My shirt rips. I didn’t even feel the nail poking me this time.

What is wrong with me? What is wrong with today?

Mark is talking. I don’t have to listen to know what he’s saying.

It’s the same one-sided conversation, made even more so because I don’t think I could speak up if I tried.

“I know she’s only worked here for a few months, but she seems to like you, so I just thought you might have some inside intel.”

Without a word in response, I straighten my clothes and leave him in the closet.

And then, I’m back at my desk, staring at the gray stapler set precisely in the corner.

“Hey, are you okay?” Presley.

I meet her worried gaze. “I’m not sure.”

“How did it go?”

I stare at her for a few long seconds and then step to the side, toward the exit.

“Wait, do you want to talk about it? We could take an early lunch.”

My head shakes slowly. “Maybe tomorrow.” My gaze tips down to the hole in my nicest shirt. “I should have been prepared for this,” I mutter.

“Prepared for what?”

My head snaps up. “Nothing.”

Outside, as I walk briskly away from the office, it happens again. Footsteps behind me.

I turn around before he speaks.

Alex stops a few feet away, concern scrawled across his face. “Hey, Jane. You okay?”

“I . . . I’m fine.” I’m not fine. I cross my arms over my chest to hide the tear in my shirt. I need to get out of here. Run. Hide. My shock is wearing off and my brain is screaming danger, danger.

“How did it go?”

“Um. It was fine. Just fine.”

“Are you all right? Are you not feeling well, is that why you’re leaving?” He glances back at the building behind us. “You never take time off.”

“It’s nothing I . . . yes, I might be coming down with something.” I look away from his concerned gaze. It’s almost too much to take after what I just did with Mark in the closet. Again!

I don’t deserve sympathy. I deserve everything this horrible day has thrown at me. Twice.

“Do you need a ride?”

“No. No thanks. Bye, Alex.”

There’s no wandering the piers for me today. I take the next available train home.

This time, I’m not drinking.

Instead, I stress clean, scrubbing my frustrations out on my bathtub, the grout in the kitchen tiles, even the baseboards while my mind tries to make sense of everything that happened today. Yesterday. Whatever. When I’m done, I’m hot and sweaty and starving, and I still have no idea what the heck is going on with my life. I order delivery from the Elephant Bar down the street, too scared to leave my apartment again. It’s a jungle out there.