I frown. That can’t be right.
I refresh the app, but the result remains the same.
I frown, scroll, scroll again.
Did I forget to log last month’s period?
Well, with everything that is happening, I wouldn’t blame myself. I push away from my desk and go in search of coffee, but the first sip hits my stomach like acid. I barely make it to the bathroom before I’m on my knees, retching.
I’m still wiping my mouth at the sink when the door swings open and footsteps click in. Two women, oblivious to my presence, enter the first two stalls, chatting loudly.
“Do you think they did it in the office?”
“Hell, yes. She was his office whore, sucking his dick all day long. Bet he couldn’t even take her home. Maybe they met at hotels outside work.”
“I know, right? Ugh, I’m so embarrassed on her behalf. Women shouldn’t have to go through all that, you know? Do you think we should invite her to empower her this Friday?”
“Hell, no. I’d actually gag if I had to stand next to that walking embarrassment.”
My throat tightens. I slip out quietly, not waiting to hear anything else. Daniel’s office door has been closed all morning. I scoff. What am I expecting, a hug?
By lunch, I can’t take my restlessness anymore.
I grab my phone and head for the stairwell. Nobody ever comes there, so I’m assured of privacy. I shouldn’t look. By God, I know I shouldn’t, but curiosity claws at me anyway, and before I stop myself, I create a burner Twitter account.
I’m trending. Number seven worldwide.
#Williamswhore
I click it against my better judgment.
There are thousands of tweets dissecting my worth as a human being, reduced to whether or not I’m pretty enough to justify Daniel’s “lapse in judgment.”
My hands shake as I scroll.
The hate comments blur together, and my stomach turns violently.
I’m going to be sick.
I shove my phone in my pocket and press my forehead to my knees, breathing hard.
I feel the sweat creep up over me and wonder if I’m about to pass out. This is what it’s like when the world decides you’re worthless.
My phone rings. Gretchen again.
“I’m fine,” I answer before she can ask.
“You’re not fine. Come home. Please.”
“I can’t. I have work—”
“Fuck work! Bay, please.”
“I’m not a baby, Gretchen. Just let me be.”
I hang up before she can argue.
By five, most people have left.
