“It was three hours,” I said.
“Whatever. Come fill me in.”
I followed her around the corner to her cubicle, which was nicer than mine with higher walls, but was still a cubicle. Helen put her shoulder bag down and pulled back her chair, pressing the button to boot her computer up. “Did you hear back from Nelson Supplies?”
I stood watching her settle in. “Yes, they sent a quote. It’s higher than the other one we got, but some of their inventory is higher quality, and they ship faster. They also have smaller minimums. I think it might be worth the trade-off.”
“You’ll have to fill out a PPI form,” Helen said.
“What’s a PPI form?”
Helen swiveled in her chair and looked at me. Behind her, her computer screen came on as it booted up. “How long have you worked here? You don’t know what a PPI form is? It’s a form that documents why you’re choosing one vendor over another. The form comes to me, and I assess it. Then I fill out a TT-77 form, and attach it to the PPI form, and—What’s the matter with you?”
I wasn’t listening. I was staring past her at her computer screen. “What… What is that?”
“What is what? Oh.” Helen followed my gaze.
On her computer screen, set as her desktop photo, was a picture of Helen. She was at a restaurant somewhere with palm trees in the background. She was taking a selfie and smiling.
Beside her in the photo, also smiling, was Holden.
It was so strange, seeing Holden and Helen together, that at first my brain couldn’t process it. How did they even know each other? How was that possible? Why was that photo on my boss’s computer desktop? Was I dreaming this?
“What…” I couldn’t make myself say anything else.
Helen smiled, the smug smile she had when she thought she’d won something. “Isn’t he gorgeous? His name is Holden, and he’s an EMT. That photo is from our first date.”
“Your first date?”
“Yes, just a few weeks ago.”
A few weeks ago? While Holden was dating me? “Let me get this straight,” I said. I pointed to the photo. “You’re dating that guy?”
“Well, you know.” Helen shrugged. “It isn’t as serious as I’d like it to be, but it’s definitely getting there.”
My feet moved before my brain could think. I backed out of Helen’s cubicle and walked down the hall.
“Hey,” Helen called after me. “Where are you going?”
I kept walking. My feet were numb in my heels. My whole body was numb, actually. How was it possible that Holden was cheating on me? I didn’t even want to think the word. The idea had never crossed my mind.
How was it possible that he was cheating on me with Helen?
Helen poked her head into the hallway, calling after me again. “Mina, if you’re taking an unscheduled break, I’m going to have to write this into your file.”
“I’m going to have to tell you to fuck off,” I said. I was barely aware I was saying the words.
“Excuse me?”
I didn’t answer her. I just kept walking. There was a door in front of me—a stairwell. I banged through the door and walked up a flight of stairs. Then I left the stairwell and walked down another hallway, and another. People were passing me, looking at me. Peeking over their cubicles at me. Why the hell was there no privacy in any of these hellish offices? Why did you have to live your whole life with all of your coworkers staring at you all the time? Were they trying to make it some modern version of hell? I needed a few seconds alone, with no one looking, and there was nowhere to freaking go.
Finally I found the door to the bathroom and went through it. Luckily there was no one else inside. I walked straight into a cubicle, closed the door, and leaned against the wall, shaking.
I should call Holden. Ask him what the hell that photo meant. Ask him what the hell was going on.
Maybe there was an explanation.
Then again, maybe I was an idiot when it came to Holden Whittaker. Again.
My stomach turned. I was eighteen again, wearing the beautiful dress, red as roses, that I’d bought for prom. My hair was up and I’d spent an hour on my makeup. I had my mom’s diamond earrings, her most precious possessions, in my ears. I was so excited I could barely breathe, and I was waiting for Holden.
And waiting. And waiting.
While he got drunk, then went to a bar and forgot about me.
I was going to start crying—either that or throw up. My stomach heaved again and like mental vomit, all of the mean, ugly words spewed into my brain. You’re just the fat girl you’ve always been. What were you thinking? What the hell do you think he wants with you?
It didn’t make sense. It didn’t have to make sense. That’s how deep, long-buried pain works: it takes over and makes you stop making sense. There’s nothing but hurt in a panicked, blinding rush.
I didn’t know how long I’d been standing there, tears running down my face as I tried to breathe, when the bathroom door opened and I heard footsteps. I tried to swallow my sobs but they still came out, echoing loudly in the empty room.
The footsteps paused, then came toward my cubicle. I looked down in horror and saw a man’s shoes. Expensive, perfectly shined men’s shoes.
A man’s throat cleared, and the cubicle door swung open. I stood face to face with Graham Morgan.
I stared at him in horror. He stared back, just as horrified as I was, though it was harder to read on his handsome face.
“Office Supply Person,” he said.
“What are you doing in here?” My voice came out high-pitched, panicked.
He looked around, his brow furrowed. “I think that would be obvious, since this is a men’s room.”
A men’s room? I peered past him and saw—oh, God, urinals. In my haze I had ducked into a freaking men’s room to cry.
And now the CEO of the company had caught me here, right before he did his business at the urinal. My humiliation was complete.
I tried to apologize, but all I managed was a strangled, sad sound.
Mr. Morgan leaned against the cubicle doorway. “What’s the problem?”
“You really don’t want to know.”
“You know what? I think I do. But I’d rather not discuss it over a toilet. Come into my office.”
“Mr. Morgan—”
“Do it.” The arrogant asshole was back.
Obediently, I followed him out of the men’s room and around the corner to his office. “I’m not to be disturbed,” he said to his secretary—not Eliza, because she’d quit—as he closed the door.
It was a nice office. Of course it was. Big and intimidating and gorgeous, with a desk covered in very important papers. I caught a glimpse of a stack of newspapers on a credenza, the top one opened to an Ask Ida column. Soraya’s column.
I sank into a chair and squeezed my hands between my knees. “Do you have a Kleenex?” I asked Mr. Morgan.
No, he didn’t. He had a freaking handkerchief in the inside breast pocket of his suit, and he withdrew it and handed it to me. “Keep it,” he said. Then he dropped into his office chair and steepled his fingers like we were having a high-level meeting. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
I mopped at the mascara running beneath my eyes. “Honestly, Mr. Morgan, it’s so stupid. It’s just my silly love life.”