The next week comes and goes, and nothing much happens. I continue replacing my commute with Cliff with shaky bus rides. My evenings are no longer interrupted by bowling, Miley, or anything else. I even stop checking Cliff’s icon to see if he’s online. Or I at least do it a lot less. I submitted some course material to him yesterday, and it was all so formal, with phrases like: “I hope this finds you well” and “Best regards.”
After a few sleeps I like to think I’ve come around to our new dynamic. It’s for the best that he moves on from this place. From me.
The only notable events this Friday: Rhonda spent fifteen minutes comforting Jean Adler, whose daughter did not make it into the same law school Carl went to (I averted my eyes the entire time as she did this); Caitlin spent the morning giggling while she presumably texted Kyle and spent a whole hour standing by Joy’s desk talking about wedding stuff; Armin spent the day zoning out while twiddling his mouse to keep his screen active. It’s all so typical.
But tonight, we’re being held captive longer. Even though we’ve already contributed forty hours of our waking lives to this cursed place this week, we must donate an additional two hours of our Friday evening to celebrate the fact that Gregory has wasted the most time here.
There’s no way to duck out unnoticed because the entire office decides to walk over to the bar together. Armin ends up between Caitlin and Garret, so I sidle up next to Rhonda, who is telling Marsha all about Carl’s latest false victory.
The party’s on the main floor of the bar this time. Rhonda’s spirals and balloons hang from the ceiling. They’ve set up tables with plastic tablecloths and folding chairs. The banner hanging above the oak bar reads: For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow. A sad little buffet of cold cuts and oily cheese is set up on a table in the back of the room, but the email invite made sure to be crystal clear: drinks are not included.
The piece I wrote for Gregory sits on little stands in the middle of each table. Armin did a top-notch job printing on the cardstock. The picture they selected is of a much younger Gregory, his hair poufy and jolly-good-fellow-y.
As we file in, everyone seems to find someone to chat with. I realize I should do the same so as to not stand out as abandoned. I see Armin, but he’s in a conversation with Chris Fernando in IT. The guy is like an eccentric artist about software—every time someone contacts him for help, he gets accusatory and unhinged. Best to avoid him, given my current deceptions.
I slink into a seat at a table in the corner, where some other seventh-floor people are lingering. They seem as unhappy about the life decisions that landed them at this party as I am.
But then Caitlin and Garret settle into the chairs across from me, seemingly without noticing me—they’re leaning so close together, having a hushed conversation, that it’s impossible to listen in.
A server comes around to ask for drink orders, coming to me first since I’m the only one not talking. I’m not hyped by the idea of consuming alcohol in front of all my colleagues, but at least I can get something to hold in front of me and press my lips to, so I don’t look too weird by myself.
I say, “Glass of red wine,” which is, of course, a mistake. Next thing I know, the server is listing off an endless variety of wines and asking for my preferences in body and dryness. My only method for picking wines is the price. At my baffled expression, the waiter pulls a written wine list out of his apron. Wow, one glass costs eleven dollars. But that’s the cheapest, so I go with that. Except the wine is called Revinionvissino or something. I try to say it, and the waiter tilts his head and asks me to repeat that.
By now, all the conversation around the table has died out as everyone is checking what’s holding the waiter up. I take the menu and point, my finger shaking over the tiny print. “This one.”
He leans down to look. “Sorry, which one is that? Are you pointing at the Montepulciano?”
The Montepulciano costs eighteen dollars for six ounces, so I panic and say, “No, no, the eleven-dollar one.”
Beside me, Caitlin laughs out loud.
Well, fuck her.
“Oh, that sounds good,” a voice says behind me—Cliff—and my skin flushes, the splash of heat instant and gripping. I didn’t think he’d come here, but of course he would. He’s HR, after all. “I’d like to try that too,” he continues.
He smiles at me, a small plea in his eyes. I blink, but I’m too frozen to do more. We haven’t been this close to each other since the movies, the fire alarm—all our recent half-finished messy conversations—and I don’t know what to with any part of my body. I’d been planning to call in sick on the day of our next session, hoping that I could somehow pass the course without seeing him again. I should say at least one casual thing to him, but I don’t know what, and more relevantly, I can’t. The idea of showing any human emotion, especially in front of the entire office and especially Caitlin, makes me want to actually dissolve into the blender that’s mixing margaritas in a loud drone at the bar.
So I grab my phone and pretend to read a text.
Cliff takes the hint, and when the drinks are served, he takes his glass, smiles a little sadly, and takes off to the other side of the bar without saying another word.
