Natalie, my best friend from college, called while I was staring at the ceiling, phone face-down on my chest, letting it ring once before answering.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey, stranger,” she said. “You sound… intact.”
“I am intact.”
“That’s not the same as good.”
I smiled at that. Natalie always knew where to land.
We talked about nothing first—her new house in Applewood Heights, the bakery downstairs that smelled like butter all day, the dog she still hadn’t adopted but talked about like it already lived with her. Then she paused.
“So,” she said carefully. “You and Jack.”
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
She didn’t push. Natalie never did. She let silence do the work.
“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I know you loved him.”
“I did,” I said. “I still do. Just not in a way that works.”
“That’s the worst kind,” she said.
“Yeah.”
Another pause.
“And the lawsuit?” she asked. “How… is that?”
I laughed. Not because it was funny.
“It’s educational.”
“Uh-oh.”
“You know how the article says I was ostracized?”
“Yes. I read it.”
“Well. People read it.”
“And?”
“And then they do the opposite. Loudly. Poorly.”
She sighed. “Give me an example.”
I rolled onto my side, watching a dust particle float in the sunlight.
“So my table will make plans to go to lunch,” I said. “They’ll stand up, grab their jackets, walk toward the door. And then—literally with their hand on the knob—someone will turn around and go, ‘Oh! Smith! Want to come to lunch with us?’”
Natalie was quiet.
“And?” she said.
“And I say no,” I said. “Because I wasn’t invited. I was audited.”
“Jesus.”
“They don’t want me there,” I continued. “They just want plausible deniability.”
“That’s not inclusion,” she said.
“No,” I said. “It’s performance.”
She let out a short, angry laugh. “Clowns.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Clown behavior.”
I told her about the desk visits.
“They come by and talk to me like I’m… fragile,” I said. “High-pitched voice. Slow sentences. Big smiles. Like I’m a rescue animal.”
Natalie made a noise I recognized—pure disgust.
“Do they think they’re helping?”
“They think they’re being watched.”
“That’s worse.”
“It is,” I said. “Because it means they know. And they still choose that.”
“Have you said anything?”
“No,” I said. “That’s the best part.”
“How so?”
“Because when you don’t react, the act collapses,” I said. “They need feedback. Confusion. Gratitude. Anger. Something.”
“And you give them nothing.”
“I give them professionalism,” I said. “Which terrifies them.” I laughed.
“You’re laughing?” she asked.
“I can’t stop,” I said. “It’s like they’re sitting there together, highlighters in hand, going through the article line by line.”
She snorted.
“Seriously,” I said. “Page three: ‘ostracized.’ Okay—invite her to lunch at the exact moment we’re already leaving.”
“Oh my God.”
“Page four: ‘patronizing tone.’ Great—talk to her like she’s five.”
Natalie laughed then. Hard.
“I swear,” I said, “if they had clipboards it would be performance art. I half expect someone to yell, ‘Nailed it!’ after.”
“That’s insane.”
“It’s ridiculous,” I said. “I’m standing there thinking, this isn’t even harassment anymore. This is bad theater.”
“And you just watch.”
“I watch,” I said.
A beat.
“You always did have a sense of humor about the darkest things,” Natalie said.
“I think it’s the only way to survive without becoming mean,” I said.
Natalie exhaled.
“So what do you do tomorrow?”
I smiled, staring at my empty desk.
“I show up,” I said. “They need an audience. I don’t.”
Natalie laughed, then stopped herself.
“So basically,” she said, “every day at Bridgeview PD is a new episode of How Not to Behave.”
I looked out over Maplethorn Hill, the street quiet, unchanged.
“Daily comedy,” I said. “Matinee and evening shows.”
“Well,” I said, after a beat, “enough about the clowns at Northstone. How’s Dan?”
Natalie laughed. “He’s fine. He’s working on a new film—just started pre-production.”
“Good,” I said.
“Honestly,” she added, “maybe he should make a film about the people in your office.”
“A documentary?”
“No,” she said. “A comedy.”
