Page 68 of I Hope This Finds You Well

Rhonda finds our reserved area in the back. She somehow produces a third giant bag that readsDollars Plusand crinkles with every step as she marches to plop it on a corner table. Purple streamers spill out the sides; this decor is going to be so ugly and pointless. But the fact that she went to three different party shops crushes me.

“Right.” She claps her hands together. “How are you at standing on tables and making spirals with dual ribbon colors?”

“I like to think I’m pretty great at that,” I mutter.

She actually squees. “Wait until you see the paper flowers I found!”

I keep my smile plastered firmly on my face. It’s like she’s testing how far she can pull this shit without me getting angry enough to leave something not fully dead under her desk.

We get to work tacking up weird paper shapes to the walls—me mostly standing on the tables, and Rhonda handing me tape and telling me where to put it. I’m careful to follow her instructions as best I can. When we’re done, she grabs my arm. “The fund has enough for everyone to get one drink, but if we order a few bottles of wine to share instead, we can have a drink now.” She winks at me, all rebellious.

“Actually, I might not stick around too long.”

Her mouth puckers so small that it cracks her lipstick. “What? The party hasn’t even started. Have a drink with me; you’ve earned it.”

I stare toward the staircase. “I’m not sure...” I start to say, but she’s already at the bar.

I’m not a social drinker anymore. People get in the way of real drinking. And socializing is the last thing a drunk person should be doing. Hasn’t anyone else figured out this life truth?

Before I can leave with my vibe intact, she returns, bottle in hand, and says, “Oh, come on, you’re not going to leave me with this bottle of rosé alone?”

She waves it in front of me, the pink liquid inside sloshing around and glinting against the bright lighting. Oh, if only Rhonda knew how familiar I am with this particular eight-dollar bottle.

I glance at the time on my phone. Caitlin & Co. won’t be here for a while yet. And I can’t stand the idea of leaving Rhonda to sit here, drinking all by herself, mind wandering where it always goes when a lonely person is alone.

So I resign myself to my fate and say, “Hit me.”

Once the wine is poured, she clinks our glasses together and says, “Cheers! You’re not half as bad as I thought.”

I cough into my drink. Leave it to Rhonda to say exactly what she means. But I can respect it. I give her a small smirk and whip back, “Neither are you.”

Her grin sharpens, her eyes wrinkling with mirth. And my chest lifts. She’s not so bad.

And, as it turns out, Rhonda can hold her own with a bottle. She quickly polishes off her first glass and pours us both a second, then makes quick work of that too.

I’m idly listening to her tell a story about her latest knitting project when she suddenly pats me on the shoulder. I jolt, looking at her glossy plum nails against my plain black shirt.

“I know you’re not one to be overly friendly with people,” she says, her eyelids drooping as she stares into her empty glass. “And that’s fine.You like to keep to yourself. But I always wondered if you were mad at me for something.”

I shake my head. “Not at all!” And maybe that’s true, if I can ignore all the times she’s annoyed me, all the white-ink emails I’ve sent her through the years.

Her gaze locks on to me, eyes soft and glassy. “I thought my Christmas decorations were nice.”

All the air deflates from my lungs. So I’m not the only one holding on to that little tiff from six years ago when I moved Rhonda’s tinsel. I really am a miserable jerk.

“Yeah, Rhonda, I’m really sorry I wrecked your decorations. That wasn’t nice. I’m no fan of glitter, but I could’ve handled that better.”

Rhonda’s face goes slack, like I’ve just relieved her of some momentous weight. “Thank you, dear. I shouldn’t have held a grudge. I just love Christmas. But maybe you don’t like religion in the office. It didn’t used to be an issue, but I don’t like to make people uncomfortable.”

I nod. “It wasn’t that. I celebrate Christmas.” Which, nowadays, is just an obligatory dinner at my parents’ house, a small gift exchange, and a depress-y night in the apartment with whichever neighbor likes to blastWheel of Fortuneall evening.

She brightens and grabs the wine bottle, pouring us both another glass. “Does your mom do a big turkey?”

“An amazing one! Which is interesting since she grew up in Iran and didn’t do Christmas there, yet she mastered it.”

Rhonda pauses, her wineglass halfway to her lips. “You’re Iranian?”

I involuntarily brace myself; I’m usually more aware of when I “come out” as Persian, but the wine loosened me up. Being white presenting, talking about my background is like playing Russian roulette. Most people are normal about it, but I’ve encountered enough of the type who get twitchy and start talking about their one friend or masseuse or whatever. And then there are the people who act like I intentionally tricked them intonotbeing racist by holding back this crucial info—and they always make up for it.