Page 100 of I Hope This Finds You Well

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.

Gold-Plated Dinner

On Saturday, my carefully curated day of nothing is interrupted by heavy pounding on my door.

“Mom, what the hell?” I say as I open it, taking in her frustrated expression. She’s all dolled up with thick eyeliner and glowing pink lipstick.

She puts a hand on her hip. “It’s almost time for dinner. You’re in your pajamas?”

“It’s loungewear,” I say uselessly. “Why are you here?”

“We’re going to dinner with the Habibs,” she says, like I should have known this the whole time.

“What?” I sputter. “No, we’re not.”

I’ve been peppering her with little comments about Armin being annoying all week. How does that translate into unplanned group dinners?

“Yes, Armin’s mom and I arranged it. Get dressed, don’t keep them waiting. We’re not a rude family.”

She herds me toward my bedroom with shooing hands with the efficiency of a border collie. As soon as I’m inside, I grab my phone and text Armin:We’re having dinner?!

The reply comes almost instantly:They didn’t tell me either until a second ago!

When my mom ushers me into the car, my dad is sitting in the driver’s seat. He at least has the decency to look apologetic.

At the restaurant, the table holding our party shines like a beacon from the foyer. The Habibs are already sitting down, Armin looking miserable beside his parents.

My mom nudges me into the chair opposite Armin and then takes the seat beside him. He’s sandwiched between moms. I pull my phone out underneath the tablecloth.Shit. They have us separated.

Armin’s jaw clenches. His reply comes a moment later.It’s okay, justdon’t say anything too specific.Then a second text:We can do this. Just keep chill.

My mom calls, “Isn’t it nice to be a big family together with the bride and groom!” And she and Armin’s dad stand up and clap, loud and hollow through the room. It’s like dominoes: the servers and some patrons build on to their claps, drumming a surprisingly loud vibration. Even the guy eating alone at a table in the corner smacks his thighs.

So far so chill.

My mom tugs at Armin’s sleeve and goes in to kiss both his cheeks while his mom grins widely. A drink is placed in his hand, and a giant pot of lamb stew is spooned onto his waiting plate, appearing as if by magic—only really it’s by fawning middle-aged mothers.

“So, baby, how is work going?” Armin’s mom asks him.

Armin’s eyes flash my way as he takes a long sip of his water. “Very good. We’re going to have one of the best Q2s I’ve ever seen and are forecasting a lot of returns on investments.”