The piece of melon slips off my plate and bounces off my shoe. I hike up my pants to stoop down to get it and when I rise, Mark stands in front of me.
“Come on, bro. Let’s mingle.”
By mingle, Mark means hit heavily on the only women of color in the room, two interns from Finance. Marisol, a Northeastern grad from Pennsylvania, ignores us for her phone. But the one Mark lays it on thick for is clearly uncomfortable with the attention. With every one of his jokes, Abila’s smiles morph into cringes. Her shoulders inch toward her ears when his hand brushes her arm. He stares at her chest and she pulls her cardigan together. I open my mouth. Close it again. If Amy were here, she’d let fly with some asshole-puckering swear words. If my best friend, Jeremy Chen, were here, he’d find a calm way to explain to Mark why his behavior was inappropriate.
I’m just afraid that if I open my mouth to do either, another nervous laugh will end up escaping, especially if Abila has it in hand. I catch her eye, lifting a brow. She rolls her eyes, shaking her head.
“I’m...going to get another coffee,” she announces, earning a glare from Mark for interrupting his story of “epic drunken debauchery.” “Please don’t follow me,” she says, her voice laced with quiet disdain.
“Christ, uptight much?” he mutters.
Or maybe she didn’t feel like being sexually harassed on her first day, Mark.
Mark’s elbow digs into my ribs, spilling my, luckily, lukewarm coffee. I pat at my hand with a napkin, putting the cup on the conference table behind me.
“Wesley! I see you’ve met my intern, Mark.”
Richard pats my back hard enough that I buckle a little under the pressure and I’m so glad I’m not still holding my coffee because I would have spilled over more than my hand. Mark and I greet Richard, Mark smiling that chimpanzee smile again.
“If you’ll excuse us, Mark. I need to borrow Wes for a moment.”
Something shifts in Mark’s smile as we walk away, his eyes snagging on Richard’s hand on my shoulder. He suddenly seems a little less primate-like and a little more sharklike.
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there for Laura’s funeral,” Richard says, once we’ve found a private space in the corner of the conference room away from Mark’s dead shark eyes.
At the mention of Mom, my stomach drops.
I really don’t want to talk about this today.
“Did you get the flowers I sent?” he asks.
I nod, swallow past my dry throat and dread, and try to get the words to come out. I’m at that point where I think it’s okay. I think I’m okay with my mom being gone. But then someone asks about her or how we’re doing and my stomach clenches, my tongue ties. I realize I’m not okay. I’m small again, a skinny, scared kid who really, really misses his mom.
“Yes, we got the flowers. Thank you,” I manage.
Richard smiles and not for the first time, I wonder how this kind man could ever be a friend to my father. Richard speaks fondly of Mom, repeating stories he’s already told me about the three of them—my mom, my dad, and Richard—in college. The longer he talks about her the less my lungs feel like they’re being crushed in someone’s fist.
“I’m sorry.” He smiles ruefully. “I’m sure I’ve told you all of these before.”
He has, and each story hurts like a knife to the gut, but I’m starving for them nonetheless. Memories of Mom where she was the happy, healthy version of herself. Our last few months together, when she was sick and so tired of being sick, are imprinted on my brain. It’s a relief to be reminded that she wasn’t always that way.
Richard walks me through a maze of hallways, pointing out departments. We pass a large, open concept area he calls the Pit where teams already work together, walking until we reach a sandblasted glass door, the words Marketing Director etched across it. He claps his hand on my shoulder and squeezes, smiling warmly.
“This is Corrine’s office. I know the two of you will get along well.” He points to me and winks as he walks away. “Pay close attention. You’ll learn a lot from her.”
I take a moment alone on this side of the door. I check my tie, catch a glimpse of any stains on my suit in the reflection of the glass. But all I see is a blob of brown on top of my head and dark shapes where my glasses sit. Fuzzy and undefined. That feels depressingly on brand.
I adjust the pant leg I’m in an ongoing battle with, but it creeps up my leg again, displaying my lucky socks. Taking a deep breath, I knock.
“Come in,” a voice calls from the other side of the door.
I step into an all-white office. It’s so bright I squint. So clean, so sterile I want to take off my shoes to not to leave footprints. A small white couch, an armchair with no arms, and a glass coffee table sit in the open space in front of a white desk. Two pocket doors bracket the crisp white wall behind the desk.
And standing across the room, one dark eyebrow arched, her red lips tightly pursed, casting a stark black silhouette in this crisp white space, is the woman from the elevator.
My brain stutters, stalling on the image of her there and now here. Her hair shining under the elevator lights still lingers on the backs of my eyelids. The smell of coconuts doesn’t belong here. That scent belongs back in that elevator. But after two good sniffs, here it is still.
I close my eyes tight, like if I turn my brain off and on again it will work better. But when I open them, it’s still her, with that severe bun and the peplum top and red glasses. The Corrine Blunt I found on the company’s website looked nothing like this woman, who glares at me like she eats bright-eyed and bushy-tailed things for breakfast. Whatever similarities I thought we had have been surgically removed. Every possible reason for why this woman is in Corrine Blunt’s office runs through my head. But it keeps returning to the only horrifying explanation:
