Sick Day

by Morgan Parker

  “Cam!” Gordon answered on the first ring.

  Despite his extensive contact list of executives, Gordon was currently sentenced to a few years of stay-at-home dad, after leading a fast and hard life as an overpaid VP at Harris Financial Group. It wasn’t so much the job that landed him that sentence; it was that after he lost his job four years post-financial crisis, he didn’t tell Melinda.

  It wasn’t simply that she wasn’t a fan of secrets between spouses—in hindsight, her anti-secrecy policy made sense. It was more that he had managed to burn through half of his seven-figure severance in a record-setting three weeks. And once his litigator wife clued in to his unemployment, she put a fast and firm end to the spending spree before their entire wealth evaporated on trips and cars and dinners and crazy trips to the islands. Oops.

  So it made perfect sense to me why Gordon picked up midway through that first ring; he was supposed to be supervising his two young-ish kids before they headed off to private school. For Gordon, adult conversation had become something of a commodity.

  “You won’t believe it,” I told him.

  “Melinda’s train derailed this morning?” he laughed and, as much as I knew he was joking, I also detected a bit of optimism in his tone.

  “Worse. Hope works in my building.”

  Silence. It should not have surprised me to hear it.

  “I, uh, I saw her this morning at Panera,” I blurted out. “I don’t normally eat that shit, but I had a craving. And we talked. She looks good, Gordo. I mean, she’s wine.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” he asked, his tone radiating confusion. Again with the lack of adult-stimulation.

  “Wine, Gordo. You know how it gets better with age?”

  “That’s cheese.”

  “Um, no,” I said, but I was a little hesitant because my head was still clouded and spinning from running into Hope. “Gordo, cheese gets moldy with age.”

  There was a pause. “Shit,” he said. “Hold on.” There was some running and then, “Jeffrey, don’t eat that!” Whining ensued, then Gordon said to his six-year-old, “You want an ice cream bar before we leave for school? Yeah? Then be quiet for ten minutes while I talk to Cam.”

  His parenting skills amazed me. Inspired me, in fact. Because if Jeffrey and Janelle—his nine-year-old daughter—hadn’t died in the past three or so years during Gordon’s daddy-daycare term, it was highly unlikely that I would inadvertently kill my own spawn. That is if I ever convinced Riley—or any other woman, namely Hope—to allow me to impregnate her.

  “So you work with Hope?” he asked.

  “No, she works for an accounting firm in the building. We’re ‘close,’ but not that close.”

  “But you could see her again?”

  “Yes,” I said, letting out a long breath that somehow sounded hopeful and fearful at the same time.

  “Don’t.” He said it without hesitation, in the same way a priest insists on the existence of God. “You should quit your job. Right-fucking-now before this gets out of hand. Spend the rest of your Harris severance in Mexico, drinking cheap beer and tequila, fucking Riley, and getting that tan back.” He chuckled. “Fuck, I miss those three weeks.”

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  Chapter 4

  Gordon was right, and I knew it. After hanging up, I stepped away from my cubicle and started toward the stairs to the 46th floor, amazed by how many workspaces they could fit into such a relatively small space.

  Higher-paid managers had cubes closer to the windows. Mine was the next row out. The admin staff occupied smaller cubes in the interior of the floor, where there was a fancy glass stairwell that hugged the walls of the elevator shaft and brought you upstairs to the upper-management and executive suites. Yes, that would be the building’s 46th floor.

  “Cam,” I heard behind me, stopping me halfway up those beautiful stairs to our office’s version of Heaven.

  I turned and found Newman standing at the bottom stair, gripping the railing but otherwise motionless. His double chin spilled over the collar of his shirt, his gut threatening to pop a button. That was my boss, the physical and mental role model of health and sanity.

  “What’s up, Newman?”

  His face turned red. My non-professional assessment blamed the angry color on high blood pressure, combined with early morning pepperettes, and his lack of exercise. He gave me a curt upward nod. “Where are you going?”

