Page 1 of Dear Hattie

One

Hattie

It’s ten AM on a Monday morning, and I’m sprawled in the office ball pit. With my skirt tucked carefully between my thighs, I’m buried in bright plastic balls, staring up at the skylight high, high above. It’s raining.

Everything is open plan in this godforsaken building, so everyone can see me losing my mind in here.

I don’t care.

I miss Simone.

Besides, dignity is overrated before lunch on Mondays. And if our corporate overlords didn’t want us to play in the ball pit, they shouldn’t have replaced the lobby water feature with this monstrosity. Right?

More weird looks from passers-by. A bark of laughter, somewhere across the lobby. The rain drums on the skylight, and I’m shivery beneath my blouse.

Whatever.

The Pretzel Media complex is already echoey as hell, what with all the sparkly white floor tiles and high, industrial ceilings. Classic start-up chic. But sounds are extra warped from my spot in the ball pit, and even as people whisper about me as they walk past, it sounds weird. Like they’re far, far away, and I’m listening through a long cardboard tube.

Is that Harriet Fry?

Should we call a doctor?

Who’s her emergency contact—that Simone girl?

I groan, scooping more brightly colored plastic balls on top of my torso. Want to bury myself alive. Want to wake up tomorrow and start over.

I’m not usually like this, for the record. Usually I march through the Pretzel building with military discipline, my Dear Hattie notebook clasped at my side, a dozen half-written columns rattling around my brain. I’m put together. Neat and reliable, with a can-do attitude.

But something broke in me when I walked up to my work pod this morning and saw Simone’s empty chair in the pod next to mine. A crack splintered right down the center of my chest, and I swayed on my feet, and I couldn’t stay near that empty chair for another second. I just couldn’t.

So… here I am.

Publicly wallowing in plastic.

Mentally composing an email requesting a new work pod—one that doesn’t fill me with crippling existential dread. Is that a valid HR concern?

It’s fine. Ten more minutes, then I’ll thrash my way back out of the pit, send that email, and pretend none of this ever happened. Maybe I can work in the break-out area until I’m reassigned.

“Well, well, well. What have we here?”

Cradled by hundreds of plastic balls, my whole body goes tense. I’d know that voice anywhere. I hear it in my freaking dreams—but only the bad ones, obviously.

Summoning up my iciest demeanor, I glance up at the man looming over the pit. And at over six feet tall, he really does loom. “Not now, Wesley. I’m busy.”

High up at that altitude, his mouth crooks up. “Clearly.”

As always, once I’m looking at him, it’s hard to look away. Like the skylight: Wesley Tanaka is hypnotic. It’s those cut cheekbones; those searching toffee-brown eyes; his ruffled black hair that justbegsto be gripped, twisted, yanked. Wesley always looks like pure sin. Like a bad decision custom designed just for me.

It’s rude. No one should look that delicious, yet be so obnoxious. But that’s the way of the world, isn’t it? Pretty people don’t need real personalities. They get by with the power of their flawless skin and straight teeth.

“I’m holding a meeting,” I tell Wesley, waving him away.

His grin widens, and I ignore the flare of triumph in my chest. Making Wesley Tanaka smile isnoton my To Do list for today—or any day. He is my nemesis.Archnemesis.

“Am I invited?” Wesley props one knee on the edge of the ball pit, like he really would crawl in here with me. Like he’d get horizontal by my side, his face inches from mine…

Without warning, a blush scorches over my whole body, rushing over my skin beneath my clothes.

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