Page 48 of Things I Overshared

“Literally just said that’s what I’m doing.”

He picks up my phone and pauses the music.

“Hey!”

He’s scrolling on my phone, looking disturbed, as usual.

“No ‘Blackbird,’ ‘Yesterday,’ ‘Let It Be’ . . . do you only listen to upbeat songs?”

“I like happy songs,” I say with a shrug.

“This is a travesty.”

“I disagree. Now, I can put in headphones, but either way, I’m clearly busy.” I motion to the binder.

He sets down my phone.

“May I?”

“Psh, uh, what? Was that you asking? Because you never ask before manhandling my phone, my bags, or my passport. I think I’m in shock.”

He grabs the binder before I finish talking and slumps down in the seat. He flips through, scanning, saying nothing.

Toward the back, he finds an insert I forgot about. The top of the page says a name with his headshot, like all the others. Below that are my handwritten notes.

EMERSON CLARK, CFO

Likes rain, snow, gray, silence, suits, punctuality.

Hates sugar, happiness, fun, color, meetings, tardiness, human beings.

Sooners?

Soccer?

Runner or rower?

Family?

Actual heartbeat?

He glares at me. There is no way out, so I own it.

“What, like it’s not accurate?”

“No.”

“Well, by all means, feel free to fill in the gaps for me.”

He sighs, and his shoulders slump a bit.

“You know what? Forget it, we don’t need to fill it in. I made this page when I was trying to be your friend, but we don’t need to be friends, right? We’re coworkers. And that’s fine. We’re good. Forget about it.”

He gives me a tight nod, then stands and mutters, “See you in the morning.”

“Wait,” I blurt, seizing a small window of opportunity, despite my internal pep talk not to interrogate him. “Why haven’t you seen your family yet? We’ve been here six days. You could have—we’ve had breaks.”

He tilts his head as he considers. “We’re not all Cantons.”