  I deliberately traced my stare along the stairwell, following the steps all the way up to the next level, then glared straight back at the man who wanted nothing more than to see me fall on my face and die. But judging by physical characteristics alone, he would be the first to do that. “I was going to the parking garage.”

  Newman wasn’t one for humor. “Get back in your cube. I need that report.”

  I pointed upstairs. “Raj called.”

  Newman studied me, and I could tell that he was wondering whether it was within his professional scope to challenge me, to call my bluff.

  So I reminded him, “The one person I wouldn’t want to piss off, Newman? The guy that runs Human Resources.”

  He nodded, obviously seeing the logic in my argument and not quite in the mood to test his own employability at the moment. “When you’re done, I’d like to see you in my office.” He meant ‘cube,’ but guys like Newman preferred to never be corrected.

  “Okay, I’ll see you in your cube,” I said, then continued my ascent to the executive floor, which was literally comparable to stepping out of the Bronx and into Beverly Hills.

  “Hi, there, Cam,” Chantal said. She was the receptionist up here, and she always smiled, always looked and smelled great. I bet she offered our biggest clients blowjobs; she was that good. “Here to see Raj?”

  I nodded.

  She sent him a private message, something we didn’t have access to downstairs. By the time I sat down, Raj appeared, stepping through a pair of frosted-glass doors that looked innocent enough, but were actually bulletproof and electrified. After hours, anyway.

  “Cam!” he said. Raj packed two hundred and twenty-five pounds onto his six-foot frame and was a lot like the Pakistani version of Charlie Hunnam. Or something like that. “Come into my office. Please.”

  I followed him past the security doors without touching them, always a little nervous each time I stepped into these hallways. His window office could easily fit eight cubicles. It had a big wooden desk, three client chairs, a six-person boardroom table, and a door. I sat in a client chair, and he settled behind the desk.

  “What brings you upstairs, man?” he asked, linking his hands behind his head and reclining in his big leather chair. I waited for him to put his feet on his desk, then remembered that wasn’t Raj’s style; he would never put his dirty shoes on that desk because he preferred female employees on it instead. And, no, his wife did not work for our company.

  I pointed at his computer monitor. “How many sick days do I have left, Raj?”

  The smile started to melt away. “I believe you have access to that information through our EmployeeCentral intranet site and—”

  I shook my head. “Raj, that wasn’t the question.”

  The smile evaporated, and he sat straight in his chair. “You realize Mr. Newman has you on notice.”

  “Raj, we both know twenty sick days really isn’t a whole lot.”

  He laughed at my comment. “Twenty is plenty! But you only have fifteen, Cameron, which is still five more than we had at Harris!”

  I shook my head again. “Exactly. I need twenty. And if you can’t swing that, then you need to give me one more. Just one more day, Raj.”

  I knew Raj hated finding himself in these situations because, just as another sick day could cost me my job, tampering with my personnel record could cost Raj his.

  “Newman can’t keep track of his own desk chair,” I assured Raj. “And that’s when he’s sitting in it. So there’s no chance he’s been keeping top-quality tabs on my attendance since Janu
ary. Trust me.”

  We proceeded to have a serious-as-a-tumor staring contest, which I won. My past employment at Harris Financial Services had allowed me to sit across the table from some of the most influential leaders in the financial services industry. Without a stone-cold stare, I would not have lasted as long as I had. Raj didn’t have a snowball’s chance in Miami of surviving my stare.

  “You won’t regret this, Raj,” I promised, giving him a final nod of approval.

  Like a loyal parent who can’t say no to a petulant child, Raj sighed and faced his computer. I watched closely as he logged onto our personnel database, glancing over at me like he might have second thoughts about the crime he felt he was about to commit. I watched him navigate to the benefits page and reduce my sick-day count by one. The amount of times a pop-up window asked for appropriate-level authorization made me think we were changing the combination to the vault at the Federal Reserve.

