“No,” I answered. “He’s not connected to the company.”
We left with promises and paperwork and that feeling of being cursorily checked off a list: interview complete, potential risk acknowledged. But as we walked back through the lobby, fingers still linked, I could feel the eyes follow us. A woman at the coffee kiosk dipped her head and said what I already knew: “Sorry about the mess.” It was a pitying line. Not to my mother. Not to us. To the spectacle.
On the sidewalk outside, Mark stopped and pressed his thumbs to the bridge of his nose. “This is ugly,” he said. He spoke quietly, like one confesses sins. His jaw worked. “They’ll use anything they can.”
“It’s not just at work,” I said, voice small. “Someone posted pictures of us at the farmers’ market three days ago. Lily’s been mess
