There were some exclamations of shock and amusement as they read, followed by an uncharacteristic hush.
After a moment, Sumira broke the silence. “The man knows how to write a letter.”
Eva began, “Stephen was in a—” in a tone of glee, but Amy interrupted her. “Can we please not talk about the Stephen part?”
Quiet fell again, and my friends went back to eating their chips and dip, glancing at me to gauge how I was feeling. How was I feeling? It was a fabulous letter—I knew that. Every time I read it I felt myself soften a little. Did a part of me want to continue bumping into him around town? Of course. Was the fiery, angry partof me still there too, righteous as ever?Of course.I had been right when I shot him down, and this letter wasn’t going to change that.
“Are you gonna sleep with him?” Sumira asked. Always classy, that one. I threw a corn chip at her.
“No.” I tried to sound dignified. “I’m not going to sleep with a man just because he puts pen to paper for me.”
“You’ve done it for less,” Eva muttered, and Sumira snorted.
“No, actually, this whole debacle has shown me something. It’s shown me that… I’m literally flawless.”
Amy exchanged a sideways glance with Sumira while Eva stared at me in disbelief.
“I mean, look. A man like Christopher is, objectively, a catch. He’s mega successful. He’s not hideous… Actually, he’s quite—never mind. He makes Jewish mothers lose their minds. And he apparently lost his mind over me. Sure, he used some unflattering descriptions, but he was declaring hisloveto me. And he barely knows me. This just reaffirms what I’ve always thought: I am a goddess.” I punctuated this by crunching into a hummus-laden chip.
There was a long, thoughtful pause.
“A goddess with nacho cheese hair,” Sumira said, and the girls cackled like the witches they are.
She had a point, though. As the conversation devolved into silliness, I took out my phone and scheduled an appointment with a new colorist.
The days turned sultry and humid as August neared. My hair was glossy and brown again. I treated myself to a Madewell sundressthat made me look like a swarthy season 1 Daenerys Targaryen. And while all of these things injected a sense of fresh hope into my life, they could not protect me from the more nefarious aspects of my existence. Such as Kenneth.
“Um, Rachel—Rachel, hi.” Kenneth hovered on the edge of my peripheral vision. This sort of entrance irritated me more than if he had pole-vaulted into my cubicle with jazz hands.
“Hello, Kenneth.” I swiveled around to face him.
“Sheryl is on vacation this week, and Cam was covering for her, but now Cam is out sick, so…” He pushed his glasses up his nose and grabbed the stapler from my desk, inspecting it—why? “I’ll need you to cover for them. Both.”
Several potential responses ran through my mind, including the crucial fact that I was only one person, who worked only forty hours per week. But I swallowed these retorts, reminding myself that I was here for the money. The money that I needed to buy food and sundresses.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” He looked up in surprise, and the stapler swung open. Had he thought he might need it for self-defense?
“Of course. I’ll do my best.”
Visibly relieved, he set down the stapler. “Thank you, Rachel!” As he walked away, he pointed at me as if he were my sports coach and shouted, “Gold star!”
I sighed and turned back to my ever-growing list of customer complaints. If only gold star stickers could be converted to American currency.
On my lunch break, I sat on the steps outside, my legs stretched out in the sun, and swiped on Tinder.
“Ew. No. Double ew.” I swiped left again and again. Seattle singles had some explaining to do. Perhaps if I set my distance toone mile I would get some respectable, employed guys swiping near me on their lunch breaks. Hmm. Here was one: blond, fit but not intimidatingly so, and with photographic evidence of normal-looking friends. I scrolled down to his bio: “Brent, 30. My truck identifies as a Prius. Gun grabbers swipe left.”
And on that revolting note, I tossed the rest of my sandwich in the trash. Men were all the same: complete wastes of DNA. Anyway, why was I wasting my time? I was destined to be a spinster crone, wasn’t I? I should be shopping for a cabin in the woods and some cats, not a man. My phone buzzed, and for once I was relieved to see a text from my mom, as it beat the alternative of a message from any of my so-called matches.
“Everyone is invited to dinner tonight! It’s a bit of a celebration!”
A last-minute celebratory dinner invite from my mother? This could not be good.
Mom was in such an exultant mood that she ordered Chinese for dinner. Jane had arrived before me, and when I raised my eyebrows at Mom prancing around scooping chow mein and cashew chicken into serving dishes, Jane gave me a knowingWait till you hear itlook.
“Mom, what are we celebrating?” I pinched a chow mein noodle.
