Page 27 of Cava with My Colleague

I school my face not to show my doubts. Every night I’ve spent with her so far, I’ve seen Jade with a glass of wine. She’s always out later than I am—not that that is saying much—and she’s definitely not the same person I know from our office.

In my career, I’ve seen many colleagues “loosen up” while on work trips. I’ve been the butt of many jokes, people thinking that getting me drunk will solve my social problems.

“What about something to eat?” I offer as a compromise.

Jade’s hand covers her stomach and she blows out a hard breath. “No.” Her word is firm and final.

She turns, running the tap to dampen the paper towels again before placing them on the back of her neck. Her shirt is black, so it mostly hides the moisture.

She gathers her things from the counter and stuffs them back into her purse—lip gloss, her phone, and . . . is that a Polaroid? Then she mutters, and I almost ask her to repeat herself but then she says something loud enough for me to hear. “You can do this. Number three. Nine more to go.”

Jade’s giving herself a pep talk.

“Are you . . .”

Her eyes dart up to mine in the mirror.

“Do you have stage fright?” The words come out before I can modulate my tone and Jade’s gaze crackles.

“So?” Her words have a defensive edge.

“It’s just . . . you are so confident normally. And talkative. How is it that you have this fear?”

Jade peels the paper off her skin and wads it up, tossing it into the waiting bin. “What, do you think extroverts aren’t allowed to have social anxieties?”

Honestly, I haven’t given it much thought. I’m one of the most antisocial people I know, but that doesn’t mean that I have problems standing up in front of a crowd.

“Forget it. Let’s get this over with,” Jade says, not waiting for me to walk out, so I am left alone in the women’s bathroom, feeling like I’ve inadvertently pressed my thumb into a tender bruise.

I return to the presentation room, my mind still processing what just happened. Stage fright. Jade has stage fright.

The pieces start clicking together. Her pallor. The paper towel on her neck—cooling herself down. The pep talk. “Number three. Nine more to go.”

Not hungover. Panicking.

I check my watch. Two minutes until we start. I head to the side of the stage where I wait during presentations, pulling out my tablet to review my notes even though I don’t need to. I’ve done this presentation in German so many times I could recite it in my sleep.

Jade appears from the hallway, walking toward the stage with her purse. Her color is slightly better, but her jaw is set in that way I’ve come to recognize means she’s forcing herself forward through sheer willpower.

She climbs the steps without looking at me, stashing her purse and picking up the clicker. The opening slide is already on the screen behind her.

The room has filled while I was gone. A smaller crowd than before. Two hundred people, maybe a few more. All waiting.

Jade takes her position at the podium. From where I stand at the side of the stage, I can see her profile. She grips the edges of the podium, her knuckles white.

It’s time.

“Good morning,” Jade begins, and her voice is steady. Professional. “Thank you all for attending today’s presentation on advances in hair loss prevention for oncology patients.”

I step forward and begin translating, but my attention is divided. I’m watching her in a way I haven’t before.

Now that I know what to look for, I can’t unsee it.

The way she swallows hard before clicking to the next slide. The death grip on the podium that she never releases. The careful, measured breaths between sentences—not pauses for effect, but deliberate attempts to stay calm.

Her gaze never sweeps the audience the way it should. Instead, she focuses on a spot somewhere in the middle distance, above their heads. Seeing but not seeing them.

“Our clinical trials began in 2019 with a cohort of 247 participants,” she says, and clicks to the data slide.