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Andi smirked and tapped her temple. “Sorry. Horror writer and true-crime podcaster. Everyone is a serial killer until proven otherwise.” She put her forearms on the counter and leaned closer. “But seriously, watch out for coffee-shop guy. Could have bodies in the freezer.”
“Ha.” Hollyn nodded. “Got it.”
“Do you want to walk over together? Safety in numbers?” Andi asked, stepping around from behind the bar. “If he tells us to smile, we can both give him our best resting bitch face.”
Hollyn’s cheek muscle jumped against her will, her tics surfacing with a vengeance when she had to interact with strangers. She didn’t have resting bitch face. She had resting twitch face. But either way, she wasn’t going to walk over with Andi. Yes, she was supposed to be here to push past her comfort zone (I hear you, Mary Leigh!), but she already felt like she was walking barefoot on thumbtacks today. “Um, sorry. I really need to get to my desk. Maybe next time.”
“Wow. You’re going to go without coffee?” Andi asked, blue eyes wide. “Brave woman.”
“I have a Vitamin Water,” Hollyn said, awkwardly patting her bag, which clearly had no room for a bottled drink.
Andi tilted her head, her dark-red ponytail tipping sideways, like she was trying to figure Hollyn out.
Good luck with that, Hollyn wanted to tell her.
“What’s your poison?” Andi asked. “I’m going over there anyway, and I can grab you something. I’ll get Lucinda to reimburse us for the coffee. We pay rent here and are guaranteed two free drinks. If she doesn’t have a barista, we get an IOU.” She pinned Hollyn with eye contact, trapping her.
“I, uh…”
“Café au lait, chicory coffee, cappuccino, mocha, latte, cold brew, black tea, green tea, matcha…”
Andi was going to keep listing until Hollyn gave in. “Iced decaf, whole milk, one sugar.”
Andi’s eyebrows lifted. “Decaf? Actual people order that?”
Hollyn’s ears burned. This was why she’d picked up a coffee habit in the first place—because “normal” people drink coffee and not drinking it causes others to comment. But too much caffeine was a big no-no for her, so decaf was her only option. “I had to quit the hard stuff. It messes with my sleep.”
“Ah, gotcha. My condolences,” Andi said with a smile that made the little ring in her nose glint in the sunlight streaming in through the windows. “I’ll bring your imposter coffee to your office.”
Hollyn knew it was shitty to let Andi fetch coffee for her. But walking over meant more conversation, and she was already sweating and restless under Andi’s observant gaze. So, Hollyn nodded and pulled a five-dollar bill from her purse. “Thank you.”
“Not a problem,” Andi said in a way that made Hollyn think she really didn’t see it as one. Andi plucked the money from her fingertips. “But if I’m not back in half an hour, call the police and tell them to look at coffee-shop guy first.”
Hollyn’s lips twitched into a brief smile. “Okay. Don’t die.”
“Yes. Always the number one daily goal.” Andi gave a little wave and headed to the main door, greeting people as she passed them, totally comfortable. The envy that welled up in Hollyn became a physical taste on her tongue. What must that be like? To move through life so at ease? To wear your personality on the outside? She shook her head and walked past the coffee bar to the stairs that led to her floor.
Movie-version Hollyn would be friends with a woman like Andi. Movie Hollyn would know what to say and would be able to keep up with the rapid-fire conversation. Movie Hollyn would also go upstairs and create a chance meeting with Rodrigo, the superbuff fitness vlogger who worked down the hall. But there were no cameras, no script, and Real Hollyn just wanted to hide in her office, close her door, and get her work done.
The second floor was mostly quiet when she stepped out of the stairwell. A few people had their office doors ajar, but all the glass-walled conference rooms were either dark or had closed doors, soundproofing them. One of the two podcasting studios was active, the light above the door illuminated, and both video recording spaces were occupied. Through the crack in the door, she could see Emily Vu, a productivity blogger, adjusting the lights inside to shoot a video. Hollyn shuddered. She’d feel like she was in an interrogation room under all those lights.
Hollyn’s office was the last at the end of the hall of glass-walled rooms. The space was small but bright, with a big window that gave her a sliver of a view between buildings of the Crescent City Connection bridge. The soft yellow on the one solid wall was soothing, and the mid-century modern desk was so much nicer than anything she’d ever owned that she couldn’t help but run her hand over the smooth walnut every time she came in for the day.
When she’d first seen the space, she’d nearly swooned. Anytime she got knots in her stomach about coming to WorkAround, she’d think about this cozy office with its pretty desk, its city view, and its cushy armchair in the corner. It was the office space she’d fantasized about when she’d worked from the beat-up thrift-store table in her mother’s house. The only change she would make would be doing away with the two glass walls.
The wall she shared with her neighbor was frosted, but the one facing the hallway was not. If she weren’t at the end of the hall, she’d feel like a hamster in a cage. But no one came down to her end unless they wanted to go out through the back staircase to smoke or vape, and she kept her back to the door most of the time anyway. She smiled. Andi would probably tell her to never put her back to a door. Can’t see the serial killer coming that way.
Hollyn flipped on her desk lamp and fired up her laptop, wishing she had a hot cup of coffee in her hand. She liked the ritual of sipping it slowly while she went through her email each morning, but the half-empty, lukewarm bottle of water she’d left behind the other day would have to do for now. She got settled at her desk and opened up her inbox.
Something loosened in her body. Outside these doors, she felt like an alien trying to learn the native language. But in here, at her desk, she got to be herself.
Her computer dinged with new mail. There was one nastygram from someone who didn’t like her review of their “experimental pop funk” band. She rolled her eyes at the invective.Get over it, man. The only experimental part was picking a lead singer who was tone deaf and who couldn’t stop grabbing his crotch.Two requests for dates.No, thank you, overeager strangers.A forwarded article from her mother about a new supplement she should try.Delete.And finally one with a subject line promising aonce-in-a-lifetimeoffer.She hovered over the last email, placing silent bets before clicking it. Would it be an offer to refinance her mortgage, a secret bank account in the Bahamas, or a dick pic? She rolled the mental dice and clicked.
And we have a winner!
The screen filled with a high-definition close-up GIF of a dude inserting his penis into the toe of a black high-heeled shoe, the clip looping to give the full thrusting effect. She snorted and then tilted her head, studying the image. Since her entertainment column on the NOLA Vibe site had taken off in popularity, she received these kinds of emails often enough that she’d started to categorize them. Frat boy who drank too much and made bad choices? Lonely soul? Potential stalker?
Miz Poppy, the moniker she used for her reviews of movies and local entertainment, got the gamut in her inbox. Hollyn was amazed by the assumptions people made about a person based on their cartoon avatar. The red lips, long dark hair, and tight black outfit of her cartoon alter ego got more date requests in one week than she’d gotten in her entire life. If she could live life in a cartoon world, she’d bekillingit. But alas, Miz Poppy only existed in the imagination of her readers. If they knew Miz Poppy was really some chick with unruly blond curls, an even more unruly anxiety disorder, and a penchant for high-top Vans instead of high heels, they’d be vastly disappointed.
