Chapter One #2
After he left the bathroom, I stepped into the lukewarm shower and told myself it was fine.
I’m still staring at the email I wrote two months ago. I’m glad I wrote it, but I wish I’d dedicated the millisecond required to review my spelling before I hit send. This typo-riddled email suggests I’m an unreliable employee who cancels last-minute, and I’d sent it directly to my boss.
I close my eyes. I wish I could go back in time and undo all the stupid mistakes I’ve made.
Joy would probably assure me this email doesn’t make me come off as unreliable.
You had a medical issue. Who would think badly of you for that?
She would say that this is just a job, and while I care about my job, it isn’t my whole life.
The grass is going to keep growing. The stars aren’t going to burn out.
At the end of the day, I’m standing here telling people to mute their porn. Nothing is so serious.
I bet Joy is wondering how my first day back is going.
She sat up with me last night while I groaned about this interview that I couldn’t remember declining, worrying about all the people and questions I might have to face.
She listened to me spiral, reassured me everything would be all right, and joked that we could move away. Change our names. Live in a cave.
I should call her. I’m sure she’ll be delighted to hear my morning has been fraught with weird men watching poorly labeled lesbian porn.
“Did you think someone was having sex?”
I’m calling Joy from the break room while I watch the white bean soup she made us for dinner last night revolve in the microwave.
“No, it was obviously porn. The actresses’ performances were overly theatrical.” The microwave beeps. “I’ve had to deal with people hooking up in the stacks before, though. I’ve actually suggested we rearrange the shelves. There’s a spot that’s hidden where I’ve found multiple couples—”
“Is it always couples?”
I reach into the microwave to stir the soup, making sure to keep it away from my face.
Sometimes soups heated in microwaves explode if you stick spoons in them haphazardly.
Whenever I microwave liquids, or any food with a high water content, I’m cautious.
I’ve had a few traumatic experiences. A reheated cup of coffee once severely burned one of my eyelids.
Another time, I accidentally detonated a potato.
“What do you mean, Is it always couples?” I ask. “Are you wondering if I’ve ever found people having group sex in the library?”
She snorts. “No, no, I meant—”
“The answer is obviously no, and I think exhibitionist threesomes are rare, honey. That’s got to be too much for most people, right? You’re either having public sex, or a threesome. To do both would be over-the-top—”
She laughs. “I was thinking more like one person. I meant, like, do you ever find one person masturbating?”
“Oh. Yes. Of course. We get that all the time.”
Some people do atrocious things in libraries. Get into fistfights. Film content for their OnlyFans. Urinate in the elevators.
She says, “You have a difficult job. Hey, why haven’t we ever had sex in the library?”
I put the soup back into the microwave. “Because it’s unsanitary, and I’d get fired. Plus, I know the guys who watch our security footage, and we’d have to move away. Change our names. Live in a cave.”
She snorts. “Okay. Fair. Besides this porn incident, how’s your morning been? How are you feeling?”
“Good.” I watch the soup turn. “My coworkers got me tulips, and I checked my outbox and saw I did decline that second interview.”
“Did you? That’s great news,” she says.
“Mhm. I’m relieved I didn’t just not show up, but the email had typos. It makes me look like a flake. I doubt there’s any chance I get that job now.”
“Why would that make you look like a flake? They know you were off sick.”
Joy wouldn’t think negatively of someone for missing a meeting due to illness, but she always assumes the best in people. Whenever I voice worries I have about how others might negatively perceive me, she’s always baffled. Why would anyone think that? How do these thoughts even occur to you?
The timer on the microwave is almost up. “I just wish I’d handled it differently.”
“I’m sorry this is making you feel bad, but I don’t think you should beat yourself up. I know that job mattered to you, but regardless of what happens, everything’s okay.”
I knew she would say something like this, and she’s probably right. It doesn’t really matter. I did want that job, but I don’t need to dwell on it. I have this tendency to get hung up on things that are outside my control.
I inhale. “Yeah. Everything’s okay. It’s not like this is life or death—”
My stomach drops. The microwave beeps. Why did I mention death?
“It’s okay.” She senses I’ve accidentally set myself off.
All the hairs on my body are standing up. The microwave beeps again. I’m picturing his name in the newspaper.
