Chapter Eleven The Office Gossip
Miu walked into Golden Thread Pictures at 9:14 AM, which was fourteen minutes late and exactly on brand.
Her hair was in a bun that had given up sometime around the bus ride.
Her hoodie said I'm not arguing, I'm explaining why I'm right.
Her jeans were unbuttoned under the hoodie because the bloat had started, and she refused to buy maternity pants at six weeks.
Colin from development appeared at her desk before she sat down.
"You're alive," he said. "We thought you'd been abducted."
"I was," Miu said, dropping her bag. "By a tiny tyrant. It's currently living in my uterus."
Colin blinked. "...What?"
"Nothing. I said I have a tummy bug." She opened her laptop. The cursor blinked. The script was still not written.
Colin was not stupid. He had been at the desk next to hers for two years. He had watched her eat cold pizza for breakfast and cry over a character death she wrote herself. He had also watched her throw up in his trash can twice in the past week, which was not normal even by Miu's standards.
"You don't have to tell me," he said. "But if you need to go home, I'll cover your notes meeting."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine."
"I'm fine adjacent."
He shrugged and walked away. Miu pulled out her phone. A text from Lena was already waiting.
How's the nausea?
Miu typed back: Manageable. Did you put ginger in my tea this morning?
Yes.
You're doing too much.
I'm doing enough.
Miu almost smiled. Colin, who had circled back to grab a pen from her desk, noticed. "Who's that?"
"My landlord."
"You smile at your landlord?"
"They're very attentive."
Colin took his pen and left. Miu set down her phone and tried to focus on the script. The cursor blinked. The cursor was mocking her.
---
The kitchenette was empty when Miu walked in to make tea. She filled her mug-herbal, no caffeine, because Lena had texted her a reminder at 8 AM and Miu had rolled her eyes but followed instructions-and waited for the water to boil.
Jen and Priya appeared like they had been hiding behind the coffee machine, waiting for her.
"Miu," Jen said. "You're back."
"I work here."
"You've been gone a lot."
"I've been sick."
Priya tilted her head. "My sister was sick when she was pregnant."
Miu's hand tightened on the mug. "I'm not pregnant."
"You're only drinking herbal tea."
"Caffeine gives me anxiety."
"You fell asleep at your desk yesterday."
"It was a meditation technique."
"You threw up in Colin's trash can."
Miu stared at her. "The trash can was in my way."
Jen and Priya exchanged a look. The kind of look that said we know something you're not telling us.
Miu hated that look. She had been on the receiving end of that look since middle school, when she had worn the same sweatshirt three days in a row and everyone assumed she was homeless.
(She was not homeless. She just really liked that sweatshirt.)
The water boiled. Miu poured it over her tea bag. "I have to go. Deadline."
She walked out. She could feel their eyes on her back.
---
The bathroom was supposed to be a safe space. It was not.
Sandra was at the sink, reapplying lipstick that did not need reapplying. She was the office gossip-the kind of person who knew your business before you did, who collected secrets like other people collected stamps.
"Miu," Sandra said. "Congratulations."
Miu turned on the tap. Washed her hands even though they were already clean. "For what?"
"The baby."
"There's no baby."
"Then why are you wearing maternity jeans?"
Miu looked down. She was not wearing maternity jeans. She was wearing her regular jeans, unbuttoned under her hoodie. The hoodie covered the gap. Mostly.
"These are not maternity jeans."
"They have an elastic waistband."
"They're... comfort jeans. It's a new trend."
Sandra smiled. It was the smile of someone who had already won. "Of course they are."
She capped her lipstick. Walked out. The door swung shut behind her.
Miu stared at her reflection. The bathroom lighting made everyone look like a corpse. She looked like a pregnant corpse. She pulled out her phone.
Tina, she texted. The office knows. I'm wearing "comfort jeans."
Tina responded immediately. What are comfort jeans?
My regular jeans unbuttoned.
You're a mess.
I know.
Did Lena make you breakfast?
Miu paused. Yes. Rice porridge. Again.
You're becoming soft.
I'm not becoming soft. I'm becoming... adjacent to soft.
That's not a word.
It is now.
Miu put her phone away. She looked at her reflection one more time.
Soft. Was she becoming soft? Lena brought her tea every morning.
Lena made her dinner every night. Lena texted her throughout the day to ask how she was feeling.
And Miu had stopped saying you don't have to do this. She had started saying thank you.
That was softness. That was dependence. And it terrified her.
---
The break room at noon was a trap.
Miu knew this. She had planned to eat at her desk, alone, with her back to the wall. But Colin had stolen her chair for a meeting, and the only available seat was at the communal table, surrounded by people who had nothing better to do than stare at her.
