Chapter 17
Chapter
When I come in on Wednesday morning, the first thing I hear is Morgan’s voice carrying across the office.
“Aww, you’re blushing!” she exclaims. “Just look at you.”
Sarah’s standing in her cubicle, showing Morgan some flowers—yellow roses in a clear vase—and looking ecstatic. There’s a bow around them, and a tiny heart-shaped card.
My stomach drops like when the old elevator misses our floor on the first try.
“Very romantic,” Morgan says, leaning against Sarah’s cubicle divider. “Ah, to be young again!”
Sarah hides her face in her hands and groans. “Not to be dramatic, but I think I’m in love!”
I’d stopped in my tracks by the entrance, and I realize I’m staring. I turn on my heel before they see me and head for the bathroom. I’ll be fine once I splash my face with cold water.
But before I can reach for the tap, Erica’s voice wafts up from one of the stalls, freezing me in place. “This presentation to leadership next week, it’s—” She sniffles. Is she crying?
My startled face stares back at me in the long mirror above the sink. The lighting is aggressive here, everything so bright it reminds me of an ad for tooth products—pristine long white countertop studded with sinks, white tile walls, a row of off-white stall doors behind me.
“They need me to present this data.” Erica blows her nose loudly. “I don’t know how to—I’m so—” The person on the other line seems to be cutting in here, talking for a while, and Erica responds, “But I’m in over my head. Drowning.”
Wow, relatable. Strange to feel that way about Erica for a second.
“Like what the fuck is a pivot table!” she adds, chased with another hefty sniff. “And I don’t have time to learn! Everyone is so sloppy here, I have my hands full walking them through their mistakes.”
Well, that second was short-lived!
“And public speaking is bad enough, but—” She blows her nose again, and I briefly picture a sad little elephant sitting on the toilet seat. “Okay, fine, I’ll drink some water. And breathe, yes. I’ll see you at home.”
The stall door opens before my brain can catch up, and Erica walks out, smoothing the wrinkles in her shirt.
We lock eyes in the mirror, and the surprise registers on her face. She moves to the sink two down from me and starts washing her hands.
“I can help you with that!” I blurt out. “I—I can make the annoying deck you don’t want to make.”
She glares at me in the mirror.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, I—I couldn’t help but overhear—” I take a deep breath and force my shoulders down. “Erica. You work so hard. You shouldn’t have to do everything yourself. You can delegate. I want to help, really! I promise—I’ll take care of it. It’s as good as done.”
As I babble on, Erica folds a paper towel, wets the center, and runs it under her eyes to get rid of the mascara smudges. “Are you good with Excel?”
“Oh…yeah! Absolutely.”
I’ve used Excel before. And I can always google it. How hard can it be?
“All right, if you insist,” she says, fixing her hair. “I need it Friday morning. Drop-dead deadline nine a.m. I’ll send you my notes.”
I give her my brightest smile. “No problem.”
“All right, then.” She gives me a last skeptical glance as she opens the bathroom door. “Thanks, Ruby.”
I check my phone on the way back to my desk, and there’s a text from Greg: a cute rabbit with pom-poms, saying the word FIGHTING! It makes me laugh out loud, it’s so unexpected from him.
But then I pass Sarah’s cubicle and spot a figurine of that same rabbit sitting next to her monitor.
She’s not at her desk, and—after glancing from side to side to check the coast is clear—I lean into her cubicle and read the note on her flowers.
It’s typed, the kind you request when you place your order.
Because you said no one ever sent you flowers before, and I wanted to change that.
Love,
G
I jump back like the card stung me. They’re at the “love” stage already? I thought Greg got out of any relationship before it reached that point. The last time I checked in on his love life, he’d had a long string of girlfriends who lasted a few months each.
Maybe he’s matured since then? Good for him, I guess? Yes! I’m happy for them. I shouldn’t be thinking about this, anyway—I have too much to do.
For the rest of the day, I have three spreadsheets Erica sent me minimized in one corner of my screen, and her notes open in a tab. They’re dense, chaotic, filled with asides and shorthand. It takes me an hour just to figure out why there are three spreadsheets.
I mean to toggle back to her deck between things, but my regular tasks are ballooning, and I keep getting pulled away. Some copy I thought I finished turns into five rounds of revision, pinging back and forth between me and Erica. Just when I think I’m in the clear, another email lands.
It’s a subject line only, no body: Copy isn’t popping. Try again.
And as I’m sprinting through the day, I keep anxiously checking my calendar, watching the bar for the present time inch closer to Coffee with Mark.