But as much as I try to stop them, tears escape, and I feel them trail down my face to my chin. I quickly grab a tissue and start dabbing.
It was one thing when Grace Is Amazing was sending me emails. Just me. I could handle it; I can handle it. I picture her sad, with terrible bangs, and living with her cats. I just file her away as something that can’t really hurt me. They’re just words, after all.
But I see now, she can hurt me. More than I thought possible.
She sent the email to Henry. Henry—of all people. I know I told him about my mom and how her words affect me. I know what he said about my appearance. But that was a story I told him, a narrative about myself. Those words came from me. They were a part of me that I allowed him to see.
What Grace Is Amazing sent were her words. I don’t want him to see this. I don’t want anyone to see the things people say about me. If I keep them to myself, if no one else sees it, then it’s not real to them. Because when they do see them, they become words that are attached to me.
You’re too fat for television.
You don’t look the part.
Running, leaving work right now and never coming back feels like something I could actually do. And I’ve never thought of myself as someone who runs away from things. In fact, I’ve overstayed my welcome for quite a few things in life.
But I’ll leave everyone hanging if I ditch right now. As much as I want to, I can’t. I have to suck it up. I have to stop the tears and get myself together.
I make a quick run to the bathroom and pat some cold water on my face. Then I go to our makeup room and do a quick redo. My eyes look a little bloodshot, but it will have to do.
~*~
“Can I have a word, Quinn?” Henry’s voice says from behind me. Brady and I are at my desk, looking at a YouTube video that thankfully does not have me in it.
I swivel my chair around to Henry and say, “Yes. Bananas.”
He scrunches his brow in confusion.
“You asked for a word?” I smile brightly, looking over at Brady, who lets out a little snort-laugh.
Henry doesn’t smile back.
I’ve moved to the denial phase of the email from Grace Is Not So Amazing. I’m treating it like a toddler who closes her eyes thinking no one can see her. If I pretend like it doesn’t exist, then it didn’t really happen.
It’s how I made it through the newscast. Anytime my brain would go there, I’d focus on something else. Like the way my co-anchor Parker’s breath smelled . . . which was not good. Or the way I can see particles of dust floating in the air as they pass through the bright studio lighting. Dust can be very fascinating when you need it to be.
“Is it about that Grace Is Amazing lady?” I say, adding in a quick eye roll to show how little I care. If I don’t care, then maybe Henry won’t care.
“I . . .” Henry stops himself, his brow scrunched. “That’s . . . no.”
Crap. He hasn’t even seen the email, and now I’ve brought it up. Maybe he’s one of those executives who doesn’t read every one of his emails and therefore would have never seen it. You idiot, Quinn!
“You read it?” he asks, his brow scrunching even further.
“Well,” I look to Brady and then back at Henry. “Yeah, of course.”
“How did it get to you? Do you know her? Does she have your personal email?” Henry asks.
I tilt my head, confused. “No, I don’t know her.”
“Then why did you get her email?”
“Because . . . it came to me,” I say, my words coming out in a flat tone. Does Henry not understand how emails work? Is that not a thing in the UK? Because I’m pretty sure it is. Unless they magic their messages to one another, in which case, I’m moving to London.
“Excuse me,” Henry says to Brady, who’s currently leaning on my desk next to me. With a dip of his chin, Brady steps out of my cubicle, and Henry moves in.
“May I?” Henry asks, gesturing toward my computer. I nod before I realize what he’s going to do.
He grabs my mouse and clicks on the email icon on my computer. He clicks on the search box and types in “Grace.” Hundreds of emails start to populate. I hadn’t realized there were so many.
“How long have you been getting emails from her?” Henry asks as he watches the list get longer and longer.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Around the time I started, I guess.”
“And you’ve read them all,” he says as he continues to scroll, seeing the proof on the screen; not one email is left highlighted. All have been opened and filed away in my brain for a rainy day. And not-so-rainy days, too.
“Well, sure,” I say, adding a false positive ring to my tone. “It’s part of the job.”
Henry scrunches his face again. “Reading nasty emails from old hags is part of your job?” He looks appalled by the notion.
“Who’s getting nasty emails?” Moriarty says as she approaches the cubicle.
Fantastic. Just what I need. Why not get a bullhorn and tell the whole station?
“Have you heard of Grace Is Amazing?” Henry asks Moriarty as she practically sashays our way. She’s wearing a black skirt and matching black tailored jacket. Her red lips pulled up into her signature fake devil smile.
Her eyes go wide when she hears the name. “Well . . . of course,” she says, her face relaxing. “Grace has been gracing us with her presence for years.” She gives Henry a wink. “I didn’t think she’d bother with midday, though.” She gives us a very perplexed expression.
I cringe at her jab, and her wink, and her stupid pun.
“Jess,” Henry says over his shoulder, calling out for one of the interns. Jess’s head pops up three cubicles away.
“Yes?” she asks, her ponytail swinging behind her.
Henry motions with his head for her to join us, which she does. Oh, fun. More people.
“Hi, Jess,” Henry says as she approaches.
The girl’s got stars in her eyes when she looks up at Henry, and despite my embarrassment by the crowd assembling by my desk, I can’t say I blame her. Henry’s quite dashing today in the white button-down and dark faded jeans.
“Can you take on filtering Quinn’s emails for her?”
Jess nods her head once, looking at me. “Of course,” she says brightly.
“Wait,” I say, confused. “Jess doesn’t have to do that.”
A brief look of hurt crosses Jess’s face as she pushes her glasses up her nose. “But I do it for most of the staff.”
“Yes,” Moriarty says with a condescending laugh. “Of course we don’t read our own emails. I don’t even read the good ones myself. There are so many it would be hard to do. I need two interns to help with that.” She bats her eyes at me, tilting her head to the side.
I ignore her, my eyes traveling from Jess to Henry. Brady is still standing just to the side of my cubicle, watching the whole scene.
“So this isn’t part of my job?” I ask Henry. I feel so confused right now. Like maybe I’m having one of those weird dreams that feels so real but you know it can’t be.
Henry shakes his head, the starched collar of his shirt staying put as his neck moves. “It’s part of the job, but not the part you should have to be dealing with. Jess here will send you only the good ones or the ones you need reply to. Okay?” he says to Jess, who’s back to her almost trancelike, starry-eyed stare.