Going back to work is like putting on an old coat. A coat that’s been in the communal closet for three years, smells like moth balls, and probably isn’t even mine but was left by someone else. But here I am.
I’m stuck. And not just in a time loop.
I don’t know how to help Hugo. Nothing I’ve tried works, and I don’t know what to do next. I need a break, to take a step back, and then the universe will show me some signs, or whatever. I’m not giving up on him, I’m just setting it aside for now. Hugo’s tears, every night, after I’ve tried over and over to make him happy. It’s . . . depressing.
Besides, maybe taking time off work has given me new perspective. And also, I really want to tell Mark off.
I’m different now. This time things will change.
“Jane, you just don’t fit.”
Sigh. This again. “Right. Thanks. I’ll see myself out.” I gather my papers and head for the door.
“Jane, wait,” Stacey calls out as I’m crossing the threshold.
I turn around.
“That actually wasn’t bad.”
Blade clears his throat and she cuts him a look.
“If you find another job in marketing, if you keep putting that kind of effort and care into your ideas, you’ll do just fine. It was a good idea.”
“But not good enough to keep my job.”
Stacey sighs and shakes her head.
Drew snorts.
“Thanks anyway.” I push open the door and shut it behind me.
That was new, I guess. But I’m still fired.
Ugh. I lean against the wall, contemplating my next move. I need to go home and give Hugo the outfit.
I can’t hear them talking in there. Maybe if I could listen while they discuss my situation, I could come up with a new plan to work through whatever they hate so much about me, but all is quiet. Something tells me they decided to fire me no matter what my pitch was. Of course they did. How did I not see it before?
I will probably keep getting fired, no matter what I do. I could have the most awesome idea in the whole known universe. It doesn’t change the past four years. Every time I could have volunteered for a project but didn’t because it meant talking in front of people. Every time I had to present an idea and stumbled and stuttered and screwed it up. Every time I shunned my coworkers. It’s hard to work well with people when you do everything in your power to avoid speaking with them.
I’m so involved in my own thoughts, I forget about the next part of this day.
“Hey. Jane. Come with me.” Mark grabs my hand, tugging me from against the wall.
I yank it away and step back. “Mark. Make like a tree and fuck off.”
His mouth pops open. “What?”
I can’t help but grin in response. And laugh. I can’t believe I did it. Queen Bee was right. It’s effective. And simple. No confrontation even, because he’s too shocked to respond.
I walk away, leaving him alone in the hall, gaping after me. It’s possible I sashay a little. I did it! I told someone off without barfing or running away! I’m changing. Maybe that means time will change. It has to mean something, right?
I move through the main area, but then I’m stopped by Presley. “How did it go?”
“Not so good.”
“Oh no. Do you want to talk about it? We could take an early lunch.”
I stop, eyeing her hopeful smile. She’s always been nice to me. Every time I go into work, she asks me to lunch and I always say no.
“Actually, yes. I would like to. But I have to take care of something first. How about I meet you? Have you been to Saffron? I hear they have the best shawarma.”
Her brows lift, surprised. And then she grins. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”
I head out the front doors, walking down the street toward the pay phone at the next corner.
Footsteps slap the pavement behind me. My heart rate increases.
Alex.
“Hey, Jane. You okay?”
I spin around, greedy eyes taking him in. The old T-shirt. The messy hair. The concerned eyes.
All I can think about is kissing him.
Which sounds sweet, but it’s not a delicate feeling, it’s hungry and visceral, a living thing inside of me.
“So, how did the meeting go?” he asks.
I open my mouth to speak. I want to tell him I was fired. Just so he’ll invite me to his show and I’ll have the opportunity to see him later.
More than anything I would love to forget the world by making out with Alex. But I can’t.
“It was fine.”
“Are you all right? Are you not feeling well, is that why you’re leaving? You seem a little . . . distracted.” He glances back at the building behind us. “You never take a day off.”
I tilt my head at him. “Neither do you.”
Maybe there’s a way to spend time with him without the making out. Maybe I can convince him to take a break. He works too hard and maybe I can do something about it. But not now. I should think of something though. There has to be a way to have it all, take care of everyone and everything in one day.
But that day is not today.
I back up. “I’ve got to go.”
“Do you need a ride somewhere?”
“No. I’m fine. Thanks though. Bye, Alex.” I wave and turn and hustle up the street to the pay phone. It’s cab time.
It’s not easy to walk away, to pretend like there’s nothing between us when I’ve memorized his scent, his lips, the feel of his body pressed against mine.
But I can’t think of him now. That way lies madness and obsession.
Once home, I race upstairs, grab the costume from my closet, and then knock on Hugo’s door.
He answers his door like he did the first day, all menacing and stern and I smother a laugh. The man is a grizzly bear on the outside and a teddy bear on the inside.
“Here. You’re going to need this.”
“Who are—?”
I shake the garment at him. “Don’t ask questions, just take it. I’ll be back later.”