I watch him over the top of my phone as he speaks to a few of the reception and intake staff members, then makes his way to the supply chain people. After a few minutes, he takes off his hoodie, revealing a checkered shirt I’ve never seen him wear before. Then he chuckles really loudly and claps Robin Winters on the shoulder. What did Robin even say? I’m tempted to advise Robin that Cliff chose his death for a billion dollars just weeks ago.
And that’s when I realize I should pay attention to my own table.
Armin and Rhonda have sat down near me, talking about the shredder guy and how he hasn’t shown up on schedule lately. Marla, apropos of nothing, starts telling us about her ex-husband’s intimacy issues; I’m fairly sure this party isn’t the place to share this, but who knows. Rhonda suggests that it might be fun to start a book club for the singles in the office. I’m beginning to zone out when suddenly the whole table erupts in laughter—a joke I’ve missed.
And again, I’m alone.
If we were in the office, I would just click on their messages, read them back to figure out what they’re all discussing. But I don’t have the cheat codes to real life.
Finally, Gregory comes bouncing into the bar, arms wide as he greets the room like he’s a prized pig. His wife is beside him, wearing a perfect A-line dress in signature Supershops blue—the same one she wore to the Christmas lunch last year. I can barely look at her, now that I’m holding on to the knowledge of Papa Bear. I shudder down a sip of my wine.
Gregory takes a seat at the head table that Rhonda prepared with a sash that reads 20 Years. He grabs the card stock and reads it. A smile pulls across his face, crunching the corners of his eyes—he must like the bit about BBQ and golfing, and that reassures me more than expected. Following my instincts to write the most generic praise possible seems to have worked on his simple mind.
But then his eyes widen, nearly popping out of his skull, before narrowing hard.
He flips the card facedown and slides it under the table. His eyes dart to Mrs. Gregory, who’s busy getting hors d’oeuvres from the sad buffet.
Rhonda gets up and passes by his table, holding her glass of the same rosé she drank last time we were here. Gregory stands and taps her arm to stop her. I can read his lips as he asks, “Who wrote this?”
My heart drops into my feet. I don’t catch Rhonda’s answer, but Gregory’s eyes dart in my direction and my heart plummets.
I’ve stood up without realizing it—some fight-or-flight survival instinct. Maybe Gregory is actually terrible at golf and I’ve roasted him by mentioning it.
Gregory rubs a hand over his mustache hard, his eyes still on me. I hear him say, “I need all of these taken away immediately.”
Rhonda’s expression drops. She places her glass on the table. “Will do.”
His wife appears next to him. “Nice to meet all of you again!” she says brightly. “Thanks for throwing a great party.”
“I’m not sure you’ve met all my colleagues here. Let me introduce you.” Gregory’s gaze crawls back to me, slow and sharp. When he clocks my weak smile, he looks like he wants to spit on me. “Jolene,” he calls out in my direction. “Come over here.”
Everyone at my table goes quiet, their eyes trailing to me. I take teeny steps, drawing out the six-foot walk as long as possible.
“Madeline, this is Jolene. Jolene, this is Madeline.”
He watches me register her name.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I got her name wrong. How did I get her name wrong? Then, two seconds later: the email got her name wrong. Nope. Finally, it hits me—Gregory catches my face when it does, and my blood turns to ice.
“Madeline, Jolene’s work has been very visible this quarter. We’re going to meet soon to discuss her future at Supershops.” Then he leans toward me and whispers, “We’ll discuss this later.”
He takes his wife by the elbow and walks away, leaving me to deal with my heart attack.
I stumble back to my table on wobbly legs.
Caitlin is holding a frozen margarita just beneath her lips, her huffing breaths creating steam on top of the glass.
I grab my wineglass and force down a big gulp. No relief follows. Instead, my stomach curdles. I think I might be sick.
I run into the bathroom and lock myself in a stall.
It’s been almost two hours.
Before today, I would’ve thought it impossible to hide inside a three-foot-square stall this long without feeling messed up after, and I’m unfortunately right. I listen to the sounds of others coming and going from the three other stalls, experience all the awful smells. There shouldn’t be anything worse than this. But going back out into that party, being either glared at or ignored, depending on the person, or trying not to look at Cliff, to have him see me, would’ve been worse.
The bar was reserved only until seven p.m. for Gregory’s party. By now, everyone should be clearing out.
I steel myself. It’s time to make my exit.
