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U nder Claire’s watchful gaze, I sink my teeth into a heavenly Double-Double, guilt eating away at my consciousness with each bite. Twenty minutes ago, I was plotting the woman’s demise, and now I’m sitting beside her, eating a meal she paid for from the goodness of her heart.

“Thought you couldn’t eat?” She smiles, paper crinkling as she fishes inside the bag on her lap then passes my little bag of fries.

“Normally after … Sometimes I can’t when …” Dammit. Why can’t I just say it?

“You can’t eat when your tics are bad?”

Cheeks heating, I keep my eyes on my food and nod. “You know about Tourette’s?”

“My first and last job was at a pediatric neurologist’s office, so yeah. I know a little. Enough to be nosy, at least.”

A laugh rips through my chest, and out my nose as a massive snort. “Isn’t the expression you know enough to be dangerous?”

“It is, but nosiness is more fun and hell, I’m a lover. Not a fighter. Though, my wife might say different. And my brother too, come to think of it.”

“You have a brother? That’s nice. I don’t have any siblings. Are you close?”

“The closest. He’s in college, an athlete, but moved in with me and Kel when Mom died last year.”

I know I should say something comforting and supportive right now. But in all honesty, I have no idea what. This conversation is officially the most time I’ve spent talking to anyone in years and I have lost every drop of what little social skill I once possessed. Maybe that’s why I bust out, “I like your clothes. And your pink hair. Pink’s my favorite color. So much so that when I do sleep, even my dreams are pink. I don’t wear it much, though. I don’t think it suits me.”

“Nonsense,” she tuts, “Why doesn’t it suit you? You’re gorgeous and blonde. You could pull off anything.”

“Thank you,” I mutter, not believing a thing she said.

Chatter, chewing and laughter continue and the relentless waves of inner chaos that control my life begin to calm. Claire glows, hands waving in swoopy swirls, knuckles banging against the window as she recounts how she met her now wife in a deli in Queens and proudly shows me her phone. Kelly from the delly is written in caps followed by a wink and peach emoji.

“The peach has a double meaning- she’s from Georgia and her ass is spectacular - but that’s how the cheeky minx put her number in, and I’ve never changed it. How could I?”

Her mood shifts from playful to proud with a tinge of annoyance when speaking of her brother, and his never-ending stream of female companions and it’s only as I take the last, savored bite of my burger that I realize what’s taken place.

I just ate my lunch with another person. And not an imaginary one I named Harris when I was five.

I’m laughing.

They’re laughing. With me, not at me.

And I feel … good.

Naturally, I tense, the back of my head slamming into the headrest, the nails of my free hand clawing at the leather upholstery.

Claire eyes me quietly, wiping her mouth with a napkin before jabbing me in the bicep with her bony elbow. “Don’t freak out on me, Lot. It’s okay not to be okay.”

Ignoring the ache in my chest to have a nickname, I roll my eyes. “Did you read that on a bumper sticker?”

“Freeway billboard.”

An embarrassingly loud snort rips from my nose before I can stop it. “I have to ask, are you at all a Simpsons fan? And if so, have you seen the one where Homer—”

“Goes to clown college because he saw it on a billboard? Yes. Yes. I have, and yes. I freaking love the Simpsons. Everything up till season twenty anyway. Not a day goes by where I don’t quote that show at some point.”

“Me too. I honestly think for almost every moment in life, there’s a Simpsons quote to match. Though, I’m too tired to think of any now. After the … you know.” I point to my eyes and blink, “And all that food, I think I need a nap.”

Claire nods knowingly, screws up her burger wrapper and tosses it back in the bag. “A lot of the kids that came into the clinic struggled with sleep. Do you?”

“I can, yeah. Especially when I’ve had a bad day. If I can relax enough to get into a deep sleep, I can normally get a few solid hours. But if I’m ticcing through the light stuff like I was last night, I don’t have a chance.”

“Man. I would be screwed. I’m an eight-hour lady. My brother is even worse. He naps through the day and can still pull a full ten hours at night. Do you think last night’s restlessness was because of your birthday?”

