Discovery Channel. That string of unanswered texts isn’t much better than Rhonda’s call log.
“For what it’s worth,” I begin, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice, “I can tell you’re a great mom.”
Rhonda holds up her nearly empty glass wineglass toward me. “I didn’t think you were all bad, but it’s good to be right.”
I clang my glass with hers. “To being right.”
And right when she raises her drink to polish off the last of our bottle, Garret walks in, trailed by two other guys from the finance team, Anthony Clark and Paul Chauncy. I’ve never spoken to them before; finance men tend to move in a pack, and the medley of cologne and hair gel odors makes me dizzy.
“The lovers will be here in ten minutes,” Garret announces to the room. “She thinks we’re going on a double date to meet my new boyfriend, Eduardo.”
Rhonda nudges me and calls out, “Well, the party’s ruined because nobody will believe that lie. You couldn’t get a guy with such a sexy name. The best you could get is a Bruce. Isn’t that right, Jolene?”
I try to chuckle, but more of Caitlin’s friends from the office are trickling down the stairs, and all their eyes are narrowing in on me with expressions ranging from curiosity to suspicion.
“I’ll get more wine!” Rhonda announces gleefully, stumbling out of her seat and toward the bar.
Garret’s gaze trails from the clearly inebriated Rhonda to me, eyeing me like I’m a criminal.
And this is my cue to leave. I stand up, intending to make my way outside as subtly as possible, when—
“Surprise!” everyone yells at once, and I am forced against the back wall as everyone crowds forward to greet Caitlin as she appears at the top of the staircase.
She clutches a hand—the one with the diamond on it—against her chest in fake awe. “Oh god, you guys shouldn’t have!”
The throng encroaches on her. A glass of bubbly appears in her hand.
“Kyle!” Garret calls, as a guy makes his way into the room behind Caitlin. From my place in the back, I can make out only the top of his gelled dark hair.
So this is the Kyle of Caitlin’s Instagram, of hand and torso modeling fame. He’s shorter than I pictured. He has his back to me as he greets Garret, but I can already tell that he’s nothing special. His jeans are the Very Bad type—I’d almost categorize them as a red flag. Caitlin takes a big swig of her champagne and walks up to him for a hug. His arm wraps around Caitlin’s shoulders and pulls her in tight against his chest, and he whispers something to her without actually moving his face toward her, in that controlling man way.
Finally, he turns to take stock of the crowd around them, and I get a decent glance at his face.
All the air rips from my lungs. I fall back against the wall like it will offer some sort of camo. But it’s too late. He flinches when he registers my face too, his eyebrows shooting up into his hairline.
I’m Bambi in headlights. My head is spinning, like I’ve had five bottles of wine instead of half of one. I slink around the tables, toward the exit. Everyone is still crowded so tightly around Caitlin that I have to force my way to the stairs. And Kyle is standing right there, in front of the threshold.
“Jo-Jo,” he calls out as I get close.
Before he can say anything else, I bolt past him and flee the room.