But as soon as I open the stall’s door, I curse the universe for its terrible timing. The bathroom door swings open and in walks Caitlin. She walks right past my ajar stall and stands in front of the mirror, checking herself. And holy shit, she hasn’t noticed me.
“Oh, you’re so lucky,” she says to her reflection, voice slurred. “You’re going to have so much good stuff. You’re perfect.”
This would normally be a blessed, magical occasion, and I’d enjoy this image for decades, but the door I’m still holding half open creaks, and Caitlin whips around, locking her eyes on me—as best she can. One eye is like the half-mast flag that has surrendered for the night.
She gives a limp point in my general direction.
“I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re playing at, but I know you’re up to something,” she says—or at least that’s my best guess, as her voice is so garbled.
I try to keep calm. The most important thing to remember is that she’s wasted. I was on my way out anyway, so I slowly back away toward the exit. Because when it comes down to it, I’m nothing but a coward.
But Caitlin’s not done. “I mean it. I know all about you.”
I freeze mid-step. The glossy tile squeaking under my shoe is the only sound in the room.
She wobbles in front of me, a predator zeroing in on its prey. “Kyle told me what you did.”
My stomach drops through the floor.
She lets out an ugly cackle. “Are you messed up?” Then she points and, even though it’s actually nowhere in my direction, I physically flinch away. She laughs again. “It’s actually true? That’s horrible.”
My anxiety can sometimes be painful, words banging around in my head, my ribs tightening around me like a vise. But the worst kind of panic is numb, almost peaceful. My brain starts to swim away. I’m afraid I’m going to actually pass out or lose control of my voice and scream.
I need to get out of here.
I push past her with an elbow, but she grabs my arm, her grip surprisingly firm. “Hey, you can’t assault me! You’re like that, I guess. I’m adding all this to my email.” Her eyes shine like twisted marbles. “I’m telling Gregory all about you next week. It’s a matter of safety!”
She releases me with a shove, and I stumble backward into a stall, almost fall into the toilet. My vision is clouding. My hands have closed tight. All the bones in my fingers have fused together, hard as stones. My brain might burst any second.
I close my eyes, take one long breath, and run for it, sidestepping Caitlin. I make it back into the barroom. It’s pretty much empty now, a few staff members clearing used plates and glasses from the tables. I rush outside onto the street. The cool air nips at my skin, affording me a second of clarity. But my earlobes feel tingly and numb, and my temples pull tight. I’m having a panic attack, and I need to go somewhere private.
On autopilot, my feet carry me back to the office.
The office is completely empty when I make it to my floor. I don’t bother to turn on the lights, heading straight to my desk and slumping into my chair. It says a lot about my mental state that as soon as I stepped into the elevator, I could feel myself calming down, soothed by the familiarity of the stale air.
But Caitlin knows about Ellie—has known, probably, since the day of her engagement party. Why didn’t she use this information sooner?
She mentioned an email.
I log in to my computer and check every single item she sent in the last month. Nothing.
Unless . . . she didn’t send it yet.
I go into my bottom desk drawer and pull out the maroon folder. Scrawled on a Post-it note are her passwords.
I look around the barren room. The only sound is the rhythmic dripping of the watercooler, echoing through the space like a drumbeat.
I have to know.
I go over to her desk chair and pull it out gently. Her diffuser is sitting to the right of her monitor, unplugged. On the left are several photos of her fluffy white cat, who looks as miserable as a Ben Affleck meme in its tutu.
I move her mouse across her purple mouse pad and her screen comes to life. I type: Iamagoddess.
And there it is, sitting in her drafts folder. The one folder that I can’t see with my admin privileges.
To: Gregory Hall
From: Caitlin Joffrey
Subject: Information about an Employee
Hello Gregory,
I’ve been thinking about my future with Supershops. As you know, I’ve been with the company for a few years and (LIST THINGS DONE HERE THAT SHOW HOW GREAT I AM). I’m aware there may be some departmental restructuring soon, so I wanted to bring to your attention (FIND A WAY TO PROFESSIONALLY EXPRESS: Jolene is a loser by definition, and she’s ruining the company with her vibes and messed up attitude).
I do feel that if opportunities for progression are to come down to me and a colleague that may have been here longer, I’d be the stronger choice. I assure you that my dedication to this company, the pride I take in every project, my education and ability to represent myself within this office, is unmatched compared to any other potential candidate for this role.
I believe my reputation within Supershops speaks for itself. As does yours: you’re someone I admire, and your career is impressive. I view you as a mentor figure and honestly a super boss. I’d love to continue to grow within this company and continue to build on the impressive machine you’ve managed to run so smoothly.