“Maybe a little,” I shrug, then surprise myself by elaborating. “It’s hard sometimes. Watching from the sidelines. Being the quiet, unseen one even when you crave invisibility. Yesterday I walked past this little cake place in Chestnut Hill and thought about buying something to share, but I just didn’t … My own boss didn’t seem to notice I was delivering an invisible box to an accounts department that consists solely of me. Half the people at work or school know my name, and the ones that do know think I’m weird. I don’t know how to … Be not me.” My eyes dart from the mostly melted ice floating in my cup to Claire’s face. She’s wiping a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand.

“Well, you know what?” She says, those emotive hands thumbing to herself, “This someone now knows your name, and I hereby declare us to be work besties, the Lenny and Carl of Royal Rolls Industries, which means you’ll never get rid of me. Ever … except for right now, cause I totally chugged that tea and I gotta pee real bad.”

As if I haven’t embarrassed myself enough for one day, a full belly, the grinding white nose of Claire’s truck against the road, and the soothing tones of Billie Eilish have me drifting off to sleep.

When I wake, a kitten-covered blanket is warming my legs and Claire is beside me. Still driving. Still smiling. “You’ve been out for almost an hour. I called work and said we had a flat tire, then just kept driving around. I hope you don’t mind, but too bad if you do, because I also took a photo of us while you slept.” She whips her phone from the center console, leans over, and displays the evidence. There I am in all my glory, my head resting against the window. My cheek squished. My mouth is open. Drool on my chin. And Claire is there too, with her head on my shoulder beaming, and flashing the peace sign.

I love it.

“I’m going to make it your contact pic,” she chuckles. “Put your number in.”

“You want my number?”

“Of course I do. Lenny and Carl, remember?” I bite my lip to suppress my smile, type in my number then hand it back. “Awesome. I’m going to save it as Double-Double-Lotte-Lotte because you ate a Double-Double and your name is ...” Her voice drifts as her cheeks flush red with embarrassment. “Don't suppose I had to explain that, did I?”

I’m not quite sure what to say about that. Such a simple, kind of odd sentiment is causing a swirling of gooey pink emotions in my belly, so it’s probably best I don’t say anything other than, “No. But, okay.”

We’re just two blocks from work so we make it back just before four. That’s an almost two-hour lunch break, but no one says anything when we wander back in. Maybe that’s because there’s no one here. “It is four, right? Where is everyone?”

“Definitely four.” Claire says as she drops her bag onto her desk. “Hey, since you’re going past the kitchen, could you put my drink in the refrigerator for me?” I look down at the cup she’s handed me. There’s like an inch, one mouthful of iced tea left.

“Are you sure? It hardly seems—”

“Waste not, want not.” She smiles, “Now, off you go, Lotte. Back to work.”

With a sigh I give her a limp-wristed wave, pass through the empty office space, then head to the kitchen. I stop dead in my tracks because there’s a freakishly hot, massive guy, I think I recognize from school, tapping his fingers on the table, but before I can do anything, like pretend I didn’t see him and slink away … “SURPRISE! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Lotte!” People come flying out behind doors, under tables, and from behind potted shrubs. Streamers are popping, and whistles are tooting, and Claire’s joke of a drink is hitting and splashing against the floor. All I can do is gasp, clutch at my chest and squeal, “Holy fucking fuck!”

Leading off a raucous rendition of Happy Birthday that follows, is Mr. Bowe, Margaret, Simon from IT, Bronwyn from HR, Tony, Lynn, and Jess, whose roles are completely unknown to me, are all here. Oh, and the hot guy. He’s singing too.

It’s lovely … but a lot.

I grip the wall to remain steady, try to slow my breathing, and take it all in, but my chest is heaving. My lips are numb. I’m struggling not to fall head-first into a panic attack or flare. It’s too early to tell, but either way, it’s shit.

Just as I begin to back away, two hands, Claire’s hands, gently settle on my shoulders and squeeze. “They all know your name, Lotte. This is okay. You deserve this. This is how it should be.” As Mr. Bowe steps towards me I notice the cake he holds on a silver tray. It’s pink and covered in sprinkles and my name, Lotte, is written in shiny gold frosting in the center.

“Happy Birthday, Lotte.”

“No one has ever brought me a cake before.” I sob. Literally. I’m sobbing, leaking all over the place.

“Consider it the first of many, and … I’m so very sorry it’s late.”

“That’s okay, Mr. Bowe. Thank you. You too, Claire,” I say, twisting my head to catch her tearing up, too. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Lotte. Now, let’s eat.”