Saffron is in the design district, squished between a Starbucks and a nail salon. The interior is all warm colors, reds and oranges. Booths in the front give way to an open seating area near the back. Red hanging tapestry curtains lend the area an exotic but comfortable ambiance.
“Hey.” I find Presley sitting at a small booth near the front. And I’m only slightly sweaty and shaky as I slide into the seat across from her, and that’s mostly from running back and forth across the bay.
“Hey.” Presley hands me a menu with a smile. “I’m glad you came.”
“I’m glad I came too.”
She smiles and nods and I avert my eyes down to the list of entrees.
The restaurant is filled with the clink of silverware on plates, the soft chatter of other patrons. And between us: silence.
Oh no. We’re going to sit here in silence the whole time, and Presley is going to think I’m a total loser and regret ever making an attempt to befriend me.
I shake the thought away. If I do anything stupid, I can always try again tomorrow. It’s not like I haven’t done that before. I take a breath and try not to think about it. Which means, it’s all I can think about.
A sliver of nausea slips in through the cracks of my uber-cool, I-told-Mark-to-fuck-off façade.
What if it’s awkward and strained the whole time? I didn’t make a list of things to talk about. What if we have nothing in common?
I take a slow breath, inhaling in through my nose and then out through my mouth.
It’s okay. Even if I totally screw this up, tomorrow I can try again. This is temporary.
My heart rate drops a notch.
That’s better.
“So what made you say yes this time?”
I glance up from the menu. Presley is watching me with no idea of the mental gymnastics being performed inside my brain.
When I don’t respond right away, she adds, “I mean, I’ve worked at Blue Wave for over a month and I’ve asked you to lunch or drinks or out to dinner with the rest of the team about every other day. Did I finally annoy you into agreeing?”
I smile. “I wasn’t annoyed, I came because—” Wait. Why did I agree to come out this time when I’ve been avoiding everyone at work for basically the entire span of my career? It’s a good question. I could tell her the truth, I’m stuck in a time loop in which I cannot change anything and now I’m throwing shit at the wall and hoping it sticks, but I decide to go for the simple and shocking. “I got fired.”
Her mouth pops open. “You did? Are you serious?”
“Yep.”
The waiter comes over and we order, deciding to share latkes and tabouleh with chicken kebabs and falafel.
“You sure we can eat this much?” I ask once the waiter disappears with our order.
“Absolutely. My stomach is an empty pit that needs to be filled with Mediterranean food, wine, and my parents’ approval.”
I laugh. “Now there’s a statement I can relate to.”
Presley grins. “But we need to talk about you. What happened at work?”
My hands clench together in my lap, staring down at a scuff on the table. “Today’s pitch didn’t go so great.” I mean, better than the last five million times, but not good enough.
“So they fired you?”
“Uh, well.” I blow out a breath. “That and also I suck at my job.”
She coughs, choking on her drink. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting, um—”
“Brutal honesty?”
She shrugs. “Self-awareness.”
Ouch. “Right.”
“You don’t suck at your job,” she rushes to explain. “You’re fine at your job. I just think,” she considers me for a moment, her nose wrinkling, “I don’t think you like it. Maybe I’m wrong. But I’m not sure your heart is in it. You tell me, do you like working at Blue Wave?”
I don’t have to think long to answer the question. “No. I don’t like it.” But how to fix that? It’s not like I could get somewhere else to hire me in one day. And even if I could, it’s not like I can start a career somewhere else. Not unless I get myself out of this day.
“I don’t like it either,” she says. “I recognized the job dissatisfaction because I feel it every day.”
Surprise pushes me back in the seat. “You don’t like working at Blue Wave?”
She shrugs. “It’s fine. The job is fine. I’m not planning on staying. I just need money to live off while I’m building a following on Insta for my miniature collection.”
My brows lift. “Miniature? Miniature what?”
“It sounds a little bizarre.” She fiddles with her fork and her cheeks turn pink.
Is she nervous?
She bites her lip and then explains in a rush. “Basically, I recreate various buildings, different types of architecture, cottages, windmills, apartments, things like that, but scaled down. And then I post pictures of it. I know it sounds . . . odd, but it’s a whole thing.”
“No, it’s amazing.”
I’m struck silent for a moment, and thankfully the food shows up and I can think for a second while steaming platters of food are set before us.
There’s this whole world happening all around me that I’ve been completely oblivious to. It’s an odd realization, being no more than a side character, in the periphery, completely unaware of other people’s realities.
We eat and I ask Presley questions about the world of miniature art and how she got started with it.
“Don’t laugh, but I was fascinated with doll houses as a kid and it sort of turned into an obsession.” But then she laughs, blushing further.
“I won’t laugh. It’s actually—it’s really cool.” I hold up a hand. “That sounds lame, but I mean it sincerely.”
She grins at me, scooping some tabouleh onto her plate. “So what about you? What are you going to do now?”
