Page 11 of I Hope This Finds You Well

Although... I suppose this is not, like, illegal, or wrong even.

I ball the note and shove it in the bottom drawer, where I file things that are likely garbage but don’t feelquiteready for the bin.

I eye the box again. It seems illicit. The only solution to this donut disaster is to hide it on my lap, underneath my keyboard tray, and break off pieces until it disappears.

A rush of pillowy soft sweetness hits. It’s the best donut in the world. But I can’t enjoy it.

Gregory pounds through the office door, all jolty and happy. He nods and names everyone he passes like the damn president of Clown Town.

I fake dragging my mouse across the screen as he approaches, the acid in my stomach creeping up to overpower the taste of sugar on my tongue. I shouldn’t have drunk more wine again last night. I should’ve learned my lesson from Friday. But I had one bottle left to finish, and now my head is like a pressure cooker.

That’s it. This week—and, more important, this weekend—no more drinking for me. I’m thirty-three now. Time to grow up.

I log in to start my usual routine, but the number on my email icon halts me. How can fifty-six new emails have arrived already?

A new record. I need coffee for this.

I stand up, careful to keep my focus on the rubbery grey baseboards as I make my way toward the copy room. I hear Caitlin whisper something to Rhonda under her breath as I pass.

Must not focus on anything human.

Far too many people are gathered in the kitchen. Their conversation dies off immediately upon my entry, but they don’t put much effort into hiding their smirks behind their coffee mugs. I know the kinds of things they talk about. I once overheard someone saying, “She’s so weird. I think she might come here and shoot us all. People do that.”

They’re all crowded around the coffee machine staring at their toes—several of them are members of the Coffee Club—which means I can’t steal their product right now. I fill a mug with hot water from the cooler instead, sweat gathering in my cleavage as their conversation continues in muted tones. The tea bags from 2017 in my desk drawer will have to do.

Back at my cubicle, I take an underwhelming sip of grassy tea as I click the first email: an office-wide notice about some tax form coming.

There’s no way this reality was the intended human experience.

The hollow splash of Barry Goodwin refilling his thermos-sized water bottle sounds from the cooler behind me. I hate that my cubicle is positioned where people are always walking past. Always on display while alone.

The next email is from Armin. My chest plummets. He never emails me directly. Is this about my drunk message?

Hey,

So I got an odd IG message from Jolene on Friday. Did you know it was her birthday? Shouldn’t the Morale Boosters have gotten a cake party together? I’m not the best person to point this kind of oversight out to Rhonda, but I think she forgot. Jolene said she was lonely, and I didn’t know what to say but it felt... sad. I’m terrible with this kind of thing. It’s awkward.

Armin

My heart almost falls out my vagina. Oh god. Oh no. I reread the message again as I slowly, but thoroughly, turn to stone. Anxious tingles shoot through my fingertips and earlobes. I’m pinned to my chair.

The email header draws my gaze. It’s addressed to Caitlin but not me.

He must have accidentally bcc’d me.

Another email appears in the chain.

From: Caitlin Joffrey

To: Armin Habib

Subject: Re: Jolene’s Birthday

Oh! Shit! Garret and I were at the bar when we saw she started an Insta. We were roasting the shit out of the weird stories she was posting.

I can’t believe she slid into your DMs! Imagine being 33 and messaging some colleague you hardly know and saying that you’re lonely. Maybe she was hitting on you?

Also, Rhonda didn’t want to throw a party given the situation with the email she wrote me. She’s so unstable. Tread lightly or you’ll end up chopped up and sewn together different.