Bronze Medal Wife
Another minute and forty seconds until the workweek officially begins, but already the cubicles are fully stocked. Everyone hunches over their screens.
Everyone, except Caitlin.
After a weekend of overthinking everything—the night with Cliff, Caitlin’s HR meeting, Armin’s upcoming appointment, my parents, and my life in general, including the hour-long freakout on Saturday night after realizing I hadn’t seen my birth certificate in a while—I should be relieved to be here.
This morning, when I went outside, just seeing Cliff’s car there on the side of the road was a relief on its own. He’s not totally avoiding me yet. But as soon as I slipped into the passenger seat, it was clear he was on another planet, hardly talking and picking up his phone to text at stoplights. Maybe Caitlin’s complaints had gotten to him after all. But the worst thought hit when we passed the ice-cream shop we had the shakes at, and he tensed. What if he’s been put off after that chat, reliving the conversation and all the shit I said, just like I’ve been doing?
Now with Caitlin’s desk empty, her monitor blank, it’s like a doom spiral with no end in sight.
Armin gets up and heads toward the printer room. I try not to look at him too hard. This morning, he emailed Cliff to confirm their appointment will be Wednesday. The air in my lungs sifts tighter.
My hand acts practically on its own accord as I rage click the meeting link. And it takes a second for my head to absorb what’s on the screen. I can actually access Armin’s entire calendar. None of his appointments are set to private.
Last week’s appointment, the one that twisted Rhonda’s pantaloons, was simply recorded as: University Location. I scroll back. There were two appointments the week before with identical names.More digging brings in several more, all with the same name or some that specify South Campus.
Is he taking secret classes? Slacking from work to attend university doesn’t track for Armin, but it would explain his constant fatigue. I copy the schedule onto a sheet. I may need to use this against him.
As I slip the page into my drawer, Rhonda eases out of her chair with a creak and turns toward me and Armin’s half of the pods. “Caitlin booked a last-minute PTO—can you two cover any inventory specs that come in?”
Where the hell is she? There were no emails re the PTO in Rhonda’s or Greg’s inbox this morning, which means she must’ve arranged it via text. Or in person on Friday...
“I’d be happy to take the lead there,” I say, as I press a smile in Armin’s direction. His eyes are tinged red from lack of sleep, and he merely shrugs and turns back to his monitor.
Rhonda smiles extra hard toward me as she grabs her favorite I’d Rather Be Crafting mug. “Jolene, you’re a star.”
“Thanks.” I smile, as Armin pulls his headphones over his ears with a neutral expression.
I need to learn my lesson: taking on extra work for him is not the way to this guy’s heart.
But then another doom-filled theory hits: What if they thought it was better for Caitlin to not be here in the fallout of her HR meeting? What if they’re planning on acting on her claims today, and she painted me as so unhinged she’d be safer off the premises when they escort me out?
The only thought that sobers me is that there’s no way Caitlin would voluntarily miss the chance to watch my job implode. She’d want front-row seats with popcorn.
I grin extra hard toward Rhonda. “Always happy to help. So nice Caitlin’s taking a long weekend. Did she say what she was up to?”
Armin’s shoulders square just a touch as Rhonda purses her lips and says, “She said she wanted to spend the day with her boyfriend. She’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Lovely.” I smile and lock eyes with Armin, who is now staring directly at me. I try to look pleasantly unweird, but the guy keeps his expression neutral.
He’s a tough egg to crack.
It’s not until Rhonda gets up to head for lunch, once again announcing to nobody in particular that she’s going to buy a Greek salad, that I decide to log off and head to the kitchenette in the copy room to grab the Tupperware of ashe reshteh I actually remembered to bring. I do my best to ignore the disturbing sights and smells of the other lunch boxes and long-orphaned containers that nobody will take liability for.
As I’m walking back toward my desk for my key card, I spot Armin heading toward our pods with a blue Gatorade—fresh from the hallway vending machine—in hand. And the idea trickles into my brain sudden and sharp. I’ve only ever seen this man do one thing with Cool Blue Thirst Quencher.
