Page 4 of I Hope This Finds You Well

Anna pushes a small stack of papers secured with a binder clip across the table, then offers me a silver pen. The cool pen is too heavy for my shaking fingers, but I manage to flip straight to the last page of the packet, which is marked by a Post-it flag, and sign on the line.

Gregory and Anna shuffle out of their seats as Clifford waits behind me, collecting the documents. Gregory pauses and leans against the doorframe, his pants creased in all the wrong ways, his left handveryanchored in his pocket. “Clifford, you’re going to have to set up Miss Smith’s computer security today. Our IT service is on a work order. We’ll show you the way.” Then he marches out the door, Armin scurrying from his post at the printer in his wake.

Oh my god. They’re doing it now? In front of everyone? My mouth sours, and Clifford, who is still arranging my paperwork, scrunches his shoulders guiltily toward me, which I don’t buy. His whole career is shame centered.

I peel myself out of the chair and head toward the exit, but my feet stop at the doorway, once again contemplating leaving for good and becoming a shepherd, or moving into a wax museum and pretending I’m a figurine.

Clifford shifts the papers in his arms and says, “I noticed here that it’s your birthday. Happy birthday! You’re thirty-three. Same as me.”

I force a smile. What is it with HR people always being so... in people’s business? Like you have to be part sociopath to go into that line of work.

“Thanks,” I reply, and dryly add, “This is exactly how I pictured it.”

His laugh is way too loud, and I try not to encourage it with a smile. His notepad is tucked under his arm, and the doodle he was working on presses heavily into the page.

“Nice cat,” I say. “Glad you found the time for some artwork during my professional misconduct meeting.”

His mouth drops as his eyes slip away from mine.

I’m out of the room before he looks up.

May the procession of shame to my desk commence.

Walk of Shame

I follow Gregory like a scorned child. Clifford strolls behind me, whispering chipper hellos to the tilting heads we pass.

Eight years of doing everything I could to remain invisible here, and this is what it comes to. There were days when not one person said a word to me. I’d come in, put on my headphones, have a lunch-hour cry alone in the bathroom, then clock out.

Eight years, and now it’s like I’ve lost a layer of skin.

As my desk pod comes into view, Garret crouches over Caitlin’s cubicle wall and mouths something that draws Caitlin’s stare toward me. I focus on my breathing, on my footing.

Garret is Caitlin’s best friend, and not by coincidence. As the head of business development, he’s Gregory’s second-in-command, and he is always sharing insider information with Caitlin. As a person, he’s like the human embodiment of an internet comments section. Caitlin can’t suppress her grin when she spots our parade. I get it; this situation is her big break. I live for this from the other side of it. But right now, I’d love to remind her about the time she got drunk at our Christmas party two years ago and rubbed against the guy who was cutting ham slices at the buffet. Also, the party took place here in the office at three p.m. The highlight of the event was the secret Santa. Some legend, in a brazenly genius move, took a piece of crappy office stock art off the wall outside of Gregory’s office and wrapped it up for him. Nobody knows who it was, but I’d have paid a month’s rent to see Gregory’s face when he opened it again.

Gregory halts and loudly proclaims, “Everyone, this is our new HR analyst, Cliff. He’ll be shadowing some of our processes to learn more about what we do here.” Then he nudges Cliff in the side, who doesn’t hide his flinch. “Don’t worry. He won’t be spying on everyonethatmuch.”

Cliff’s eyelids droop to half-mast, which I appreciate, as whispers creep over the cubicle walls. He clenches his jaw before saying, “I’m here for any concerns you might have, so please feel free to come by and say hello.”

And I don’t know if I want to hug him for diverting some of the attention away from me or jab him in the kidney for drawing more looks in our general direction.

When we’re finally at my cubicle, Gregory huddles closer. “I’m not needed for this part.” He places his hand on my shoulder—I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve been touched against my will by this man—and nudges Cliff once more. “You’ll take it from here? She can wait there.” He points at a spot right next to my garbage bin.

Blinking eyes are peering over all the cube walls like owls. The new HR guy. My computer. It’s too much for these people.

Clifford sends me another apologetic smile. Pointless. I stare at some unknown beige stain on the seat of my chair that I never much minded until now.

Then Gregory’s gone, and Cliff, who seems to dwarf my entire desk area, covers the mouse with his hand.

After thirty seconds or twelve hours, Cliff says, “So, any big plans for the birthday weekend?”

No. Not the questions. Not from this HRanalyst. I try to keep any emotion from my voice as I reply, “Can we not?”

“Sure.” He nods as his grin evaporates. I force my attention on a loose plasticky thread pulling up from a seam in the grey office carpet. Guilt is pointless right now.

The office drifts back into silence, aside from a few throats clearing and chairs shuffling and too-rhythmic clacking on keyboards, all the noises someone makes when they’re fake working. Eventually Cliff lifts himself from my chair and says, “You’re all set. Would you like to see what I’ve done?”

Because I know everything, I mutter, “I’m good,” and shrink further into the collar of my sweater.