“I Drove My Drunk Office Enemy Home. Her Roommate Opened the Door and Said: ‘Oh — so YOU’RE the one she saves emails from.’ The folder was called ‘Mason Being Infuriating.’ There were 47 emails in it.”

“THE NIGHT EVERYTHING CRACKED OPEN”
She grabbed my tie to keep from falling — and accidentally put her hand flat on my chest. Then she whispered, “Your heart is racing.” I should’ve lied. I didn’t.

My name is Mason Ellis. Thirty-two years old. Senior project manager at a marketing firm in the Loop, which is a polished way of saying I professionally talk people down from disasters that are, nine times out of ten, entirely self-inflicted.