The Nickname I Gave Myself

I step outside for air and two people from the design team are already on the patio, laughing about something in the group chat. One of them says my name the way I typed it into the team calendar three years ago, half joke, half nickname. The other one goes right, her, like that settles something.

They didn't mean anything cruel by it. That's almost worse. It was just accurate in a way that took the air out of me for a second, standing there with a lime wedge going warm in my hand.

I go back inside instead of home. I buy a round I can't really afford on a Tuesday and tell the story about the client call that went sideways last month, the one I usually leave out because it makes me look reckless instead of careful. It lands. Someone says I should tell that one more often.

I don't correct anyone, and I don't bring up the patio. I laugh in the right places and order one more thing off the happy hour menu, and by the time we're splitting the bill I've almost convinced myself I fixed whatever they saw out there. Except I keep replaying the exact tone of right, her on the walk to my car, trying to hear it as fond instead of finished.