Page 95 of I Hope This Finds You Well

The only notable events this Friday: Rhonda spent fifteen minutes comforting Jean Adler, whose daughter did not make it into the same law school Carl went to (I averted my eyes the entire time as she did this); Caitlin spent the morning giggling while she presumably texted Kyle and spent a whole hour standing by Joy’s desk talking about wedding stuff; Armin spent the day zoning out while twiddling his mouse to keep his screen active. It’s all so typical.

But tonight, we’re being held captive longer. Even though we’ve already contributed forty hours of our waking lives to this cursed place this week, we must donate an additional two hours of our Friday evening to celebrate the fact that Gregory has wasted the most time here.

There’s no way to duck out unnoticed because the entire office decides to walk over to the bar together. Armin ends up between Caitlin and Garret, so I sidle up next to Rhonda, who is telling Marsha all about Carl’s latest false victory.

The party’s on the main floor of the bar this time. Rhonda’s spirals and balloons hang from the ceiling. They’ve set up tables with plastic tablecloths and folding chairs. The banner hanging above the oak bar reads:For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow. A sad little buffet of cold cuts and oily cheese is set up on a table in the back of the room, but the email invite made sure to be crystal clear: drinks are not included.

The piece I wrote for Gregory sits on little stands in the middle of each table. Armin did a top-notch job printing on the cardstock. The picture they selected is of a much younger Gregory, his hair poufy and jolly-good-fellow-y.

As we file in, everyone seems to find someone to chat with. I realize I should do the same so as to not stand out as abandoned. I see Armin, but he’s in a conversation with Chris Fernando in IT. The guy is like an eccentric artist about software—every time someone contacts him for help, he gets accusatory and unhinged. Best to avoid him, given my current deceptions.

I slink into a seat at a table in the corner, where some other seventh-floor people are lingering. They seem as unhappy about the life decisions that landed them at this party as I am.

But then Caitlin and Garret settle into the chairs across from me, seemingly without noticing me—they’re leaning so close together, having a hushed conversation, that it’s impossible to listen in.

A server comes around to ask for drink orders, coming to me first since I’m the only one not talking. I’m not hyped by the idea of consuming alcohol in front of all my colleagues, but at least I can get something to hold in front of me and press my lips to, so I don’t look too weird by myself.

I say, “Glass of red wine,” which is, of course, a mistake. Next thing I know, the server is listing off an endless variety of wines and asking for my preferences in body and dryness. My only method for picking wines is the price. At my baffled expression, the waiter pulls a written wine list out of his apron. Wow, one glass costs eleven dollars. But that’s the cheapest, so I go with that. Except the wine is called Revinionvissinoor something. I try to say it, and the waiter tilts his head and asks me to repeat that.

By now, all the conversation around the table has died out as everyone is checking what’s holding the waiter up. I take the menu and point, my finger shaking over the tiny print. “This one.”

He leans down to look. “Sorry, which one is that? Are you pointing at the Montepulciano?”

The Montepulciano costs eighteen dollars for six ounces, so I panic and say, “No, no, the eleven-dollar one.”

Beside me, Caitlin laughs out loud.

Well, fuck her.

“Oh, that sounds good,” a voice says behind me—Cliff—and my skin flushes, the splash of heat instant and gripping. I didn’t think he’d come here, but of course he would. He’s HR, after all. “I’d like to try that too,” he continues.

He smiles at me, a small plea in his eyes. I blink, but I’m too frozen to do more. We haven’t been this close to each other since the movies, the fire alarm—all our recent half-finished messy conversations—and I don’t know what to with any part of my body. I’d been planning to call in sick on the day of our next session, hoping that I could somehow pass the course without seeing him again. I should say at least one casual thing to him, but I don’t know what, and more relevantly, Ican’t. The idea of showing any human emotion, especially in front of the entire office andespeciallyCaitlin, makes me want to actually dissolve into the blender that’s mixing margaritas in a loud drone at the bar.

So I grab my phone and pretend to read a text.

Cliff takes the hint, and when the drinks are served, he takes his glass, smiles a little sadly, and takes off to the other side of the bar without saying another word.

I watch him over the top of my phone as he speaks to a few of the reception and intake staff members, then makes his way to the supply chain people. After a few minutes, he takes off his hoodie, revealing a checkered shirt I’ve never seen him wear before. Then he chuckles really loudly and claps Robin Winters on the shoulder. What did Robin even say? I’m tempted to advise Robin that Cliff chose his death for a billion dollars just weeks ago.

And that’s when I realize I should pay attention to my own table.

Armin and Rhonda have sat down near me, talking about the shredder guy and how he hasn’t shown up on schedule lately. Marla, apropos of nothing, starts telling us about her ex-husband’s intimacy issues; I’m fairly sure this party isn’t the place to share this, but whoknows. Rhonda suggests that it might be fun to start a book club for the singles in the office. I’m beginning to zone out when suddenly the whole table erupts in laughter—a joke I’ve missed.

And again, I’m alone.

If we were in the office, I would just click on their messages, read them back to figure out what they’re all discussing. But I don’t have the cheat codes to real life.

Finally, Gregory comes bouncing into the bar, arms wide as he greets the room like he’s a prized pig. His wife is beside him, wearing a perfect A-line dress in signature Supershops blue—the same one she wore to the Christmas lunch last year. I can barely look at her, now that I’m holding on to the knowledge of Papa Bear. I shudder down a sip of my wine.

Gregory takes a seat at the head table that Rhonda prepared with a sash that reads20 Years. He grabs the card stock and reads it. A smile pulls across his face, crunching the corners of his eyes—he must like the bit about BBQ and golfing, and that reassures me more than expected. Following my instincts to write the most generic praise possible seems to have worked on his simple mind.

But then his eyes widen, nearly popping out of his skull, before narrowing hard.

He flips the card facedown and slides it under the table. His eyes dart to Mrs. Gregory, who’s busy getting hors d’oeuvres from the sad buffet.

Rhonda gets up and passes by his table, holding her glass of the same rosé she drank last time we were here. Gregory stands and taps her arm to stop her. I can read his lips as he asks, “Who wrote this?”

My heart drops into my feet. I don’t catch Rhonda’s answer, but Gregory’s eyes dart in my direction and my heart plummets.