  Once he finished, he faced me, his dark face having turned a couple shades lighter. “I can’t help you after this, man. Newman will come for you. Hard. He wants your balls.”

  I agreed with a nod; Newman’s opinion of me was no secret to anyone with a pulse.

  “What is this all about, Cam?”

  I contemplated my response. Given Raj’s VP role in our company, I didn’t want to put him in a compromised position if he were ever interrogated about my plans for my next long weekend. Just as Raj had feigned calmness earlier, I sat back in my chair and laced my hands behind my head. Unlike Raj, I had no reservations about putting my dirty shoes on the desk that had seen a long laundry list of dirtier employees’ asses.

  “Raj, do you remember that time, six months ago? We were both working a little late, and your wife came by to bring you a warm dinner. You weren’t expecting her, but I heard her calling for you, all the way from downstairs.”

  He shifted and loosened the tie around his neck, unbuttoning his collar like it had just gotten a little hot in here. No doubt, it had been steamy in here six months ago, while he and one of the administrators downstairs were risking their own marriages.

  “Yes, I’m indebted to you, Cam. But how much longer do I need to cover for you?”

  “Do you remember what you told me about Katja?” I gave him my hard stare again.

  The memory softened him a little; that frown turned upside down, as if he was remembering the exact position she had assumed on his desk that night, her legs spread and ankles held wide apart. He actually had to shake his head to find his way back to reality.

  “You told me you were in love with a Russian—”

  “Belarusian,” he corrected.

  “Whatever, Raj. The point is that you risked your marriage for a woman who would never be with you.”

  “We still see each other on occasion,” he admitted, maybe a little defensively. And then the puzzle pieces dropped into place, and he saw the full picture. “Oh shit, Cam. This is about a woman?” He didn’t need my answer. “I am happy to hear that. Why do you need time off, though; are you taking her somewhere?”

  “Nowhere,” I admitted, but it was a lie because three years ago, she had given me an itinerary of sorts. I had just been too stupid to recognize it until now. “I just need to hear four words from her. And I need a sick day to make that happen.”

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  Chapter 5

  The following day, I changed my lunch hour and paper-bagged my meal so I could eat in the building’s vast lobby. From an interior bench at the windows that overlooked the courtyard, I watched people come and go, never taking my eyes off the even-numbered elevators. An hour passed, and I never saw Hope McManus step on or off the elevators, though.

  Instead, I heard her voice beside me. “Come here often?”

  It startled me. I jumped off the bench, and she laughed. It was in her face, those hazel eyes that reminded me of a part of myself I had long forgotten.

  Once my heartbeat calmed down, I gave her my biggest and brightest smile. Fuck, she truly was perfection all rolled up in the shape and form of a human being, wrapped in an innocent and professional skirt and purple button-down shirt that my memory told me smelled like a cocktail of Tide, sweet perfume, and something uniquely Hope.

  “A little jumpy, Cameron?” She stepped closer to me, bringing her lips so close to my ear that the left side of my body went numb. “You’re stalking me, aren’t you?”

  I didn’t have an answer for her.

  “You have my number,” she reminded me, stepping back. “Why couldn’t you call like a big person? I could’ve brought my lunch, and we could’ve had a picnic, right here in the lobby of this building that our companies share.”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, my face and tone friendly despite the broken spirit behind those words. “Why haven’t I heard from you? I mean, three years ago…”

  She kept smiling, but I could see that mentioning what had happened three years ago bothered her. A lot. Placing her left hand on my chest, she told me to relax. “I’m not crazy like that anymore.”

  “I wasn’t exactly thinking of the crazy part,” I said, still playing friendly. “And it wasn’t crazy, by the way. It’s just that it would’ve been nice knowing you’re here.”

  “Maybe we should have dinner.”

