Page 49 of I Hope This Finds You Well

His lips form a thin line. “Yeah, that’s a good point. Well, take care, Jolene.” Another step back before he full-on speeds out of the room, leaving me and my mom’s ashe to pick up the pieces.

That should’ve been a nice interaction. ButIwas a factor.

An empty feeling flows through my chest. No matter what, I’ll always be a factor. Every conversation. Every event. Every time I try to talk in a meeting.

I eat the ashe reshteh over the sink, barely tasting each bite, before dumping the rest in the compost bin.

Armin’s workspace sits empty. While Rhonda plays her tile game, I angst about it all. Will today be enough to stop Armin from speaking ill of me to Cliff at the meeting? Or was my weirdness enough to void all my efforts? I pull up Armin’s inbox, looking for any new clues about what he’s thinking. But alas, work emails aren’t always the best window into a person’s personal life.

Except when I jump to his outbox, I see he sent a new email right after speaking to me in the lunchroom.

Mom & Dad,

Once again emailing from work, where I always am when not with you or Jolene. Of course I’m happy for you to come visit my office when you’re up for it. Mom would enjoy it. I wish I could admire the view of the skyline from my window more often, but this week is terrible. I’ll be in meetings or answering questions for my team, who rely on me for guidance.

Jolene has a very big test to study for, but she’ll try and be there tonight.

Love you,

Armin Habib

Executive Accounting Manager

I have to read the email three times because most of the bananas words do not compute. Has Armin lost his bobbles?

I highlight the address he sent this note to and check for other messages; he emails his parents every few months from here. He changes his signature to have different job titles. In one note, there’s a photo of him sitting in Gregory’s office, feet on the table. In another, he tells them he had to miss dinner because of an accounting convention he wasspeaking at. Armin the executive accounting manager who is always at work?Armin of ye old dirty PlayStation controller,giving a damn conference topeople? Holy hell.

And over and over again, I find my name. Apparently, it wasn’t just Armin attending that fake conference; he wrote “Jolene and I.” “Jolene and I can’t visit tonight.” “I’ll be with Jolene this weekend.” Most of these excuses seem to hinge on the fact that I’m in night school because “I don’t want to be a secretary forever.”

Even as a fake girlfriend, I seem to need improvement.

No, this must be another person named Jolene. That has to be it. My name isn’t the most uncommon.

I click on another email and nearly scream when a photo of my own face fills up the monitor. It’s a terrible picture of me and Armin standing next to each other at last year’s corporate Christmas lunch. I rememberthey were handing out door prizes when someone basically assaulted us with an impromptu demand to smile for the camera. Armin sent it with the subject line: “Engagement Photo.”

Wow. Here I was berating myself for being a weirdo around Armin, cringing every time Caitlin implied that I was interested in him because of that one Instagram message. Meanwhile, he’s sending pics of me to his parents.

I click into his calendar again and note the address of his meeting with his parents tonight—or, I guess,ourmeeting. I recognize the location, Shiraz Bakery.It’s a Persian café that specializes in preparing pastries for weddings. What are they doing there? Is this part of Armin and my engagement or something? How deep does this web of lies go?

I stare at the bakery website. It’s not too hard to get there on the bus; it’s actually on the way home.

I type a message:

Jolene:Hey Cliff, turns out something came up after work. I won’t be needing a ride tonight.

His dots bounce. Then stop. And bounce again before his message appears:

Cliff:Sounds good. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Armin returns from lunch with a greasy Tacos Mexico bag in hand. He averts his eyes as soon as we lock them, sliding out of sight behind his monitor.

He told his parents I’ll try to attend dinner tonight. What kind of fiancée would I be if I can’t take one evening off to meet my future in-laws?

Meet the Parents

I’m leaned against a brick wall in an alleyway across from Shiraz Bakery—the front door of the café is perfectly centered in my view. I’ve stuffed my nest of hair into a messy bun and covered my wrinkled blouse with an oversized hoodie I found in the office. The hoodie smells about as musty as I’d expected; it had been hanging on a random coat rack in the hallway that leads to the copy room for years without anyone putting it out of its misery. Its owner has likely long abandoned Supershops Incorporated. And even though I may look sketchy AF in it, especially while I’m skulking in an alleyway, it’s perfect for the incognito aesthetic I need right now.

My phone clock confirms the meeting with his parents starts in two minutes, and as soon as I stuff it in my pocket, I clock Armin rounding the corner. My heart jumps as I duck behind a car. It’s almost comical that he’s perfectly on time for this meeting, when his usual MO at work is to arrive as close to the end of the workday as possible.