Page 75 of My Merry Mistake
Poppy
You never know.
Text back when you get a chance!
I sit there, feeling a little paralyzed, staring at the phone in my hands. What do I say that won’t lead to more concern? More worry. More fussing. They’ll want to tell me how to spend the next four weeks. They’ll check up on me.
Why do I bristle at that? Why is it so hard for me to have others take care of me—or at the very least, be concerned about me?
What did Siri say—catch up on a project you’ve been putting off? That’s what I need—a project. Just a little one, one that I can do from my laptop. I promise myself I’ll drink tea and take breaks. It’ll be totally fine.
I open my computer and click on the Remote Desktop icon, and it auto-fills my work email. After I click Connect, I’m met with an error message.
Username and Password Do Not Match.
Weird. I try typing it out but get the same notification.
I call Jill. She answers on the first ring. “Yes!” Not a question, but almost a cheer.
“That’s the way you answer the phone?”
“Sorry, I just won the bet that you wouldn’t last twenty-four hours before checking in!”
“There’s a bet?!”
“Yep.” She calls out—I’m guessing to the rest of the people in the office—“It’s Raya! Pay up, losers!”
I hear a smattering of voices in the background, groans and yelling.
She comes back. “Sorry about that, I just had to gloat a bit.”
“Funny,” I say, unamused. “Why can’t I get into my work email?”
“Because you’re on leave,” she says.
“Right, but I have to be able to at least check in.” My pulse quickens.
“Sorry, I think they’ve pretty much banned you,” she says.
My pulse quickens. “What? Why?”
“I’m guessing because they knew you’d try to work from home,” she says. “Also, I think Brian wanted to make a point that you should listen to your boss.”
“So I don’t even have access?”
I can practically hear the shrug through the phone. “You’re not supposed to work.”
I roll my eyes. “This is so obnoxious.”
“I would be way more sympathetic if I didn’t just win a hundred and ten dollars in the pool.”
I’m simultaneously flattered that the pool is that much and angry that they bet on this at all.
“Okay, but can you get me into my email? You must have a work-around.” A wave of fatigue crashes over me. I trade the stool in favor of the oversized armchair in my living room. How am I still this tired? I slept twelve hours!
“No. I like my job, and I want to keep it,” she says. “Also, I’m under strict orders.” A pause. “They’re taking your health very seriously. New wellness initiatives and everything.”
“What am I supposed to do if I can’t check in?” I ask. “There are actual projects I’m right in the middle of.”
