Apparently, I am not allowed to eat lunch in my car today.
Everyone has to meet in the staff room.
This is unacceptable.
The staff room smells like burnt coffee, microwaved fish, and stress. Lydia—the manager—is pacing. Too fast. Too tight. Like if she’ll explode if she stops moving.
I open my mouth.
Haley immediately clamps a hand over it.
I stop.
I process this.
I do not like being touched.
However—after careful consideration—I am grateful she prevented me from speaking.
Still. Hand. Face. Excessive.
Lydia clears her throat.
“I’ve received a call concerning our office,” she says.
Luis leans toward me and whispers, “There’s another therapy office down the road. We’ve been in competition with them for years.”
“They’d do anything to shut us down,” Haley adds under her breath.
Oh.
That explains the pacing.
Lydia continues. “There’s been a complaint. Anonymous.”
The room fills with murmurs.
Karen crosses her arms.
She looks pleased.
That is not ideal.
“The board has decided to send someone in,” Lydia says. “An inspector.”
Silence.
My stomach drops.
Inspector.
That is… a word.
A heavy word. With consequences.
I stare at the table.
Is this the falling action of my life story?
Is this the part where everything collapses and the narrator says, and this is where it all went wrong?
Also I just noticed the Florida shaped coffee stain on the table.
“When will the inspection take place?” Robert asks.
“Tomorrow,” Lydia replies.
“Oh,” Karen says quietly.
Her smug smile is gone.
Interesting.
Then reality catches up.
Tomorrow.
That is extremely soon.
This is bad.
Very bad.
Lydia folds her hands. “We’ll need everyone on their best behavior.”
Karen’s eyes flick to me.
I feel it like static.
“This means credentials, procedures, conduct,” Lydia adds. “No mistakes.”
I swallow.
I do not have credentials.
I have a book.92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJPIC5pmL2C
And a pen that says You’ve got this!, which has lied to me before.
The meeting breaks. People shuffle out, whispering. Haley gives me a tight smile.
“We’ll figure something out,” she says.
That is a comfort phrase. It means we are doomed but polite about it.
I walk back to my office and shut the door.
I should probably call out sick.
Or finally announce that I am a fraud.
I am genuinely surprised Lydia hasn’t noticed yet.
I have dark circles under my eyes. My hair looks like it’s never met a brush. My nails are chewed down to the nub. There is a visible scratch on my nose from when my cat decided to choose violence as a greeting.
I look bad.
I look like I crawled out of bed and immediately made poor life choices.
This is confusing.
I stare at my reflection in the black surface of my computer monitor. My face stares back. Tired. Flat. Unremarkable.
Not exactly “licensed mental health professional.”
But also not “criminal mastermind,” which is apparently what I am.
Maybe this is just what real therapists look like.
Maybe the secret is that everyone here is pretending and no one has noticed because we’re all too tired to care.
I slump into my chair and rub my eyes.
If I call out sick, that’s suspicious.92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8eEmZckO78
If I confess, that’s catastrophic.92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsz4IWeJJfh
If I do nothing, that’s… what I’ve been doing.
And somehow it keeps working.
This is the worst kind of success.
Later that day.
“Alright,” I announce, grabbing my bag. “I’m heading home.”
“No you’re not!” Haley shouts from somewhere behind a filing cabinet.
“Haley,” I say patiently, “I am scheduled to leave now.”
She appears in the doorway like a force of nature. "Okay, but how about this—you come with me and Luis to my place, and we order whatever you want for dinner. I'll pay.”
I freeze.
This is a generous offer. And an extremely difficult decision.
I require time to process this.
“Can we get Italian?” I ask, carefully.
Luis lights up.
“GURL,” he says, in the gayest tone I have ever heard in my life, “I used to work at Olive Garden. If you want Italian, I can literally just make it.”
Oh.
Okay.
That is information.
Also: free food.
Free food carries significant persuasive power.
I glance at Haley.
She has that look. The one that says she has already decided something and my consent is now a formality.
I do not know Luis.
But apparently he can make homemade Olive Garden food.
And tomorrow, an inspector is coming to dismantle my life.
…Fine.
“Okay,” I say.
Haley grins. My cat is going to have a grudge on me for this.
I get in my car and follow Haley and Luis to Haley’s place.
We pull up to a building that is… aggressively expensive.
Like—millionaire expensive. The kind of place that doesn’t have visible trash cans. The kind of place where the pavement looks freshly judged.
These are apartments, technically. But for rich people.
I do not understand how Haley affords any of this.
I step out of my car and immediately feel like I should apologize for being here. My shoes make noise on the pavement.
That feels incorrect.
Luis lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Haley. Still living like a Bond villain’s wife, I see.”
Haley rolls her eyes. “It’s just an apartment.”
“It has a doorman,” I say.
That is not just an apartment.
The doorman nods at Haley.
Nods.
Like he knows her.
I freeze briefly, wondering if I should nod back. I do a small, stiff dip of my head. It comes out wrong. Too formal. Like a Victorian child.
We go inside.
The lobby is quiet in a way that costs money. Soft lighting. Marble floors. Furniture that looks like no one has ever actually sat on it.
I clutch my bag closer to my chest.
This place feels like it has rules I was not given.
The elevator ride is mercifully short. Luis hums to himself. Haley scrolls her phone.
I stare at the numbers lighting up and remind myself to breathe.
Her apartment is… large.
Too large.
There are throw pillows that look decorative instead of functional. There is art on the walls that I cannot interpret emotionally. Everything smells faintly of citrus and something expensive.
“Well,” Haley says, kicking off her shoes. “Welcome home.”
I stand near the door, unsure where to put myself.
Luis claps his hands together. “Alright! Pasta time. Jennifer, do you drink wine?”
“I drink apple juice,” I reply.
He nods immediately. “Valid.”
Luis disappears into the kitchen.
I remain stationary.
Haley grabs my arm without warning.
“Come on!” she says. “I have everything.”
I do not consent to this journey, but it is already happening.
She pulls me down the hall into a large bathroom—
Wait a minute is that a tv? She has a tv in her bathroom?!
“Sit,” Haley says.
I immediately sit.
I am scared.
But I am also curious, which is worse.
She opens cabinets. Then drawers. Then more cabinets. She pulls out brushes. Makeup. Hair clips. Hair ties. Products in bottles of varying sizes and emotional promises.
I do not recognize most of these items.
Some of them look medical.
Some of them look like they might smell too strong.
Some of them might be weapons.
I do not know how to feel about this.
“What is happening,” I ask carefully.
“Inspection tomorrow,” Haley says briskly. “You are getting a glow-up.”
“No,” I say.
“Yes.”
“I am fine the way I am,” I say.
She pauses. Looks at me.
“You have a scratch on your nose,” she says gently. “And you look like you fought a raccoon and lost.”
“That was my cat,” I reply. “And he started it.”
Haley softens.
“…Okay, fair.”
Luis appears in the doorway, takes one look at the scene, and gasps.
“Oh my god,” he says. “Is this a makeover montage?”
“There is no montage,” I say.
“There is always a montage,” he replies.
Haley snaps her fingers. “Luis, hair opinions.”
He squints at me thoughtfully. “We keep it simple. Clean. Professional. Like—‘competent but mysterious.’”
“I do not want to be mysterious,” I say. “I want to be left alone.”
Haley hands me a towel and points at the counter. “Trust me.”
I look at my reflection.
Tired. Flat. Still me.
I sigh.
“…I consent under protest,” I say.
Haley grins. Luis claps.
The TV in the bathroom turns on by itself.
This feels like the beginning of something I did not agree to.
ns216.73.216.98da2
and then Add to home screen.