"But for now, let’s celebrate." He signals for me to follow him.
Lost in thought, I shuffle behind him, burying my still-fluttering hands in my pockets. Peter’s considerate treatment, the feigned friendliness of my colleagues, and this welcome celebration—I don’t deserve any of it. I would rather run away on the spot, but I have no choice.
I want my life back. And this job is part of what I can at least have. If I can’t make it now, I’ll never make it. That's what I focus on as I finally enter the break room.
The oversized wooden charcuterie and bread platter catches my eye first. Beer mugs are placed next to it, and I spot a cake box on the kitchen counter. A sign is hanging from the pendant lamp.Welcome backis written in colorful letters. Someone has also attached a picture of me to the banner. It shows me with a contented smile on my lips, my earthy brown eyes shining in competition with the sun behind me. I have a climbing rope slung over my shoulder and carabinersdangling from the loops of my bright red mountaineering jacket.
My gaze lingers on that picture. Because the man grinning at me here doesn’t have much in common with the man who stared back at me in the mirror this morning.
Only the five-day beard remains.
A firm shove from Peter brings me back to the present. He looks at me expectantly and nods toward my colleagues, standing in a semicircle around the rustic table, eagerly awaiting my reaction.
Of course, how could I forget to thank them? It’s really time for me to pull myself together. "This wasn’t necessary," I stammer clumsily. "Thank you, guys."
Applause breaks out again, and once again, it makes me more than uncomfortable. Why the hell are they applauding me? For what? I haven’t achieved anything. Quite the contrary.
Anita breaks away from the group, places a bacon sandwich on a plate, and approaches me. "To help you regain your strength," she says. Her gaze roams over me, then she lifts her eyelids and looks directly into my eyes. A sympathetic smile plays on her lips.
I quickly take the plate from her. "Thank you." I grab the bacon sandwich and take a bite even though I don’t think there’s any room for it in my stomach. "Tastes great. Did you bake the bread yourself?"
I’ve hardly finished asking the question when she enthusiastically starts talking about her recipe, and I’m just relieved that I can get away with simply nodding or grunting in agreement. Conversations start in the background. My colleagues eat and chat, and Peter fills the glasses with nonalcoholic beer.
I try to relax at least a little. Even though I can hardly believe it. It actually happened.
I’m back.
