Chapter 21
Chapter
I massively underestimated the amount of work this was going to be. My eyes are closing as I watch an Excel tutorial on YouTube.
I spent the past hour reading through Erica’s notes about the aesthetic she wants for the presentation, and went down a rabbit hole on color schemes and font pairings—then remembered, with a start, that I still don’t actually understand the data she’s supposed to present.
My cheeks are bloated from all the sodium I just housed—two vending machine Cup Noodles, back to back. I can practically feel the sebum rising to the surface of my face.
The lights turn on suddenly, and I have the strange urge to scuttle under my desk, like the cockroaches caught out when I’d turn on the light in my New York apartment.
There’s a woman’s melodious laugh, and a man’s voice, warm and familiar. Sarah and Greg come into view, walking over to her cubicle from the elevators.
I can hear snippets of their conversation out of context, things I can’t make sense of.
“You won’t believe—”
“Saw them talking later—”
“No! You’re shitting me.”
They seem to be having a great time, thick as thieves.
Irritation overtakes me, abrasive like knuckles scraping my sternum.
It reminds me of senior year, when I’d run into Greg with a new girlfriend every few weeks. I don’t know why I have such a long hangover from things that happened a decade ago and really shouldn’t matter anymore.
You’re living with the muscle memory of old stress, I tell myself, flexing my fingers. You’re over it! You’ll adjust.
Sarah notices me and raises a hand. “Ruby, you’re still here?”
“This thing is more involved than I thought.” I type some gibberish just to seem busy. “You came back?”
“Oh, yeah, uh—ran into Greg, and—” She gestures between them awkwardly. The harsh overhead lights shine off her black hair. “A few of us went to the bar.”
Why is she lying too? Are they afraid I’m going to report them to HR?
“But then I remembered I left my headphones here,” Sarah says, grabbing a pastel purple AirPods case off the desk.
She’s so cute, and Greg looked so happy a second ago. And, man, I feel like a greasy-faced wretch.
I close my eyes and think about Mark Winterson laughing on the roof, his body pressed against mine for a second in that dingy hall. You have some things going for you. You should focus on that.
But just when it seems I’m almost in the clear, Greg drifts over and rests a hand on my cubicle wall. “Sarah, you should go ahead, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I stare at him. What does this fool think he’s doing?
“Night, Ruby!” Sarah calls with a jaunty wave as she heads for the elevator.
Greg must have told her about his pathetic childhood friend, the one he needs to check up on because she’s losing her mind.
“Come on,” he says, tilting his head in the direction of the elevators. “Let’s go home.”
Sometimes, in moments like these, Greg has a bad case of puppy-dog eyes, and I do not appreciate the effect they have on me.
He’s not doing it on purpose! That’s just how his face is.
“Yeah, I’ll go home soon,” I say, rubbing my puffy cheeks.
“No, we’re calling it a night now,” he says. “You’ve done enough.”
There’s something steely in his tone, a departure from his usual nonchalance.
Mom got that wrong about him—she looked at Greg’s don’t-give-a-shit exterior and saw all her problems with unreliable men personified.
But I’d watched him long enough to realize that wasn’t fair.
That he had to try so hard to seem like he didn’t care because he cared too much about too many things.
He was fiercely protective of his mom, for one—he’d get into fights when people made fun of her job, and she’d whack him on the arm when she picked him up from the principal’s office and say, Ay, you think I care about that!
Stay out of trouble if you want to help!
“Ruby,” he says, low and steady. “You’re putting too much pressure on yourself.”
I feel like I’m going to cry. Of all people, he should understand.
“She’s still trapped in there!” My voice has dropped to a desperate whisper. “And it’s because of me, and—and maybe if I just tried harder! Maybe if I just tried—”
“Hey.” Greg comes around the divider and gives my shoulder a firm squeeze.
Something hitches in my chest at the gentle way he’s looking at me. This is how he is—attentive, soft, calming. Lots of girls have fallen for it over the years. I’ve learned my lesson; it doesn’t mean anything.
“We don’t know what’s going to get her out, or why she’s there,” he says firmly. “But this isn’t all your fault. And grinding yourself down won’t…”
He pauses.
Is he going to say bring her back? My anger comes to a boil like the kettle I used to make the Cup Noodles.
“You go home!” I slam my hands against the keys, and a long string of characters pops up on the screen. “You clearly don’t get it!”
“I saw what you saw at my mom’s shop! I think I get it,” Greg shoots back in a sharp whisper. “But you can’t just make everything happen by force of will.”
Mom’s voice bounces between my ears. Greg lacks initiative! He’ll never get anywhere!
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because that’s not how things work!” He sounds so incensed suddenly, voice raised.
So this is the rare moment I make him lose his cool. I’m more intrigued than mad now.
“Why, exactly,” I say slowly, “isn’t that how things work?”
Greg runs a hand over his face. “Because so much of life is shaped by forces outside your control—whatever the market is doing, and corporate bullshit way over your head. Companies will be humming along, profitable, everyone working hard, and then, bam, layoffs. Just to give shareholders that extra juice and executives a fatter payday.”
So this must be what he reads about these days. It’s been a while since I heard him rant.
His words pick up speed, like they’re just tumbling out of him now.
“And everything isn’t happening the way it is because of some small thing you did or didn’t do wrong—because capitalism isn’t a meritocracy, and we’re not exactly in control, and things don’t really make sense!
And Erica is just Erica, not a barometer of how worthy you are! And it’s not worth…”
“What, killing yourself over?” I’m barely doing a fraction of what Mom used to do. He really has no clue.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Greg says, careful, level again. “I just—” He shakes his head. “I hate seeing you like this.”
A distant, muted part of me knows he’s expressing concern, but all I hear is criticism. Mom telling me it’s unattractive to let the sadness show on your face. To indulge it for too long.
You think I can do that? I’d never get anything done, if I started.
Greg gives me a long stare, dry as tinder. The air between us feels dangerous, like the whole thing would go up if someone lit a match.
“Come on, Ruby.” He reaches for my hands, tugging me out of my seat. And for some reason, I don’t fight him—I let him pull me to my feet, and for a second I’m standing too close to him, both hands clasped in his before he takes a step backward and looks away. “You can try again tomorrow.”