Sad Desk Salad by Jessica Grose Read Free Book Online

girls.”
    “It’s fine,” Peter says tersely.
    “I don’t really think it’s fine,” I say, sitting down next to him.
    “I’m not trying to control you,” Peter says. “But you can’t disappear like that for hours and hours and not tell me where you are.”
    “I said I was sorry!” I reply, a nasal whine appearing in my voice, which I hate. I collect myself and say, “I promise I won’t let it happen again.”
    “It’s more than that. I don’t want to sound like your dad.” Peter winces and pauses; he sometimes forgets about my father, and always feels guilty when he does. “But I feel like those girls are a bad influence on you. You’ve never done something like this before. Coney Island?”
    I don’t want to tell him that right after my dad died I used to do stuff like this all the time. So instead I become defensive. “Seriously?! It’s not like we went to Baghdad. We went to the beach. And it’s not like I was alone. Don’t be so provincial.”
    “Fine.” This time when he says it he just sounds resigned, and he stands up as if he’s about to leave.
    “Peter, come on.”
    “I don’t want to fight you on this.”
    “Can’t you appreciate the extenuating circumstances?”
    “Sort of,” he grudgingly says. Then his tone abruptly shifts. “I did read the hate blog last night.”
    “What? How did you even find it? I didn’t give you the URL!” I am genuinely surprised, and then concerned.
    “Promise not to get mad?”
    “Maybe.”
    “I Googled ‘Alex Lyons sucks’ and it was the first thing that came up.”
    “Fuck.” But I have to laugh.
    “Have you looked at it yet?”
    “Not yet.”
    “I don’t know if you should. There’s some pretty awful stuff on there.”
    “I’m a big girl, I can take it,” I tell him, with zero certainty that it’s true.
    “They’re just anonymous losers. Who cares what they think?”
    I sit with that thought for a second. I don’t want to tell Peter that it’s not what they think—though that can be hurtful—it’s what they could potentially reveal that’s so worrisome. There are probably things I don’t even remember doing that could be dug up and framed in a way that would make me look like a monster. But instead of following that horrifying train of thought, I decide to change the subject.
    “What about you? Are you going to be okay at work today even though you didn’t get much sleep?”
    Peter sighs. “Yeah, I think it will be fine. I got a few hours and you know they have that fancy new Nespresso machine at the office. I’ll just mainline caffeine all day.” He starts palming the ceiling with his hand as we talk. The downside of living in the garden apartment is that our ceilings are so low I can touch them with the tips of my fingers. When he’s anxious, Peter puts his whole hand up there. His ire seems to have dissipated, but I’m pretty sure he isn’t going to fully forgive me for a few days. Still, I feel like at least one fire has been put out.
    Peter walks over to the kitchen to put his coffee cup in the sink.
    “I love you,” I tell him.
    “I love you, too,” Peter says, and bends down to kiss me on the forehead.
     
    I hate having even the smallest tiff with Peter, since I’m so grateful for his presence in my life. In the months before Peter and I met, I felt lost in such a profound way I couldn’t even voice it. I dated a bunch of clones of my terrible ex-boyfriend Caleb—artists in every different medium. I went out every night and was drinking even more than when Caleb and I were together.
    What brought me out of my downward spiral was the night I went home with this nebbishy, sleazy guy from Rev named Adrian who always wore an out-of-date leather jacket and tried to pass as twenty-nine though he was probably in his midthirties. Adrian was a writer for the magazine who came into the office only occasionally, but whenever he did he would loiter by my desk and ask me to go to concerts with him. I always