She sat down with her banana. She had forgotten the crackers on the counter at home. Lena would probably text her about it later.
Jen, Priya, Sandra, and two other writers Miu barely knew gathered around like vultures.
"Okay, Miu," Jen said. "Spill. Who's the father?"
Miu took a bite of banana. Chewed. Swallowed. "The father of what? My banana? It's a banana. They don't have fathers."
"The baby."
"I'm not having a baby."
"Then why do you keep touching your stomach?"
Miu looked down. Her hand was resting on her abdomen. She snatched it away. "It's a habit."
"A pregnancy habit."
"It's a 'I ate too many gummy bears' habit."
Priya leaned in. "Is it someone from the office? Is it Colin?"
Colin, who was standing by the coffee machine, choked on his drink. "What? No. Absolutely not."
"You're defensive," Sandra observed.
"I'm offended. There's a difference."
Miu looked around the table. Their faces were hungry-not for food, for information. They weren't going to stop. They would keep whispering, keep guessing, keep staring at her stomach until she gave them something.
She set down her banana.
"Fine," she said. "Yes. I'm pregnant."
The table went silent.
"There," Miu continued. "I said it. Happy? I'm pregnant. That's all you get. It's complicated and I don't want to talk about it. So can we please go back to pretending I'm just the weird girl who writes cat scripts?"
Sandra's mouth opened. Closed. "But who's the-"
"No," Miu said. "Stop. No more questions. I'm pregnant. There's a baby. It's happening. That's the end of the press conference."
She stood up. The banana was half-eaten. She left it on the table.
Behind her, the silence lasted exactly four seconds. Then the whispering started again-softer this time, but still there.
Colin followed her out. "Miu. Wait."
She stopped. Didn't turn around.
"That was brave," he said.
"That was stupid."
"Same thing, sometimes." He walked past her toward his desk. "For what it's worth, I think you'll be a good mom. You already keep a plant alive. That's more than most people."
Miu almost smiled. Almost. "The plant is fake, Colin."
He stopped walking. Turned around. "...Oh."
"Yeah."
"Does it... need water?"
"It's plastic, Colin."
He nodded slowly. "I'm going to stop talking now."
"Good plan."
---
Her desk was empty. She sat down, opened her laptop, and stared at the screen.
Nothing. The cursor blinked. The script was still not written.
Her phone buzzed.
How's the gossip? - Lena.
They're relentless, Miu typed. Sandra thinks I'm wearing maternity jeans.
Are you?
No. They're just unbuttoned.
That's practical.
Don't be supportive. I'm trying to be annoyed.
Why?
Miu paused. Why was she trying to be annoyed?
Because Lena had been too present. Too attentive.
Too good at this. Miu was used to doing things alone-making her own tea, feeding her own cat, throwing up into her own toilet without anyone holding her hair back.
But Lena had inserted herself into every part of Miu's day, and Miu had let her.
Because you're making it hard to be independent, she typed.
A pause. Then: Is that bad?
Miu stared at the words. Was it bad? She didn't know. She had spent her whole life building walls, and Lena was dismantling them one bowl of porridge at a time.
I'll let you know, she typed.
Eat something. You forgot breakfast.
How do you know I forgot breakfast?
You left the crackers on the counter.
Miu looked at her bag. She had packed crackers this morning. Lena had watched her pack them. Lena had noticed when she left them behind.
You're creepy, Miu typed.
You've mentioned.
She set down the phone. Her face was warm. She blamed the office heating.
---
Gerald called her into his office at 4:47 PM, close enough to the end of the day that Miu almost made a run for it. But his door was open, and he was looking at her, and running would have been childish.
She sat down. The chair was uncomfortable. Everything in Gerald's office was uncomfortable.
"If you're firing me for being pregnant, that's illegal," she said.
Gerald leaned back. His chair creaked. "I'm not firing you. I'm asking if you're okay."
Miu blinked. "What?"
"You've been distracted. Your pages are late. You look tired." He paused. "And everyone in the office is talking about your uterus."
"That's... graphic."
"So you're pregnant?"
Miu looked at him. Gerald Finch was not a kind man. He was gruff and mean and had a reputation for making junior writers cry. But he had never asked her a personal question before. This was the closest thing to concern she had ever seen from him.
"Yes," she said. "But I don't want to talk about it."
"Fine. But if you need time off, or a different schedule-"
"I'll let you know."
He nodded. Then: "And Miu. Whoever the father is, he should be helping you. You look exhausted."
Miu thought about Lena. The porridge. The tea. The texts. The way Lena showed up at her door every morning without being asked. The way she had washed Miu's dishes without being thanked. The way she had held Miu's sleeve in the ultrasound room.
"She is," Miu said.