I pause. Even as I struggle to comprehend everything I am witnessing, I have to wonder: Who hurt her to be able to say such kind things to Gregory?
I have an idea what the final paragraph will say before my eyes even reach it. It’s like years of this specific dread have developed into a sixth sense within my soul.
(MENTION HER DEAD FRIEND AND THE THEORIES). I thought you should know. Given Jolene’s pattern of aggressive behaviors toward colleagues in the office, I feel it’s a duty and a matter of safety to voice all relevant concerns about this employee’s past.
Respectfully,
Caitlin
All my blood heats up and pulses through my pores. It’s exactly what I feared, yet worse with its vagueness.
She hasn’t sent it—she hasn’t even finished it—but she will. And it will all be over for me. Everything will have been for nothing.
My breath is pitchy, and it’s like the world is shrinking around me. My fingers twitch to delete it. I need to delete it. Except another wave of doom hits. She can always write another one. There’s nothing I can do to actually stop her from emailing him.
It’s pure survival instinct. My only plan is to make the part of the email about Ellie disappear into the ether. I need to silence it. Except as soon as I delete the last paragraph, I realize I need to fill it in with something. I type: Jolene sucks. Might be helpful to have her credibility challenged just a little these days. I’m scheduling it to send for when I’m long out of the building. I’ll make sure to scan out with my card to solidify my alibi—
“What are you doing?”
I jolt so hard in Caitlin’s chair it rolls into her cabinet. I swing around and Cliff is standing behind me.
“Cliff!” I blabber. What the hell is he even doing here?
His expression twists as he takes in the scene before him: me in Caitlin’s chair, an email sitting up on her screen. I’m about as guilty looking as they come.
“Jolene, what the fuck are you doing?” he repeats, his voice darker than I’ve ever heard it.
Everything inside of me is shaking. I try to say something, but all the words die in my throat.
He raises an eyebrow at me. “Are you reading your colleague’s emails? That’s a fireable offense.”
A stilted chuckle comes out before I can stop it, like my brain has finally snapped.
Cliff’s mouth falls open.
And everything I’ve done lately twists like a spiky corkscrew inside my stomach. This is who I am—despite everything I’ve tried, I’ll always be the same person.
“Jolene.” Cliff’s voice cracks. He’s standing a few feet away from me, holding himself very still. “I need to know what you’re doing. Please tell me the truth.”
The truth. I shudder a breath, shallow and wheezy through my dry lips. There’s no other way.
“I was altering one of Caitlin’s emails.”
Cliff flinches backward like I’ve slapped him. “I can’t—you can’t do this, obviously. I have to report this.”
I nod. “I know.”
And that certainty, the knowledge that it’s finally over, breaks the dam. A sob pulls from me before I can stop it.
They’re big, ugly tears. Old tears, like they’ve been waiting inside me for months—years, even—and now that they’ve been released, there’s nothing I can do to stop them. I bury my face in my hands and bend my head toward my knees, a futile attempt at hiding what’s happening, because my entire body is shaking.
“Jolene . . .” Cliff says, voice so small I can barely hear him over my weeping.
“I’m sorry,” I try to say through the lump in my throat. “I lied. I didn’t tell you—I didn’t tell—”
I hear his footsteps on the padded carpet. They come to a stop right in front of me. From my bent-over position, I see the tips of his shoes in front of my own. I hoist myself up in the chair and he’s looking down at me, devastated.
“What didn’t you tell me?” he asks carefully.
Everything, I want to say. A million things—a million lies. But it all comes back to one thing. The biggest lie of all is the one I’ve been carrying for years.
“I told you my friend died in high school. Her name was Ellie,” I start, wiping at my face with my sleeve. “I didn’t tell you why I moved away.”
He nods, silently allowing me to continue.
And it’s just like the tears—once the story starts, I can’t stop it. “It was horrible, the way she died. We were at a party, we drank too much, and she got hurt. It was an accident. I—I couldn’t save her.” That part, at least, finally feels true. “But I was the only one who was with her when it happened, so there were rumors. People started to say I hurt her. It got out of hand. Everywhere I went, it was like all anyone could see was that version of the story. After a while, I started to believe it too.”
Cliff’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t say anything.
I continue. “Caitlin’s fiancé knew me, back then. He used to terrorize me and Ellie. He was at the party too when she died. I’m pretty sure he’s the one who started those rumors in the first place.”
Cliff’s fingers ball into little fists at his sides, but still, he says nothing.