I round the corner and it’s almost too perfect. I skulk toward Rhonda’s cubicle just as Armin finishes pouring around three tablespoons of Gatorade into Joey’s dirt, before he pulls a pen from her holder on her desk. He’s so absorbed in his plant assault, he doesn’t notice me as I approach the threshold of her cubicle. It’s when he’s stabbing the dirt repeatedly with the pen that his gaze crawls upward.
He jolts as soon as he clocks me staring at him, cross-armed. His expression falls with a thud. “Shit, Jolene. This isn’t what it looks like.”
I grin at him. “Oh, come on, Armin. You’re talking to the girl who sent whited-out emails to colleagues. I know exactly what this is.” His face pales, but I keep my smile on. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to say shit. I prefer to mind my business.”
The crease in his forehead smooths. “Thanks,” he says meekly.
But to drive the point home, I add, “Ratting on colleagues over silly things. I’d never do that.” I make certain we lock eyes. “Pretend I’m not even here. That’s what I’m doing.”
His shoulders ease some. “That’s a great policy,” he says, but he doesn’t hide the puzzled expression on his face.
I lower myself into my seat, cool and casual, but I’m starting to doubt my ability to pretend anymore.
I sneak into the big lunchroom that is for parties only. I use this place only when I need to heat up ashe reshteh or any other food, as it’s got the microwave that’s far from everyone’s desks, and I’m not a menace to society like Caitlin. If she’d just used this microwave like a normal person, all the email/Cliff mess could’ve been avoided.
The card reader for the lunchroom door beeps, and instant dread hits. I chose this remote lunchroom on purpose. My earliest anxious memories trace back to this meal—the era when having ethnic food wasn’t cool, but an easy target. Laughter and gibes that I was eating a thermos of slime still ring in my ears.
But as Armin’s glossy hair and frown appear, a wave of relief floods me so much that a smile falls on my lips.
The microwave beeps, and when I take out the steaming container, he eyes it curiously and says, “Ashe?” I nod, and he claps once. “It’s been so long since I’ve smelled it. My mom hasn’t cooked in forever. I didn’t realize I was missing it.”
I turn to face him. “I get it, it hits different than restaurant versions.”
“Right!” He claps again and pulls from the fridge a doogh—a minty yogurt soda that a lot of people find off-putting, but if you’re most Persians, you’d crime-spree for it.
He holds it up. “This is the sink I use to open over.”
I flash a grin in understanding. The thing about doogh is, no matter how calm you try to keep the thing, the bottle will explode all over you and your children’s children.
He slowly releases the lid and lets the bubbles pool down to the sink. When he finally gets it open and drained, he turns toward me. “Would you like some?”
“No thanks.”
“Of course you do.” He takes a cup from the cupboard and pours a glass, then slides it across the island like a bartender.
“You have to have my ashe then.” And I can’t help the twitch in my lips.
He shakes his head. “No, I can’t—I’m supposed to save my appetite. I’m grabbing a giant burrito from Tacos Mexico after I meet a guy about a rare record, but thanks so much for the offer.”
There’s still a universe where Armin and I could’ve been friends. And maybe he and I should have an alliance, at least out there. Maybe, after everything this job has put us through, he and I should be the last ones standing. “Hey, Armin.” I lean a touch closer and lower my voice. “Try not to be late after lunch. With everything going on with the HR assessments, it’s best to just be good.”
“True.” He nods, but it’s too quick, and his expression is too casual, too placating. He’s thinking I’m a paranoid Larry Goodwin type.
“I mean it. You never know who’s watching you or who you can trust.” And before my brain even realizes what I’m doing, I fucking wink.
His eyes flash as he backs away. There’s no universe where I’m not a weirdo. My entire being is about to dissolve. Every time I think to speak or do anything, I should find the nearest stock art on the wall and stare at it until I lose all inspiration.
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. But I was 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 to people? 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 remember they 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, our meeting. 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?