Again with my name.
Like we’re people who see each other around. Like I’m not a low-level executive admin with coffee on my coat sleeve and a browser history that now includes custom witch rituals.
“See you,” I say, and immediately walk into the edge of a decorative pumpkin display.
Three tiny fake pumpkins wobble in place. One drops to the floor and rolls under a leather lobby chair.
Phillip, in his custom navy suit and his several thousand dollar watch, bends to grab it before I can.
I cannot live like this. Earth, swallow me whole, please.
“I’m fine,” I say, which no one asked.
His mouth twitches. “I know.”
“I— Okay, bye.”
The elevator doors are already closing when I reach them, and I stick my arm through the gap like a woman in an action movie, except the action movie is about a mid-thirties assistant being emotionally hunted by her boss before breakfast.
The doors bounce back open. Inside, several people stare at me, including one very put together woman with a french twist in her perfectly highlighted hair that definitely makes me feel like... I sigh.
“Morning,” I say to the elevator at large, because silence makes me panic.
Two people mumble something. The woman with the hair only gives me a small nod.
She looks like someone who has never once said something stupid to fill dead air. She probably lets silence exist, invites it in and offers it sparkling water.
I squeeze into the back corner, and the elevator rises.
Not a single person talks.
My phone buzzes again.
HELL
Now, Merryweather.
I type back with one thumb.
ME
In elevator!
Then I add a smiley face but promptly delete it. Then I add it again because without it, I sound angry. But then I delete it because with it, I sound afraid.
The elevator dings and everyone steps out, finally giving me a chance to catch my breath.
“Merryweather,” I whisper, “please pick a struggle.”
CHAPTER 4
FLORA
The rain has settled into the most predictable Pacific Northwest pattern by the time I make it home. Never enough for an umbrella, but just steady enough that my coat has soaked through the shoulders and my hair is starting to feel damp.
I unlock the front door and hear the television before the door has fully opened.
Someone is crying while someone else, presumably, yells at them. A dramatic swell of violins suggest at least one person has returned from the dead. Classic.
