I blink at my phone. Divya’s pregnant?
[3:41]Martha:Omg!!!!!!! Congratulations!!!!!!!!!!!!
I type a little slowly.
[3:41]: Omg! Congrats!
[3:42]Martha:When’s your due date?
[3:42]Divya:September 30
September 30? That means she’s like... five months pregnant, if my mental math is right. I wonder why she hasn’t told us until now.
[3:43]Fallon:Crazy
[3:43]Martha:Have you found a good birth coach yet??
She and Divya talk about birth coaches for a while (I can’t help picturing an angry hockey coach screaming at the obstetrician from the side of the hospital bed—“You call that an epidural? I’ll show you an epidural!”), and when that peters off, I try again.
[3:47]: All the more reason for a reunion trip! We can all come meet the baby!
There’s a minute of silence.
[3:48]Divya:Yeah, maybe!
[3:48]Fallon:That would be fun
[3:49]Martha:Have you found a good preschool Divya?
The preschool talk goes on for a few minutes. I try to stick with the conversation, but I don’t really have anything to add. As the conversation tails off, I half-heartedly suggest a group video chat sometime, which Divya and Martha agree to so enthusiastically that I know it will never happen. Fallon doesn’t even answer. I’m pretty sure she dropped off the conversation the moment the preschool talk started. Fallon has complained to me more than once that all Martha ever wants to talk about is her children. Which is true, but at the same time, all Fallon ever wants to talk about is her business. Since I have nothing interesting to say about children or business, most of my conversations with them are pretty one-sided. And my conversations with Divya are usually pretty superficial. She can’t talk about her work, since her law firm handles all these super-sensitive, confidential cases, and we don’t have a ton of interests in common, so all we’re left with is bland, soulless exchanges.How are things? Great, you? Oh, not bad. Love your new haircut! Aw, thanks, girl!
I put down my phone with a sigh. It’s probably just as well. I can’t really afford a trip right now, anyway.
The afternoon drags on. I practice a bit of French on a free language app (I have this secret dream of living in Paris someday—it’ll be just likeEmily in Paris, except I’ll try not to be the worst), and I straighten up my desk and clean the windows. In desperation, I even wander back to the garage to see if Dave or John want me to make coffee (no).
Just before closing, John comes out to the front desk with acustomer, arguing with him about... I don’t know. Something to do with the guy’s car. The customer, an older man, is a bit red in the face and John’s voice is sharp with impatience.
“I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” he says.
“Well, thanks for nothing, then,” snaps the red-faced man, and storms out.
“What was that about?” I ask.
“Huh?” John blinks at me like he hasn’t noticed me sitting here. (He does thatall the time.I’m one ofthreepeople who work here, is it really so hard to remember?) “Oh. Nothing.”
Nothing? A customer storms out and he says it’s nothing? Does he really not care, or does he think I’m too stupid to understand their argument?
All of a sudden I’m just furious, and I can’t stop myself from snapping, “You should really be nicer to people.”
He blinks at me again. “What?”
He doesn’t sound offended, just mildly surprised, which if anything just irritates me more.
“You’re rude to the customers,” I say.
“Oh.” He looks to the door and back again, like he’s just putting together what happened. “That guy’s a dick.”
“He’s still acustomer,” I say. “If you want to keep his business—”