Joy’s voice cuts through that image. “Hey, I miss you skulking around the house.”
She’s trying to distract me. I close my eyes tight. I’m picturing his hands. The hairs on his knuckles.
She says, “There’s no one around to interrupt my work. I’m getting way too much done.”
I clench my eyes closed tighter. BEEP. I try to picture Joy working. She runs a bookbinding business out of a workshop on our property.
“You can come home if you need to, you know,” she says quietly.
I’m picturing her wearing her canvas apron. BEEP. She has her hair tied up. She’s gluing paper. Holding pages up to the light. BEE—
I open the microwave, and the beeping stops.
It’s not my fault he died, my therapist told me to remind myself.
I’m not the reason he died.
I say, “Sorry. I’m okay.”
My chest feels heavy.
“Are you sure?” Her voice is shaky. She’s never good at hiding her concern.
“Yes, I’m okay,” I repeat, partly to convince myself. “Why don’t you tell me about your morning?”
I want her to distract me.
“My morning? Sure. Uh. It’s been fine.” Her voice is quiet. I can tell she’s worried about me. “Sophie called. She’s going on leave tomorrow because she’s too pregnant to work. Her doctor wrote her a note.”
Sophie is Joy’s sister. Her baby is due in a week.
“Is she happy to go on leave?” I ask while I take the soup out of the microwave. I place it down quickly, and hiss as the heat singes my fingertips. The bowl was too hot to touch. I should have let it sit a minute.
“What happened? Are you okay?” she asks.
She’s always worried about me hurting myself. She gasps as if I’ve been shot when I stub a toe, or trip slightly.
In an attempt to lighten the mood, I tease her. “No, I’m not okay. That porn-watching guy just barged into the break room and attacked me!”
She gasps. “What?”
I laugh nervously. “I’m kidding. I’m fine. I just touched something hot.”
“Please don’t joke about masturbating men attacking you.”
I look at my fingertips. They’re flushed from touching the hot bowl. “He wasn’t masturbating. He was just watching porn.”
“Oh, weird. So, would you be allowed to kick him out if he was masturbating?”
“Yes, I’d be allowed to, but I probably wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
I grab some paper towels from the dispenser by the sink. “I don’t get paid enough.”
She laughs.
“I have to go now, honey,” I say as I sit down. “I’m about to eat that soup you packed for me.”
“Did you see I put some rosemary focaccia in there?”
“Did you?” I look into my lunch bag. I notice a pouch of tinfoil and realize it’s the bread. I peel the foil off and see it’s flecked with coarse sea salt and rosemary sprigs. It’s gold and shiny from olive oil. I say, “Wow, this looks beautiful. Thank you.”
“No problem. Be safe, okay? I love you.”
She always tells me to be safe.
“I will. I love you too. Bye.”
“It’s none of my business why you were away. Absolutely none of my business, but you’re well enough to return, right? I hope you haven’t rushed back, have you?”
Mordecai is in the break room. He doesn’t know what caused my sick leave and has made it apparent that he’s curious.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m feeling much better, thank you.”
“That’s great to hear. Boy, was I worried about you. We all were. Brenda told us you were going to be out for a while, and I thought, My God, I hope she’s okay. They didn’t give us any more information than that, you know. Just, poof! Darcy’s gone.”
Rather than take the hint and reveal what afflicted me, I say, “Thank you so much for your concern, Mordecai. That’s very kind of you. I appreciate it.”
“We got you those tulips because I remembered your favorite color is yellow. I wasn’t sure if that applied to flowers, but I told everyone that was your favorite color, so we just went with it. I hope that was the right call.”
“I love the flowers. Thank you so much,” I say, while a substantial drop of soup falls from my spoon to my chest. It burns the skin beneath my linen shirt.
I get up and walk to the sink. I soak a fistful of paper towels in cold water.
“Oh, damn. Do you think that’ll stain?” he asks.
“I don’t know.” I blot the spot.
It’s white soup on a white shirt. You’d think that wouldn’t be the end of the world, but I don’t know much about laundry. I can never predict when something will stain.
“That looks like a nice shirt,” he says. “Rats. I bet that’s the last thing you need right now. You come back to work after being sick and immediately wreck a good work shirt.”