  The sunlight caught on her oversized ring—a wedding band? What the fuck was this, Kick Cam in the nuts day? But all I did was nod. “Tonight?”

  She shrugged. “A little short on notice, but sure. That sounds good. Do you want to meet at my office on the fourteenth floor after work? We can go straight from here?”

  I told her I lived a few blocks away, we could go to my place and—

  Shaking her head, that smile got bigger. “Don’t think so, Cameron. Let’s just meet at my office, and we’ll catch a cab.”

  I nodded. Before I realized it, I was walking with her toward the elevators. “Where are we going?”

  “Signature Room. It’s in the story I sent you three years ago.”

  It should not have surprised me that she would want to go there.

  “What’s that look for?” she asked, and I realized I had rolled my eyes.

  “Tourist trap.”

  “Maybe, but I’ve never been…” Her elevator arrived, and she stepped aboard, swinging around and flashing me one final smile so I could glance at her pure white teeth as those doors started closing.

  “Then that’s where we’ll go! I’ll make the reservations!” But they were closed, and the elevator was already making its ascent, and I realized I had left the other half of my sandwich on the bench.

  I wasn’t hungry anymore, so I didn’t bother heading back to get it.

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  Chapter 6

  Since I lived downtown, I left work early. Newman was in meetings all afternoon and wouldn’t miss me. I needed a quick shower and to change into a fresh shirt and jacket, but in my big rush back to the building, I got held up—the el train was super slow, and the crowds were so heavy they delayed me.

  It was interesting and irritating, hurrying against the current of pedestrians eager to get home, while I was impatient to get back to work. I was a little late reaching the office building. When I entered the lobby, I found it completely vacant, and the air conditioning felt refreshing against my perspiring forehead. I could’ve heard a pin drop in there, and I wondered if maybe I had missed her, if she had gone home after I failed to show up like we agreed.

  But then I heard the ding of the elevators, followed by the click-clack of a woman’s heels on the marble floor.

  And there she was.

  My heart stopped, and I held my breath as she came around the corner, still beautiful in that professional skirt suit from earlier today. When she saw me, her face didn’t give any indication of happiness or annoyance. Which was frustrating because I had previously been something of an expert at arousing both of those emotions in her.

  “You were supposed to meet me upstairs,” she said.

  I hadn’t n
oticed it earlier, but I definitely noticed it now. Although she seemed like the same woman from three years ago, she wasn’t. She had changed a little, aged. There were lines at the corners of her eyes and around the edges of her mouth. But her eyebrows were absolutely stunning, and she was more beautiful than ever. Not like cheese, but wine, the finest kind.

  “I know,” I answered at last. “I’m sorry.”

  Her face crunched up, and she shot me a sideways stare. “Did you go home and change?”

  I brushed my hand down the front of my jacket, a newer one that fit me a little better than the one I had been wearing this morning. “I should probably go grab a cab.”

  Hope’s half-grin told me she knew exactly what I was doing by avoiding her question. “No,” she said. “Let’s walk.”

  “In those heels?” I asked as she started toward the lobby doors.

  She shrugged. “You’ll carry me if I can’t walk back, won’t you, Cameron?” That part of her hadn’t changed, the part that wanted to be in my arms. And that was how I knew that all of me hadn’t changed either, because the mere thought of having her in my arms again sucked the air out of my lungs and made my stomach jump at the thought, the hope that she wouldn’t be able to walk back.

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  Chapter 7

  Our window table at the Signature Room was ideal. Because we arrived so early, the restaurant was not very busy, and we didn’t have to wait long to be seated. I watched Hope’s round, wide eyes as she admired the city and lake views.

  During our walk here, she admitted to never even entering the John Hancock, despite living in Chicago for nearly two years already. “Although,” she said, “it probably would’ve been closer to three if we had been able to sell the house.”

  “So does this fiancé of yours have a name?” I asked, then put the glass of water to my lips to avoid admitting something stupid like how I hated him already.