Page 2 of I Hope This Email Finds You in Hell

“Stomach of steel,” I boast. A lie, given I don’t even drink tequila and wouldn’t put money down on it not coming back up if I did. It’s admirable if I consume more than two cups of water most days, even with a full water jug.

Before we can dig into the conversation further, I toss my empty paper cup into the trash and turn back toward my desk.

I only make it a few steps away when he clears his throat. “Oh, and, uh, also, the water jug is out. Might be nice to replace that so you won’t need to worry about it Monday.”

He ambles back to his desk and I try not to throw the finger at his retreating form. When I signed on for this job, I didn’t realize it’d make me into the office pleb.

As I haul a fresh water jug out from the storage closet, I brighten marginally to see Debra is awake again, her open inbox reflected in her glasses. After getting my workout for the week while switching out the jugs, I sprint back to my desk to see an email from her in my otherwise empty inbox.

The report is attached…

That’s all she wrote. If this were our first rodeo, the foreboding ellipses might be cause for concern. But after weeks of this cat-and-mouse dance, I’m immune to Debra’s lack of email etiquette, though she usually adds a closer. Like me, she uses Best, but unlike me, she doesn’t do an anxiety double scan, so more than once I’ve received a response with the signature:

Bet,

Debra

I really can’t blame her, because if I was seventysomething and working at the same company I’d started off at as a twenty-seven-year-old receptionist, I wouldn’t give a shit, either.

Then again, I have zero plans to still be here forty years from now.

I fire off a quick Thanks!, print the pages, and staple one set for Luke. Just in time for the little hand on the clock above the door to click over to four.

Ted and the rest of the Sales team are out the door first, as usual. Everyone else files out after, chatting about weekend plans and the impending holiday. Eight AM and four PM are Acknowledge Brie Hours, where I get a stream of hellos and goodbyes from people I barely communicate with aside from during full staff meetings, when someone has a birthday—I was bullied into joining the birthday committee as a newbie—or, apparently, when the water jug needs to be swapped out for a new one.

“Hey, angel, ready to go?”

And then there’s Krystal Santiago.

“Almost,” I say, shrugging my coat on as Krystal leans against my desk. The fluorescent lights don’t make her look half as sickly as me, though whether that’s due to her glowy light brown skin; the ten-step skincare routine she swears by like it’s the Bible; or the hummingbird, glass-half-full energy she radiates, I don’t know. Before moving to Tarrentown, Pennsylvania, I had never met anyone who smiled as much as Krystal, except my dad. Maybe that’s why she’s the only one I let weasel in. As painful as his memory is, I’m greedy for any scraps to feed it so he doesn’t disappear.

I hold up the report, flashing her a smile. Not the fake kind I used on Ted, but a real one. “Just gotta drop this off in Luke’s office.”

Her freshly waxed brows pop up. “How much coaxing did Debs take this week?”

“Only my soul and the blood of my firstborn,” I reply.

“She’s been exceptionally forgetful lately,” Krystal comments. “She never used to give you this much of a hassle.”

“Lucky me.” I round the curve of my desk and knock on Luke’s closed office door. He doesn’t answer, which I expected since I can see it’s empty through the open blinds. Normally, I wouldn’t barge in, but it seems safe to leave it on his desk since he told me to in his note.

His office looks as drab as every other time I’ve been in here in the month since he started. Nothing but a WORLD’S BEST BOSS mug of pens on the intricate rosewood desk, a few books on the shelf to the right, and a plaque that the old boss got him that reads LUKE D’ANGELO. No wall decorations or photos of a partner or kids. Or any family at all. Luke has yet to lay down roots.

That makes two of us.

My gaze catches on a sizable brown paper bag tucked behind his desk. It sits on top of a huge book with a cracked leather spine. There’s faded gold lettering across it, but even with my contacts in, I can’t make out what it says. I plant my palms on his desk to lean closer so I can read it—

“Do you need something?”

I spin to face my boss in the doorway. Except, he’s not in the doorway—he’s here. Right behind me here. So close that my shoulder smacks into his and I reel back from the collision. But then there’s his desk, and there’s nowhere to go as the backs of my thighs bump against it and I fall backward, planting both butt cheeks on it as my balance vanishes with my dignity.

Hands grab my arms to steady me before I fully topple over. The world stops moving, my balance returns from war, and I stare at a silk eggplant-colored tie because I can’t let my mortified gaze meet the eyes of the man whose desk I was just bent over.

“You scared me!” I burst out.

“It is my office.” If my ears squint, they might detect a hint of wryness in Luke’s usually even tone. His hands leave my arms and he backs up so I can hop off his desk. “Do you need something?”

The repeated question isn’t accusatory, but I still feel like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t. Which, yeah, it probably looked that way, when in reality I was just being nosy.