Page 133 of Manhattan State of Mind

Shit.

Taylor’s glare bores into me, waiting.

I cave. “Yeah, he does.”

“Because you work all hours to compensate!” she shrieks, throwing herself into her chair in a rage.

“Fuck’s sake,” Matty mutters, but rolls his eyes and goes back to YouTube. There’s a cat playing a piano on the screen. I can tell the cat has a better work ethic than Matty.

I watch as Taylor abruptly stands from her desk and stomps off to the restroom, every step like she’s stomping on Matty’s balls. I can’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for her. As tough as Taylor tries to appear, Matty’s jabs seem to be taking their toll.

I glance over at Matty. He doesn’t even look up from his screen. It’s become a running team joke that Matty’s a slacker. But that’s his role, right? We’ve all fallen into our roles in this absurd office play, and Matty has claimed the role of the jester. He’s capable of delivering results when the situation calls for it, but those moments seem to be becoming less frequent.

Still, as Taylor walks away, something niggles at me. Sure, Matty’s full of laughs and jokes, but even he admits he has the motivation of a tranquilized sloth.

Maybe Taylor has a point. Maybe I’ve been seeing Matty through rose-tinted glasses, conveniently overlooking his lazy tendencies.

The thought is interrupted by the sound of a cat hitting piano keys.

“Matty,” I say sharply, startling him. “I don’t want to stay late tonight. Come on, man, can you put a pause on the cat videos and finish the report?”

“You people are wound up today,” he grumbles. “Chill, Luce. I’m nearly finished.”

He isn’t.

Matty chuckles at the piano cat, lost in the music.

A lump gathers in my throat as I scowl at him, wrestling with the urge to cry. When did I evolve into this spineless creature? Fixing the clogged sink after Spider, always carrying the lion’s share of the workload so Matty doesn’t have to? Was I always this way or did I deteriorate in the lost year?

Picking up the dunce-of-the-day hat, I launch it toward his head with a vehemence that would make a football player proud.

“Christ! That’s a bit extreme!” he protests, rubbing his head.

“Matty,” I hiss. “I’m not joking. I’m sick of doing the majority of the work. If you are a proper friend, you won’t let me deal with all this by myself.”

“Hey, don’t guilt-trip me…” He tries to deflect, but his voice trails off as he catches my hardened expression. “All right, Luce. Sorry.”

I breathe a sigh of relief as he finally diverts his attention to the user research report, although I notice his YouTube tab still winking at him from the corner of his second screen.

It’s a start, at least.

Usually, I’d scoff at Taylor, dismissing her as the office tyrant. But something feels different today. I follow after her to the bathroom.

When I open the door, it’s quiet. Did I imagine seeing her come in here? But then I hear it—a soft, sniffling sound.

Shit, she’s crying? Matty and I always thought she was made of stone.

“Taylor?” I call out tentatively.

“What?” she snaps. I picture her glaring at me from inside her stall. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

“I come in peace. Just checking in, I wanted to see if you’re okay.”

“Whatever, Lucy. Just get lost.”

That’s a burn. Not entirely unexpected though.

A part of me wants to turn on my heel, leave her to her own devices. But something, some newfound compassion, stops me in my tracks. I can be the better woman here.