Sick Day

by Morgan Parker

  “Yes, it’s still Matt.” If my question bothered her, she didn’t let on. It bothered me, so I kept drinking the water while she kept staring out those windows. “And before you ask, I’ll remind you that he’s something of an accounting god. It’s why we moved here in the first place and why we’re moving to San Francisco in a couple of months…” At this point, she steered her eyes to mine while I held the now-empty glass to my lips. “… so, yes, he’s got lots of money.”

  At least now I knew why she cared to tell me that last little bit of information about Matt the Motherfucker, the geriatric dickhead. If getting dumped by a spouse for a “younger model” burned women, then losing the love of your life to a wealthier lover burned men. Hope knew this, but I didn’t let on that it bothered me. I placed the glass of water back on the table. It bothered me a lot.

  “What about you, Cameron? Last I heard you ended up getting married after all. What’s her name again? And what did you tell her about going out to dinner with me tonight after what happened three years ago?”

  I started to tell her about Riley, her flowing blonde hair and blue eyes, her energetic youth, but before I could get into the parts that would sting her as much as her “he’s got lots of money” bullshit stung me, Hope cut me off.

  “Completely unnecessary, Cameron,” she said, rolling her eyes like she had already read the headlines.

  I allowed a numb nod. All of this “let’s be friends and talk about our respective partners” bullshit felt somewhat foreign to me, like that moment of disorientation before the migraine set in.

  Hope sipped from her water. “You never forget the name of the woman who shatters your dreams. No need to elaborate or remind me.”

  I started praying for the waitress to come and take our order, but because I knew quite well that my prayers were not the type to get anyone’s attention, I asked the one question that had been on my mind all afternoon. “Tell me about that book from three years ago.”

  That question had an effect on her. For the first time since seeing her at Panera, Hope stumbled off that high and mighty tightrope she had been walking. Her eyes shifted to her hands, and she kept them there, safely away from me.

  “You want to talk about it?” I asked, knowing quite well that I needed to stay on top here. I needed to bring her back to my level, which was right here on Earth. Technically speaking, it was right here, ninety-five floors above street level.

  } i {

  Chapter 8

  After dinner, we walked north to the beach. Crossing Lake Shore was a pain in the ass. We could’ve taken the tunnel, but decided to risk our lives instead. I raced across the street, watching and laughing as Hope struggled in her heels. By the time we reached the walking path, she removed those death-trap Gucci shoes and carried them. I figured she did that so she wouldn’t be tempted to hold my hand.

  We had enjoyed a nice dinner at the Signature Room, and this calm walk felt perfect, both of us with big grins on our faces, the sun still going strong, and the rush of commuters behind us. We stayed in the slow lane, allowing cyclists and rollerbladers to speed past, none of them bugging us. I imagined Heaven would feel exactly like this moment.

  “It’s great that you’re in Chicago,” I said at last, and the silence that ensued told me I probably should not have crossed that line. So I crossed another one. “I missed you.”

  We walked without speaking, and then she told me a little more about this novel someone named Emma Payne had shared with her. “What you don’t know is that these two people were strangers. They met on an airplane and have this instant connection. They’re both married, and Olivia is in Chicago for a short period of time. But for him, for Oliver, he goes home. He lives in Winnetka, just like Matt and I do in our big mini-mansion with a four-car garage. But when Oliver gets there, he finds that his wife has taken their two kids to Wisconsin, to her parents’ summer house for the weekend.”

  “Four-car garage, huh?

  “I knew you’d like that.”

  I gave her a knowing nod. “I think I know where this is headed.”

  “Trust me, you don’t.”

  “Sure, I do. Obviously, this Oliver dude fucks Olivia all weekend long, and then his wife returns early to catch them.”

  Hope shook her head, rolling her eyes. “It was their anniversary weekend. So Oliver is disappointed and, instead of spending the weekend alone, he meets up with Olivia—their names are so close that it’s really confusing to read at times, but Emma insists on those specific names—and he takes her out to dinner. At the Signature Room.”

  “Figures...”

  “Like us, they have a great time. I imagine it being exactly like our night has been so far. The laughing and flirting and all of that.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, allowing her hand to hover over lips for a moment—covering up a smirk, perhaps—and then she refocused on me again.

  “Flirting?” I asked, and then brushed my hand against hers before giving it a gentle squeeze.

  With the snappy reflexes of a feline, Hope swung her shoe at my face. “Cameron! You’re pushing it!”

  Luckily, I avoided her attempted assault with grace and humility and a crazy laughter that sucked all the air out of my lungs. Once I calmed down, I told her to continue. “So after dinner, what happens next for Oliver and Olivia? Is that when they fuck?”

  “Actually, they don’t ‘fuck,’ Cameron. They go for a walk.” She frowned.

  A walk? Like this one?

  “You know, I don’t believe you didn’t read it…”

  “So their time was a lot like this,” I said, dismissing her statement about not believing me because she was right; after all of these years she was still fucking right. I waved elaborately at the path before us. “And then they fuck at the beach? Is that how it happens for us, too?”

  I stepped back, afraid she might take another swing at me. But she didn’t.

