Page 19 of I Hope This Finds You Well

They all smirk in agreement while the walls close in around me, powered by the heat of their stares. “Once you get promoted, we can work on finding you a husband,” Parvin says, and they each give a single nod like they’ve concluded this meeting of the Sad Niece Society.

In my peripheral vision, I spot the waiter and a colleague crouching together while pretending not to look at me. I take another skewer from the platter since I’ll never be eating here again.

At least I can leave this restaurant. At least when I walk out the door, this specific misery will end, and I can get myself a family pack of Kit Kats and go home and be alone. If I lose my job, I’ll have to move in with Mom again, and there’ll be no escaping any of this.

Conveyor Belt Artist

The “grocery shop of shame” is a form of modern art that peaks in its grandeur at the conveyer belt. My post–aunty dinner angst may have influenced what went into the basket. Plus, the signature sky-blue color painted all over Supershops—the same shade that brands everything in our office—triggers something in me that can only be cured by processed foods.

All the items that I plan to purchase and consume are splayed out and slowly gliding toward the cashier, a visual representation of the state of my mental health. The weeks when I get the marshmallow strawberries and the Corn Nuts are particular cries for help.

The key to a successful grocery shop of shame is all about timing. Eight p.m. on a Monday is usually the safest hour if you want a little discretion, but somehow there are two people behind me tonight. Worst of all, the one closest to me looks to be the juicing type. We wait in meditative silence as the cashier scans the items in hollow beeping intervals.

I add the Flamin’ Hot Cheetos—was that a gasp? The guy behind me winces as he eyes my treats, and he looks like he might shit his high-end sweatpants. He clearly doesn’t understand my craft. He’s perfect and sinewy and could make it as a time-share brochure model if he desired. He glances at his teal Apple Watch, grunts, then lifts his basket of produce from the ground and storms away.

If only I could leave this situation too.

The guy behind him shuffles forward and grabs the last bag of All-Dressed peanuts I’d been eyeing. My stomach twists as he adds it to his pile. It’s him.Himas in Clifford HR guy. He’s dressed like a British gangster in an Adidas sweatsuit, and his basket is filled with puffy bags of chips with reckless flavors made for eating alone: pickled onion, chilly and chive.

Solidarity.

His gaze shifts from the conveyer belt to me. He jolts in surprise, then a genuine smile overtakes him. “Jolene, what the hell? So good to see you.”

“Nice to see another patron of the arts.” I look pointedly at his snacks, and his grin tugs a little wider. Only it’s too much—what is he doing here, after everything today? Maybe Supershops hired him to monitor me at all company locations. Maybe this is a social experiment on how to break a person in one day. “You’re doing a good job acting surprised,” I say.

“What?” He raises a brow, but he’s still smiling. He’s a stark contrast to the scuffed floors and depressive Supershops-branded endcaps.

“Are you saying thisisn’tsome kind of HR undercover op then? Gregory isn’t hiding in the store, dicking up the produce with his fingers as we speak?”

He lets out a startled chuckle. “What did you just say?”

I should probably be embarrassed that I said that out loud. But running into him here is the cherry on top of my surreal day. This feels like a glitch in the matrix or a dream. So I poke some more. “I’m off work. This is my time; I can say ‘peen-hole’ if I want.” I stare him down like this is a dare. After all, he spent my performance meeting doodling cats, so he’s not the paradigm of professionalism either.

“That’s fifty-six seventy-three,” the cashier chimes in neutrally.

I tap the machine to pay and thank her, but I keep my eyes on Cliff.

His brow crinkles. “I was referring to the part about Gregory. I wouldneverbring him on an undercover operation. He doesn’t have what it takes.”

I try not to laugh in surprise, but it feels like he passed some kind of test. To hide my amusement, I narrow my eyes at his groceries. His eyes follow my gaze.

“As you can see, I’m just here for my essentials.” He nods toward the front entrance. “I just live a few blocks away.”

I take a step back. “So do I. I shop here all the time for our employee discount. I’ve never seen you before.”

“Well, you wouldn’t have recognized me. We only met a few days ago.”

“I suppose.” I nod politely to the cashier as she hands me my receipt. “Well, bye,” I mutter as I grab the frayed handles of my Supershops reusable bags and hope for peace.

“See ya,” he calls, and holds up his keys in a wave. I’m already walking through the automatic doors, too far gone to wave back.

I trot across the asphalt parking lot with slightly heavier than planned shopping bags. The sun has gone down and things are turning shadowy. The creaky squeal of a retirement-aged car trying its darnedest sounds too close behind me. I turn sharply to face a golden sedan that could be considered vintage if the world didn’t want to forget this model ever existed.

“You’re not walking home with that many groceries, are you?” Cliff calls from his rolled-down passenger-side window.

I shrug as best as I can with the pounds of sugar weighing them down. “It’s how I keep my fitness levels optimum.” Although, if we’re being honest, the Alphagetti cans were a poor choice.

“I’ll give you a ride,” he says, without hesitation.