Amara, you got a second?" Tom poked his head into her cubicle. "I need your input on the workforce analysis." She helped everyone, patiently, thoroughly, the way she’d help the old man eat his dinner at the Meridian. The way she’d helped her mother through those final months. Helping was what she did. Friday afternoon, she finished early and decided to take a walk.
She needed air, needed to clear her head. The bonus money was in her bank account now. She paid off three medical bills. She turned her heat back up. She bought groceries without checking the price of everything.
Small victories, but they felt enormous. She walked to the coffee shop on the corner and got herself a latte. Real coffee, not the instant stuff she’d been drinking. She sat by the window and watched people pass by. That’s when she saw Claire.
She was sitting on a bench across the street, hunched forward, her face in her hands. Her shoulders were shaking. Amara watched for a moment. She should go back to the office. Claire clearly wanted to be alone.
And after everything Claire had done to her, the sabotage, the undermining, why should Amara care? But watching someone cry alone on a bench, she couldn’t just walk away. She crossed the street. Claire. Claire’s head snapped up.
Her face was blotchy, tears streaming down. She wiped at them quickly. "“What do you want?”" "“I saw you sitting here. Are you okay?”" "“Do I look okay?”" "“No.”" Claire laughed bitterly. "“At least you’re honest.”" She turned away.
"“Just leave me alone.”" Amara sat down on the bench. "“Talk to me.”" "“Why?” So you can gloat? You won. You showed me up. You got the bonus and the praise and everyone loves you now.
Congratulations." "“That’s not what I want.”" "“Then what do you want?”" "To know why you’re crying on a bench on a Friday afternoon instead of celebrating the weekend." Claire was quiet for a long moment. Then quietly, "My mom needs surgery. $$60,000. Insurance won't cover it. It’s experimental.