Page 83 of I Hope This Finds You Well

Caitlin walks over to the arrangement and pulls out the card. “Oh, it’s my Kyle.” Her smile is wide, her lipstick freshly applied. “That’s so sweet. Last night I was saying we should have a chocolate fountain for strawberry dipping at the wedding, and he sent this!”

She holds out the card to Marla and Joy, who’ve already come over for the show-and-tell portion of the morning, excited for a reason to stand around. “Oh my god!” Joy says. “The card reads: ‘Until we get our own chocolate fountain.’”

“Aw,” Marla and Rhonda squee in unison, while Stu, who has now joined the fray, mumbles something about putting the rest of them to shame.

Rhonda claps once. “Adorable!” When Caitlin grabs a strawberry, Rhonda tilts her head. “Oh, dear, where’s your ring?”

Caitlin’s gaze shifts to her empty hand. “We’re just getting it resized. It didn’t quite fit. Anyway, eat some of this, please! Enjoy!”

Caitlin walks back to her seat, playing with the levers to adjust it, making it creak. Her phone buzzes twice, and she picks it up to readthe texts but doesn’t respond. She grabs her water bottle, sips it, then drops it. We all look up as it clangs down on her desk. She picks it up, sips it again, puts it down. She pulls her hair back, twists it into a bun, then takes it out and reties it twice more. She huffs, then drops her pen and drills her hands into her temples, leg twitching under the table.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say this is starting to look like an anxiety attack—except this is Caitlin, so she’s probably just dopamine drained since her last Instagram post (some brunch eggs she somehow deemed grid-worthy) didn’t even reach twenty likes. Still, an odd tightness seeps in. Her phone buzzes again. She hits some button that seems to kill it and stuffs it in her purse.

I turn back to my inbox, looking for a distraction. Cliff has a new notification from his LinkedIn account, which everyone knows is just a hookup site. Still, I click on it.

The notification says there is a reply to a message sent to some guy named Sanjay Singh at People Power in Vancouver, dated yesterday afternoon.

Cliff:Hey Sanjay, I can’t believe it’s been over a year. How are things going? I wanted to reach out. I left the insurance company and recently started at Supershops—still HR. This place is a bit of a nightmare in all the ways we talk about and it’s getting hard to tolerate. Because of this, I wanted to follow up about that open offer. Would you be available for a chat this week? Definitely best to do after work hours.

Sanjay:Cliff! So glad you reached out, man. Of course I’d be game to chat. Want to have a call tonight? Things are busy as usual around here, so I’ll be working late anyway. Let’s connect around 7:30 PT/8:30 your time—sound good?

It makes perfect sense. This placeisa nightmare, and his grandma doesn’t need him anymore—I saw it myself. It’s just like Grace wanted. He can go back to a job that makes a difference. A job that’s not a living nightmare.

He doesn’t owe me anything. We’re just friends—if we’re even that anymore.

Delightful Fashionista

“You’ve been pretty quiet over there,” Cliff says as he twists the steering wheel to make a left, the AC blaring but doing nothing as we turn into our neighborhood.

I force a smile. “You know, just a long day.”

He nods. “Gotcha. Anything in particular?”

I shake my head. “Nothing really, just that place... a bit of a nightmare at times, eh?” I search him for any hint of a reaction, but nothing lands.

“Hmm, well, we’re free for a few hours at least.” He hands me his phone. “Please play some music. Nothing jokey.”

I scroll his music app and find a current hits playlist. But as I’m about to hit play, a banner pings on the top of the screen, displaying a message from Sanjay:Great I’ll call you soon!

And everything inside me feels like it’s melting. It should have been easy. The department restructure is happening in two weeks, and I’ve done exactly what I set out to do with Cliff and more.

But it’s themorethat painted things muddy.

And before really thinking, I say, “Your sister mentioned the other day you used to work in Vancouver?”

Cliff rubs his chin. “Yeah.”

“And your grandma, I heard she’s doing better since her hip surgery?”

“Yes.” He smiles. “Almost a full recovery.”

He doesn’t have to elaborate; that’s his right. His plans for the future, doing what’s best for himself, are none of my business. The music croons through the stereo, low and sweet. Just because I can now play music without melting down doesn’t mean I’ve accomplished much. Not compared with anyone else.

Cliff taps his fingers to the beat, and I catch how close our arms are resting on the console. I try to swallow away the thought that ringsthrough me at the sight: for the first time, I want to share more with someone. But no matter how small this car is, I don’t know how to penetrate the invisible wall between me and the world, between me and Cliff.

A message flashes on his screen for a second time, drawing both our gazes to the phone. I don’t see what’s on it before he picks it up. I plaster on a contented smile and force down my useless feelings. But when we pull onto the street in front of my apartment, all my blood freezes.

She’s standing on the front walkway.