Gerald's eyebrow rose. "She?"
Miu's face went red. "I mean. He. He is. The father. He's helping."
Gerald stared at her for a long moment. Then he said, "Get out of my office."
Miu got out.
---
The walk home was gray and wet and exactly what she expected from Vancouver in the fall. She didn't bother with an umbrella. The rain was light, almost mist, and her hoodie was already covered in cat hair anyway.
Her phone buzzed.
I made soup, Lena texted. Come up when you get home.
I have my own apartment.
Your apartment has no food.
I have crackers.
You forgot the crackers on the counter.
She had forgotten them. Lena was right.
You're still creepy, she typed.
You've mentioned. Come upstairs.
Fine. But only because I'm too tired to cook.
Of course.
She reached the building. Looked up. The light was on in the top floor apartment. She climbed the stairs-past her own door, up to Lena's. Her legs were tired. Her feet hurt. She was six weeks pregnant. How could her feet hurt already?
Lena opened the door before she knocked.
"How do you do that?" Miu asked.
"I heard your footsteps."
Miu stepped inside. The apartment smelled like soup-vegetable, from the look of the pot on the stove. The cat was on Lena's couch. When had the cat started coming up here?
"The cat likes you," Miu said.
"The cat has good instincts."
"The cat once ate a hair tie and threw it up on my pillow."
"No one's perfect."
Miu sat down. The couch was soft. Lena's couch was softer than her own, which was unfair. Lena handed her a bowl of soup. Warm. Perfect. Miu took it.
"You're doing too much," Miu said.
"You've said that."
"I mean it. You're going to burn out."
Lena sat across from her, on the armchair that faced the couch. She was wearing sweatpants again. Her hair was down. She looked like she had been cooking all afternoon, which she probably had.
"I'm not going to burn out," Lena said.
"You're making me soup every night. You're texting me every morning. You're washing my dishes."
"You hate doing dishes."
"That's not the point."
"Then what's the point?"
Miu set down her spoon. The soup was good. She hated that it was good. She hated that Lena had learned exactly how she liked it-not too salty, vegetables cut small, a little bit of ginger.
"The point is," Miu said, "I'm starting to rely on you. And that's... scary."
Lena was quiet for a moment. The cat jumped off the couch and padded over to Lena, rubbing against her ankles. Lena reached down and scratched behind his ears.
"Why is it scary?" Lena asked.
"Because people leave. Everyone leaves. And if I'm relying on you, and you leave-"
"I'm not leaving."
"You don't know that."
"I know that I'm not my father." Lena's voice was steady. Low. Certain. "And I know that you're not a problem to be solved. You're a person. And I'm choosing to be here."
Miu looked at her. The soup was warm in her hands. The cat was purring. The apartment was still too clean, but it didn't feel empty anymore.
"Okay," Miu said.
"Okay?"
"Okay. I'll try to stop being scared."
"That's all I'm asking."
Miu finished her soup. Lena took the bowl, washed it, placed it in the drying rack. The same routine every night. Miu was starting to memorize it.
"Same time tomorrow?" Lena asked.
"Same time tomorrow."
Miu walked downstairs. The cat followed her. She didn't remember picking him up, but he was in her arms when she opened her door.
---
That night, Miu lay in bed and stared at the ceiling crack. The broccoli-shaped one. She thought about Lena's hands washing her dishes. Lena's voice saying I'm choosing to be here. Lena's soup, warm and perfect and made just for her.
She wasn't in love. She wasn't even sure she liked Lena yet-Lena was still a robot, still too controlled, still impossible to read.
But she was starting to want to read her.
And that, Miu realized as the cat curled into her side and started purring, was more dangerous than anything.
She pulled out her phone. Opened Lena's contact. Stared at the name.
She typed: Thank you. For the soup. And for not being weird about the comfort jeans.
A response came immediately: I don't know what comfort jeans are.
Neither do I. I made them up.
That's impressive.
I'm impressive.
You're something.
Miu smiled. Actually smiled, alone in her dark apartment, at a text message.
She set down the phone. Closed her eyes. The cat purred. The rain tapped against the window.
Upstairs, Lena sat on her couch, looking at the same ceiling crack from the opposite side. She didn't know it was shaped like broccoli. She had never looked at it that closely.
But she was starting to look at everything differently.
Soft, Miu had said. I'm becoming soft.
Lena didn't know if that was true. But she knew she liked making soup. She knew she liked hearing Miu's footsteps on the stairs. She knew she liked the way Miu said you're creepy like it was a compliment.
She set down her phone. Turned off the light.
The building was quiet. The city was loud. And somewhere in between, two women lay awake, thinking about each other, neither willing to admit it.
Not yet.