“How is that ‘incidentally,’ Mom?”
“But did you?” she hissed at my elbow, nodding and smiling at her guests as we passed them. “Because it would be such a shame if you wasted that opportunity. Just because his parents live next door doesn’t mean he’ll always be around—he’s a busy man, Rachel. You’re not likely to get lucky again, seeing him serendipitously like that.”
“If only that were true.” I sighed.
“What?” We came to a halt in the kitchen.
“Yes, Mother, I exchanged a few words with him. But I wouldn’t want to gettooclose to him. Myboyfriendmight not like it.”
Mom’s hands flew to her face in shock, sending her champagne glass hurtling toward the floor. (I caught it; years of dealing with Mom’s tantrums had honed my reflexes.) She let out a high-pitched warble, apparently unable to form words.
“Did I just hear you say ‘boyfriend’?” Jane asked, beaming. She had wandered into the kitchen with an empty water pitcher.
“Yes, Jane.” I threw my shoulders back with pride. “I’ve been seeing a lovely young man named Stephen Branson.”
“No, no, no,” Mom moaned to herself. It was as though a window had opened into her brain, and I could see a neon billboard flashing:Stephen Branson ≠ Christopher Butkus.
“Yes, yes, yes.” I smiled in Mom’s face. “I think you’ll adore him. I know I do.”
Mom had gone pale, her coral lipstick and black mascara standing out against her shocked white face. She looked from me to Jane, as though hoping Jane would tell her it was all a joke.
Jane looked pointedly away from her, her face radiating joy. “Rachel, I’msoexcited for you. All I want in the world is for you to be happy. I wish everyone could be as happy as I am tonight.”
As though magnetically attracted to his betrothed, Owen drifted into the kitchen and put his arms around her waist. They nuzzled each other. If anyone else had done that in my presence, it would have made me queasy, but watching Jane and Owen, I felt all soft and melty inside.
“Thanks for being so happy for me, Mom.” I took the empty water pitcher from Jane and refilled it at the sink. “It really means a lot.”
We left Mom in the kitchen, where she stood at the window gazing toward the Butkuses’ house, doing her best impression of a war widow watching the ghosts of dreams past, forever just out of reach.
I skulked off to the bathroom to check my phone and let out a surprised snort of laughter. Mom’s dream son-in-law had replied to my latest Instagram story—a selfie of me all dolled up—saying, “Another sustainability banquet?” With a winky face!
I typed a quick reply: “Aren’t you nosy? It’s my sister’s engagement party.”
“Congrats to Jane and Owen! Where was my invite?”
I grinned. Itwasrather classy of him to remember both of their names. I started typing something about how his parents had, in fact, been invited—and then deleted it. It felt awkward to point out that his parents had declined. Someone knocked on the bathroom door then, so I shot off a quick tongue-sticking-out emoji before stashing my phone in my purse. It did not escape my notice that I had a smile plastered on my face for the next ten minutes. I told myself it was because of the joyous occasion, nothing more.
Later that week, whatever happiness I’d felt at the party had melted away, and I was missing my besties. We hadn’t heard from Sumira in a while, but it was Ramadan and she’d warned us that she might be quiet on the group chat because she was going to be hangry all month. I might not have thought much about it, except it occurred to me that Amy had been unusually quiet too. I’d thought she’d had fun when we went out for Eva’s birthday. Maybe things with Ryan weren’t going well and she was too embarrassed to tell us about it.
I had to keep my spirits up somehow. Beginning with the daily question at work: “How do you feel about your manager, in general?”
I smirked as I typed off a brisk reply. “I have never FELT my manager in any way and I resent the implication that there is any feeling going on between us whatsoever. Kenneth is a gentleman.” I couldn’t help the little snort of mirth that escaped me. My cubicle-mate, Sheryl, glanced at me curiously, but I immersed myself in my unread emails.
Huh. At the top of my inbox—usually full of automatedsupport ticket emails—was an email addressed specifically to me from someone named Jennie.
“Hi Rachel, this is Jennie from HR. I’ve put a meeting on your calendar for today; please let me know if the time isn’t convenient for you…”
Who the hell was this Jennie? Why did I have a meeting with HR?
Oh no. What did I do?
For the next hour, as time ticked closer to the meeting with Jennie, I mentally catalogued all the things I might have done to get myself fired. There were a lot. For example, there was the time I went to a waxing appointment in the middle of the day (unfortunately missing a team meeting I’d forgotten about). The few (dozen) times I’d shown up late to work with Starbucks in hand. The time I slept with Scott from IT. The time I told Sheryl a joke about Scott’s girth that he may or may not have overheard.
Oh, please don’t let me get sued for sexual harassment. Again.
(Kidding.)
As I walked to Jennie’s office, I had to pass Kenneth’s desk. He looked up at me with this expression like I was walking to the guillotine and he was the one who had turned me in. I narrowed my eyes at him.Kenneth.What had I ever done to him?
