Page 2 of I Hope This Finds You Well

And at the end of the table is a guy I don’t recognize—a guy who is openly sketching a small doodle onto a faded yellow legal pad. Beneath his trimmed beard I can see the beginning of a smirk. He’s wearing a hoodie that saysWarhammer,which would not be my weapon of choice in a war. The sleeves are pushed up, and I take the obligatory tenth of a second to appreciate his forearm flexing, as is my right.

I glance back toward the open door, but Rhonda isn’t trotting in behind me balancing a cake against her bosom. There aren’t even discount decorations in here—no wispy paper streamers absently taped under the buzzing light fixture or silvery birthday sign that is well past retirement. I take another tentative step inside the room, visibly stirring up the dust in the stiff air.

My mouth dries and my brain starts to swim. Just three hours ago, the office stress case, Larry Goodwin, was all sweat sheened and breathy in the copy room as he warned some guy in payroll that massive layoffs were on the horizon.

But I shrugged it off.

The doodling man lets his pen fall onto the notepad and he grinsuncertainly at me. I don’t know why they decided to invite a high school gym coach to help fire me—unless the goal is maximum shame? Maybe he’ll yell at me about my three-croissant lunches and have me attempt a push-up.

“Please have a seat.” Gregory’s voice is stern, absent of its usual shameless bubble.

My heartbeat jumps into high gear as I plonk into a seat across the table from the three of them.

Gregory broadens his shoulders in this showy way before speaking. “We wanted to discuss a concern that was brought to our attention.” He scrapes a single piece of paper across the plastic-top table, driven by his callused fingers. Caitlin’s pink cursive email signature flashes from the bottom corner.

My heart stops.

Gregory continues: “I’m sure you’re aware of our corporate policies about interpersonal communication.”

I nod, realizing my neck has gone stiff. A shuffling motion to my right distracts my attention. The gym coach is writing something down on his pad.

“Did you include additional text in your April seventeenth email to Caitlin Joffrey?”

Three sets of eyes bore into me as realization dawns. I try to think of what to say, but my mind can only race through random thoughts that blur together, garbled and incomplete.

“So no cake is coming” is what ends up coming out of my mouth. They glance at each other in confusion. “Never mind,” I mutter, as I look down at the paper in front of me. My heartbeat overtakes the sound of Gregory’s mouth breathing.

Hello Caitlin,

Per my last email, reports are due Wednesday.

Regards,

Jolene

We always choose the most violent form of business casual communication with each other.

Gregory leans across the table to tap his finger on the page. “Right there, can you please review the additional text on the bottom?”

I blink rapidly as the words come into focus.

P.S. What is wrong with you? You’re eating that puke soup to deliberately torture us, and you left a trail of destruction from the microwave to your desk.

Sincerely,

Everyone

Admittedly, when I scribed it, I was having a particularly shit day and Caitlin had been getting to me all morning. But she was the one with the gall to microwave an actual bowl of fish vomit and slurp it in front of us with no regard for the fact that I was nursing a hangover. Writing that note was the only form of therapy I could afford.

All the joints in my fingers stiffen.

All I can think up as a defense is “I don’t understand how that got there?”

Except I do. I messed up bad.

Until now, I’ve never forgotten to change the font color to white before hitting send.

The gym coach’s mouth twitches again before he turns his gaze to the window. I’m here dealing with an actual nightmare, and this guy has the audacity to laugh.