The Truth

Mark and Brandon are scuffling again, rolling back and forth on the tile in what appears to be round two of The Ultimate Fail Championships. Thankfully, Megan and Stephanie know to stay behind the desk, looking more amused than anything else.

“Did you let them go, or did they get away from you?” Daniel asks in exasperation. “Seriously, boys.”

Ricky and Billy lean back to look at each other behind Daniel’s back.

“They got away,” Billy says.

“We let them go,” Ricky admits, and Billy gives him a sharp glare.

“Dude, I thought we were covering?”

“Dude, I thought we were telling the truth?”

Daniel sighs, shaking his head like a disappointed father of a pair of five-year-old twins who just strapped bedsheets to their backs and jumped from the roof under the misguided belief that they could fly, only to land on the trampoline. “Gentlemen, we’ll discuss this later. For now, could you handle this, please?”

Ricky sighs, looking like he’s just been told to go to bed when it’s the two-minute warning of the game. “Come on, one more second?”

Daniel growls, and they jump into action, pulling the men apart. I’ll give that to them, they don’t push Daniel too far. But their prey is now damp with sweat, and when Mark weasels out of his jacket, Brandon does the same.

They attack each other again, leaving Ricky and Billy holding empty coats in the air and looking at them almost comically.

But a flash of blue and orange catches my eye, and I realize that in all the kerfuffle, Arnold has come in, doing his usual speed walk with his arms pumping quickly at his sides. He must be hyper focused because he doesn’t see Mark or Brandon, and in their untrained sloppiness, Mark’s half-assed tackle of Brandon sends both of them running into Arnold, who also tumbles to the hard floor, shouting in surprise.

“My neck!” he yells. “My back!”

“My pussy and my crack?” Ricky murmurs so quiet I think I might’ve imagined it.

Normally, I’d giggle a little bit, but I’m worried about Arnold. He’s not exactly a spry guy who can take a licking and keep on ticking, and laid out on the floor, he seems way less grumpy grouch and much more ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.’

Thankfully, my team’s on it, Stephanie calling out, “I’m calling 9-1-1!”

It’s enough to startle the fighting men. They freeze, hands wrapped around each other as they flail on the floor like fish in desperate need of water. Realizing they’re in even deeper shit, they set their animosity aside for the moment and help each other to their feet, running like hell for the door without so much as a glance back.

“Hey!” Billy yells but doesn’t go after them when he sees me push past everyone to get down on my knees next to Arnold. That’s what’s important. Those two dumbasses can be taken care of later.

“Arnold, are you okay? Where does it hurt?” I ask, looking him over for any noticeable bends in wrong places. At least in that regard, we look okay, but he’s still wincing.

“Everywhere,” he says in a pained grunt. “What the hell was that?”

“Stupid boys playing stupid games over a woman,” I admit. “And an HR problem.”

“Dumbasses.” He shakes his head in disappointment and winces, hissing sharply. “Shit. Neck.”

“Don’t move,” I tell him sternly. “The ambulance will be here soon.”

“I’ll get some ice,” Megan volunteers, turning and walking quickly for the breakroom.

Stephanie gives Megan’s back a look. “What for?” she asks no one in particular. “Keep him still.”

Putting my hand on Arnold’s chest to remind him to stay still, I look over at Steph. “Can you check on her? She might be losing it.”

Stephanie nods and follows Megan. A moment later, Daniel takes a knee beside me. Even his presence is reassuring, and both Arnold and I calm down.

By the time the paramedics arrive, Arnold is back to his gruff self, but he lets them look him over and load him onto a stretcher for the trip to the hospital.

“This is ridiculous. I’m fine. And you’ve made me late for my next delivery again, Tiffany,” Arnold snips.

Holy shit, he knows my name! I mean, I certainly know his, but he’s never used mine before. And that’s after years of daily pickups with me trying to make small talk and getting bupkis in return.

“Sorry, Arnold. Do you need me to do anything? Notify the office, maybe?” I offer.

“Yeah, call ’em and tell ’em what happened to your favorite delivery driver—” I snort but cover it quickly by clearing my throat when Arnold glares at me. “And let them know that someone will have to come get the truck. People’s packages are gonna be late.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d think he looks disappointed in that, like he’s truly upset that his daily deliveries might arrive twenty-four hours late.