“Caitlin told me she’s going to email Gregory about . . . deeply personal things.” I swallow. “About Ellie. And I just—I know it has nothing to do with work, but it would ruin my life here.”
Cliff’s head shakes. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” I push back. “I’ve been here before. It doesn’t matter what’s true. No one will look at me the same. I just—I don’t want them to—”
“Did you hit send on the email?” Cliff’s voice is firm.
I shake my head once, staring at my feet.
“Okay, then I didn’t see anything. Just close the draft and walk away.”
My face juts up. “Are you serious?”
He looks up at the ceiling. “What am I going to do, go to Greg about you?” He shakes his head. “I just can’t do it.”
My breath halts halfway in my throat. I can’t believe it. “Thank you.”
A few beats of silence pass. He grabs a tissue off Rhonda’s desk and hands it to me, and I gratefully wipe it over my already drying tears.
“What were you doing here?” I finally ask.
His lips tick downward. “Well, I came to get my car from the building, but my tongue was still wine dry in a way that only blue Gatorade can cure.” He gestures toward the back hall, where the vending machine is. “Can I get you one?”
And I let out a welcome chuckle, relieved to have the energy shift. “No thanks.”
Cliff steps closer. The scent of his soap warms my cheeks. “Jolene, I know things have been weird and we’re still keeping our distance . . .” His gaze draws to mine and my chest loosens just a bit, hearing his voice. “But I’m sorry I was so awkward at the theater—”
“You don’t need to apologize for that,” I interrupt.
He swallows heavily. “Right . . .” His gaze lingers as his fists clench. “That’s the thing. Between Larry’s breakdown and what happened with us . . . everything . . . I’m like the worst HR guy.”
More heat flashes across my skin as I remember our kiss, but I force a teasing grin. “Yeah, I mean you were doodling when we first met, during a disciplinary meeting. That was a red flag.” His lips twitch into a half smile, and I look at him with sincerity. “Cliff, I need to apologize to you, though. I’m sorry I read your texts. And I’m sorry I overreacted about that message to your old boss. That wasn’t my place.”
The slight clench of his fists seems to loosen. “Thanks.”
His reply does nothing to ease my guilt. I wish I could go back in time. Would I have stopped myself and my email plans if I’d known him just a little earlier?
“It makes sense,” I say, “going back to Vancouver, if that’s what you want to do.” The truth of my words hollows me out. He deserves so much better than this place.
Cliff’s eyes soften. “I don’t know . . .” He presses a hand to his temple. “I’ve been thinking about my career a lot lately. Honestly, you’ve made me realize some stuff.”
I huff a laugh. “I should be an HR person.”
Cliff throws back his head. “Please don’t.” Then his lids drop, more serious. “I’m taking it day by day, but I’m trying not to lose myself to this job. Who I am and what I do in this world are more important than where I work. Even if it’s Supershops.”
I put my hand to my chest. “Cliff, I think you’ve just said something illegal in this office.”
His mouth twists with amusement: a tiny smile for just me in this dim room. “You know, you’re the only person here that’s been real with me, right from the get-go. I can tell when someone’s kissing ass or faking nice. But you were giving me shit about my cat doodle from day one, asking me who I’d kill for money by week two. It was nice to have someone see me as a person.”
“Same, with you,” I say—the most honest statement I’ve made to him.
Cliff bends toward me, holding out his hand to help me up. “I miss my carpool buddy. Can we be friends again?”
My heart squeezes when I look at him. I can definitely be fine with him as just my friend. I have to be.
It’s all we get.
“Friends,” I agree, and take his hand. We both look down at our palms, slotted together, for a second too long before he tugs and I lift myself up.
He smiles. “All right. Let’s just walk away from the computer that you haven’t touched and get out of here?”
We leave the dim office together. The whole drive home is spent in emotional silence, but not the uncomfortable kind. Occasionally we catch each other’s eye and smile. It’s good to be back in here in this car that smells like happy dog.
When he pulls over on my street, he finally speaks. “Oh, Jolene. Please don’t do that kind of thing again. I can’t fire you. Like, I don’t think I actually could.” He looks at me again, his gaze heavy with unspoken words. Finally, he settles on: “I like you . . . like more than anyone else there.”
My heart bursts like electric sprinkles inside my chest.
I smile but can’t manage any more than “Thanks.” I step out of the car, pathetic as can be.
When he drives off, I whisper into the space where his car was, “I like you too.”
More than anyone else.
But in my head, the thought that’s been fighting its way to the forefront since I ran into that bathroom at the bar finally surfaces. I’m a liar.