“Uh, it just depends on how fast the mail goes,” I say, pulling myself from my thoughts and answering his question. “The North Pole is really far away.”
I take his hand, and we push out into the hallway. Ettie’s place is just a few doors away from mine, but some mornings it feels like this is the longest stretch, from our door to hers.
“Do you think he readseveryletter?” Gus asks, turning his head to look up at me, his hair a little too long over his forehead. He’ll need a trim soon—I can probably get away with doing it myself.
“I’m sure he does,” I say, wishing I had a bit of Santa’s magic. “He’s very good at his job.”
“How does he decide if you get what you want?”
“You know the answer to that,” I say, nudging him a little, which makes him laugh.
“If you’re good?”
“If you’re good,” I agree, knocking on Ettie’s door. Usually, she’s prompt. Of course, on the mornings I’m late, it takes a minute longer.
“How do you know if you’re good?” Gus asks, and when I glance down at him, I register that this is one of those moments—a moment in which your kid asks you a question that’s impossible to answer.
What’s goodness? What does it mean to be a good person? Is doing no harm enough? Would Santa bringmea present if I wanted one? Or would I get coal?
“Sorry!” Ettie swings open the door and beams at us, Dawson dancing along to a morning cartoon behind her, already in his school clothes, just like Gus. “Busy morning,” she says, rubbing her hand on a dish towel.
I can smell their breakfast hanging in the air—knowing Ettie it was something like vegan chorizo, egg whites, and freshly sliced avocado on whole wheat.
“No apology necessary,” I say, as Gus runs past her, dropping his T-Rex backpack and joining Dawson in front of the TV, his question about being good completely forgotten. I watch the two boys for a moment.
“Everything okay?” Ettie asks, and when my eyes skip to hers, I wrestle with my usual jealousy. She’s an amazing person, and an amazing mother. Without her, managing my life with Gus would be a million times harder.
But that doesn’t stop me from wishing I had a trust fund to lean against. It seems like just a little more money is always the answer, but I don’t have a partner—or an inheritance—to provide that.
“Yeah,” I rush out, realizing I let the moment linger a beat too long. Reaching out, I squeeze her shoulder, choosing to focus on gratitude. “I’m just really grateful that you can help me with this. You know I couldn’t do it without you. And just…remember to keep an eye on him?”
Ettie smiles, glancing back at Gus, who’s dancing around with Dawson and laughing at the show on the TV. “You know I will,” she laughs and turns, bumping her hip against mine. “When you come to get Gus tonight, you and I are having a margarita. And I’m not taking no for an answer—youclearlyneed it.”
I’m halfway through taking my lunch break at my desk—like I always do—when I remember I’m supposed to send Gus’s letter to Santa.
“Shit,” I whisper around a bite of the dry chicken wrap I packed today. Standing, I grab the wrap to bring with me, pulling the letter from my bag and making my way to the elevator.
There’s an outgoing mail slot in the building’s lobby. If I eat while I walk, I’ll have time to finish my lunch and deposit his letter before my break is up.
At this point, even with my occasional lateness, I should have a whole bank of time that I’ve saved from eating lunch at my desk, working through breaks. But Peter—my boss—doesn’t take note of the time you give to the company—only the time he perceives you to have stolen away.
“Julia,” he says, giving me an oily smile when the elevator doors open and we’re facing one another. I hide a grimace and slide past him, trading places so he’s in the hallway and I’m in the elevator. “Don’t forget we have that meeting with Wag Staff,” he glances at his wristwatch, which I’m sure cost more than my car. “I’d hate for you to be late.”
A reference to the fact that I walked into the office three minutes after nine this morning. I bite my tongue and resist the urge to tell him about that my car was recently totaled in a pile-up, how I had to wait on a Lyft driver who was running late, how traffic was even more congested than usual, about the peanut butter incident. About the fact that I wasfarfrom the last person to come in this morning.
“I’ll be there,” I say instead, just before the elevator doors slide shut.
The moment Peter is out of sight, my body relaxes. He’s never liked me—maybe because my first week here I accidentally called out a mistake he made in front of the account managers. That his catastrophe planning isnevermore than a generic template, and that’s just not going to cut it when shit hits the fan.They’d drilled into him and told him to fix it. As far as I know, he hasn’t.
Or maybe it’s not that I called him out—maybe he just hates women. Maybe he just hatesme. I have no idea.
Ever since he was promoted to team lead, he’s been on my ass. The day he took over the position, he called me into his office and told me I would need to beon sitea lot more than I had been. As though my original position hadn’t been remote.
When I applied for this job, a huge part of the reason I wanted it was for the remote aspect. I could work from home, coming to the office every two weeks for meetings and special occasions. It meant more time with Gus, and it meant I didn’t have to pay for childcare. Didn’t have to take time off work when he was home sick, or leave him with someone I knew wouldn’t watch him as closely as I did.
Then Peter decided heneededme in the office. Which meant a commute and gas money and finding parking and total relief when Ettie said she could watch Gus during the day, could take him to school when she took Dawson, and pick him up, too.
And even with all this time in the office, Peter still doesn’t listen to a word I say. This week, I reviewed the catastrophe plans for Wag Staff and realized they’restillall too vague to be much help when we need them.
