Page 4 of Dear Hattie

Dear Hattie

Dear Hattie,

I’m a college student in my final year. My grades are good; I’m on a scholarship and fine for cash. Ishouldbe living the best year of my life, right?

But I spend every weekend holed up in my dorm room, doom-scrolling on my laptop or binge watching TV shows. Whenever I hear people laughing and talking in the hall outside, or passing by my window, something deep inside me aches with loneliness. IknowI should be out there, participating in real life. And yet I can’t seem to do anything about it. Why?

Whycan’t I get away from these screens?

Whydo I freeze up with dread at the thought of stepping foot into a party?

How did my life get so gray?

Help me, Hattie. You’re my only hope.

Stuck In My Screens

* * *

Dear Hattie,

Settle an argument between my mother and I: are there calories in water?

Determined Dieter

Three

Wesley

Harriet Fry avoids me for three days before I spot her slipping into a nap pod on the second floor after lunch. There are six white plastic pods altogether, each roughly the size of a double bed, with walls that seal together and shut out the outside world. When they’re closed off, from the outside they look like giant eggs.

Another hit from the beautiful minds that brought us the lobby ball pit. I suppose management thinks that if we can eat, sleep and frolic at work, we’ll never, ever need to go home again.

When I see that flash of dark blonde hair, my reaction is pure instinct. I veer off my previous path, dodging clusters of work pods and a water cooler, and slip into Harriet’s nap egg right as the walls close.

“Wesley!”

She sounds shocked. It’s dark in here, and we’re all alone.

I clear my throat, pressing my shoulders against the pod wall. “This is creepier than I intended.”

Her snort of laughter unknots the tension in my chest. At least Harriet Fry is not afraid of me. That would be… upsetting.

“Pretty sure these things are for solo naps, Tanaka.” There are some fumbling noises, then the reading light above the orange cushioned platform flicks on. Harriet folds her arms and smirks at me, her back propped against the headboard. “I’d hate to report you to HR.”

Her hair is burnished gold in the lamplight, braided over one shoulder. She’s wearing a green blouse with a fussy little embroidered collar, tucked into a knee length charcoal skirt. Always so goddamn prissy—when most people at Pretzel Media waltz around in jeans and flip flops.

I love it.

Harriet’s legs are stretched out long and crossed at the ankle. The fabric of her skirt has slithered back, baring an inch of thigh, and I drag my eyes away, heart tapping faster against my ribs.

“If they’re for solo naps, why model them on double beds?” I point out.

Harriet blinks down at the orange bench, like she’s never noticed the width before. A delectable flush creeps up her throat.

Ah, yes. This is what I chased her down for: that blush. The crackling tension between us, thrumming in the air.

Stepping forward until my legs brush the bench, I’m sizzling with energy. Haven’t felt this alive in days.

---