Page 44 of I Hope This Finds You Well

I glance at Rhonda again, and she notices and gives me a little secretive smile, like we’re in on this together. I curdle back beneath the half wall of my cube. This lady will not make things easy for me.

I glance at Armin, trying to decipher what he’s thinking, when a DM from Cliff flashes on my screen.

Cliff:Hey, I’m really so sorry. Something came up, and I won’t be able to give you a ride tonight. I can pick you up Monday same time?

My chest drops. Maybe it doesn’t matter what Armin thinks anymore. Caitlin could’ve already gotten what she wanted, and my time here might be as good as done.

I will myself to hold my face steady as I type. As my insides crumble.

Jolene:That’s totally fine!

Cliff:Thanks so much for understanding.

What a cold fucking message. Not even an exclamation mark.

A few moments later, a new email appears in Cliff’s inbox.

From: Armin Habib

To: Clifford Redmond

Subject: Re: Employee Role Meeting with HR

Hello Cliff,

I’d be happy to meet. I’ve attached my availability. Also, I understand this meeting is primarily to go over our roles, but I also have something that veers sort of personal/interpersonal to discuss as it’s starting to affect me at work/my ability to stay focused. Just in case we need to book a longer slot.

Thanks,

Armin

My stomach drops like a clump of lead. At this rate, I’ll be packing up my empty desk by next week.

Ungodly Hours

Sunday morning, I’m awoken in the most horrifying way known. It starts with an insistent knock on my apartment door and a screeched, “Shut up—is okay.” The tone of voice my mom uses only when speaking to my dad.

What comes next is a yelled, “Jolene baby! I have brought you some ashe reshteh.”

My heart stops, and I leap out of bed.

Shit! I never texted her!

Double shit—I drank some gin last night and passed out watching a documentary about cruise ships in bed. Why did I have to order all that Chicken on the Way and leave the whole mess in my living room?

I throw on a hoodie that I hope covers both my slept-in hair situation and my lost dignity, pile my garbage into the bin, throw the gin bottle and glass under the sink, and do a quick scan to make sure there are no obvious signs that the human embodiment of a bag of merde lives here. There’s an empty chip bag on the coffee table, and an old take-out container that still has broth and pieces of wonton wrapper in it on the counter, but other than that, I should be able to get away with medium complaints. I shovel both pieces of garbage into a random cupboard since the bin is full and brace myself.

I barely open the door. “What brings you here?”

Mom barrels past me with a Tupperware container so huge, she had to have gotten it from a specialty store. “No need to heat this up if you get plates.”

I should’ve known this was coming. Every now and then, she shows up with food without warning. I’m sure it’s to try to keep me living under a similar regimen as when I was home, like I pretend to be, but unfortunately for us both, shit has veered incredibly off track.

Mom starts toward the kitchen, and I debate following after her to stand in front of the counters and somehow distract from how messyit is, but my dad is hovering awkwardly in the hallway. When we lock eyes, he says, “Sorry to show up like this. I told her to call, but you know.” He rocks from foot to foot, as though to demonstrate he’s physical standing there against his will.

“Come in, Dad.”

He smiles awkwardly. “I brought my iPad. I can just watch the golf.”