“Actually, I have a hobby too. I’m not sure I could ever turn it into a career but—” And suddenly, I’m not nervous to tell her exactly what I want to do. Presley’s willingness to be vulnerable and admit her passions has given me a strength I wasn’t aware I needed.
“What is it?”
“I’ve been designing dresses for drag queens. So, I guess you could say it’s fashion design.” My face heats at the admission. I poke at my food with my fork. “I design and make dresses.
Her brows lift. “Are you serious?”
I nod.
“No shit, Jane. I never would have figured, you’re always so . . .” Her eyes drift down to my sensible pink blouse.
“Drab?” I wave a hand. “It’s fine. You can say it.” I pluck at the offending garment. “My parents bought me these professional work clothes. I dress like this because it’s expected. Or I thought it was. I do a lot of things that are expected.” I get jobs I don’t want. I sleep with men because everyone else does. I wear my clothes like a costume. It’s my drag. But not the fun, colorful kind. It’s literally dragging me down.
I should design myself new work clothes. Something with a lot of color. Maybe that’s why Eloise is always wearing vibrant outfits, to be the antithesis of our staid parents.
She waves a hand. “Wear what you want. Look at Mark, he grows a beard and puts glitter in it for the holidays.”
“Oh, speaking of Mark, I should probably warn you.” I rub the cloth napkin between my fingers. “He mentioned to me that he might have a thing for you. I’m not sure if you’re into him or not, but if you are, he’s not the relationship type. If you’re looking for no strings attached, then go for it. But otherwise . . .” I shrug.
She snorts. “Yeah, not surprising. The office Casanova won’t be satisfied until he’s boinked the entire staff. Hannah is still hung up on him. You know that’s why she’s a bitch to you, right? She was pissed when he cut her loose and started pursuing you. Jealousy is not a good look on her.”
I snort. “It’s not much to be jealous of. We were never a real thing. And it’s over. He was a mistake.” I shove a bite of falafel in my mouth.
“Did you know his wife died?”
I almost spit the food out on the table, stopping myself and swallowing before speaking, trying to reconcile those words with my knowledge of Mark. “Wait. Mark was married?” How is that possible? How did I not know this?
“He doesn’t talk about it. They were young when they got married. Not even twenty, I think.”
Once again, the world shifts beneath my feet. Just when I thought nothing else about this day could surprise me, it goes and knees me right in the gut. “I had no idea.”
“There’s no reason you would. I only know it because we went to the same high school.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, but he probably doesn’t remember me. I wasn’t very memorable. Besides, he was with Katie, and they only had eyes for each other. It was one of those stories, you know? Love at first sight, high school sweethearts, the whole thing.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died. Some freak skiing accident in Tahoe. So sad, right? She was young, beautiful, and they were happy together, by all accounts anyway.”
I lean back in the seat, food forgotten. “He’s never said anything. I would never have known.” And now I feel kind of bad for telling him to fuck off. Not that his wife dying makes it okay to lead women on to get them into bed, but still.
Presley shrugs. “I didn’t know either of them well, but I did know Katie’s little sister. And through the grapevine of people we went to school with, I know he hasn’t been the same since she died. So, yeah, I know he’s a total douche sometimes, but I think it’s how he’s coping. We all handle things differently. Maybe he’ll get through it, maybe he’ll be a ball sack forever, I don’t know. I’m not excusing him, I’m just saying, it seems like he uses sex as an escape. So it’s nothing you should feel bad about.”
Mark was always desperate when we fooled around, like in a fever. Not with desire, but with the need to forget, even just for a few moments.
It’s not really so different from some of the methods I use to cope with my anxiety, becoming hyperfocused on certain tasks, other people, avoiding things I know will trigger my anxiety. Or I used to, anyway. Except he’s hurting people. Me, Hannah, who knows who else.
Have I hurt people?
My mind jumps to Eloise and my gut twists. Have I hurt Eloise? I couldn’t have.
“You’re right,” I say. “If he wants to sleep around, that’s fine, but he should be up front about his intentions. And with me, he wasn’t.”
She winces. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry, I’m way over it.”
After lunch, as we’re leaving, she surprises me with a hug. “I’m glad you came today. We should do it again. I don’t have many friends in the city.”
“Yeah. We should.”
I walk to the train station, regret slicing into me. I’ve missed out on friendship. All those times Presley invited me to hang out before, I could have had a real friend this whole time, but thinking I would screw it up somehow or do something stupid or embarrassing meant I had no chance at all.
Back home, I pick up the note from Eloise, shoved under the door, and read it again for the hundredth time.
You must be at work. I tried to call but your phone keeps going to voicemail. Call me?
-Eloise
The message is innocuous enough, unless you know we haven’t spoken in months. And not just months of Mondays.
I’m not sure I’m ready to face her. I don’t want her to know what a failure I am. Why does she leave me a note without knocking? Does she want to make up? Does she miss me as much as I miss her?
Maybe it’s time to bite this bullet. Soon. I’ll talk to her soon.