  “I won’t hurt you,” she said with a taste of evil to her tone. “Which is something you said to me once. Except unlike you, I’ll stick to my promise.”

  “Ouch.” I pressed a hand to my chest. “Touché. But you’re wrong, you’ve hurt me plenty.”

  She ignored my comment and continued with the story, with Our Story. I loved hearing her version of it because these were details I hadn’t spent too much time memorizing. “They walk Michigan Ave under the lights. And end up at her hotel.”

  “Bow-chica-wow-wow.”

  “No,” she sighed, and I could tell she worked hard at suppressing her irritation with my childishness. “All they do is lie in bed. They talk all night, they laugh and smile and memorize every little detail about each other—their cheekbones, the lines around their eyes and lips, the mole on her neck, the scar underneath his chin, all of that sappy shit that people like to read about.”

  “Like we used to do,” I said, remembering our last night together in that hotel room, lying awake and fighting sleep, tracing her face with the back of my fingers before… “Do they kiss at least?”

  Hope shook her head, her attention elsewhere like I might have lost her to the fantasy of what three years ago could have been for us. “No, there’s not even an attempt. Because what these two people have is special, Cameron. It’s not physical. Although, they both have these really hot and steamy thoughts about going where they don’t go. And it’s not about that one night. In fact, with them it’s not about any given night. It’s about…”

  I faked a yawn as we reached the beach. I jumped into the sand, knowing right away that I would regret it. I hated the gritty sand in my shoes. “Bullshit. It’s always about the physical, Hope.”

  “I disagree,” she argued, her subtle frown suggesting that maybe she didn’t quite believe me. “And it’s definitely not about that for Oliver and Olivia. For them, it’s about…I don’t know, it’s about the moment. That’s all that matters to them because it’s all they’ll ever have. A moment.” Her voice hitched a notch and, when I glanced over at her, I scrutinized her
face, searching for a hint as to where that fault line might lay.

  In my head, I replayed Hope’s words, each one of them because I had memorized them. As was the case with Oliver and Olivia, all that mattered to me was this moment.

  I wanted to believe that our love—this thing between Hope and I—was as strong as Oliver and Olivia’s, but I didn’t truly know that. I knew how I felt. But Hope? I figured she had given up on us long ago, walking away without so much as a glance back. It had been cold, but she was stronger than that, way better than to cling to an unlikely fairytale. Still, some part of me wanted to believe that the hint of emotion in her voice had come from that abandoned love, from that belief that we were exactly like the Oliver and Olivia that she had written about.

  “It’s a touching story,” she admitted, heaving a deep, cleansing breath. “I’ve read it hundreds of times.”

  I kept my mouth shut as she settled onto the sand next to me. We watched the water, the soft waves lapping against the sand where a couple of young kids were building mounds of goop that looked like something the cows back home could produce.

  Hope sighed. “You ever wonder why we ran into each other, Cameron? I mean, two months before I’m scheduled to pack up and move across the country again. It’s weird. Kind of like how I ran into you three years ago. Right before your wedding.”

  “Why aren’t you married?” I asked, instead of talking about myself. I had wondered that question a million times since we ran into one another the last time.

  She shrugged. “It’s not what Matt and I want.”

  I chuckled, still watching those young kids playing together. They were clearly brother (older) and sister (younger). Their mother was reading a book with a white cover and some strange symbol on the front. While the boy added to his pile of fake cow shit, the sister filled a pail of water and threw it at the boy—the entire pail, not just the water, so it was a good thing she missed him—and then she ran off, laughing while the boy whined and complained. The entire scene made me smile.

  “You know that Matt’s older than I am,” she elaborated, sitting on her shins and shifting to stay comfortable. I wondered if she would allow me to pick the sand out of her knees. “And with our careers, we’re just not in a position where we can lay down any roots, so marriage really isn’t a priority for us.”

  “Sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself more than you’re trying to convince me, Hope.” Although I found myself far more interested in seeing how this argument between the brother and sister would unravel, I felt Hope’s glare burning into the side of my head. She knew I was right, didn’t she?

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean, goob?”

  I nodded at the kids. “How much do you want to bet that little girl kicks her big brother’s ass?” At that point, the boy tackled her, and the mother was hurrying over to separate them. “Maybe not here at the beach. But tonight at home, right before bed when they’re both overly tired, she’ll sneak up on him and give him a cheap shot.”

  “I don’t need to be married,” Hope continued with a defensive tone that suggested she was on trial. “Why would you say that, Cameron? You’re being an asshole.”

  I allowed my eyes to meet hers as the argument between the brother and sister fizzled and the mediation process failed to hold my attention. “Maybe you’re right and there’s a reason we met two months before your big move—”

  “So you can preach your idea of marriage to me?”

  “Maybe.” I stared up at the sky. “Or maybe it was just so I could remind you of who you are. You know, the real Hope. The one who lives deep, deep down behind that hard candy shell.”

  “Is that what happened three years ago?” she asked. “I reminded you of who you are?”

  “Maybe.”

  Hope’s face tightened. For the span of a heartbeat, I thought she might take another swing at me. Instead, she stood up and started walking away. “Epic fail, Cameron,” she called back, swinging her shoes in her hands, the back of her skirt crumpled to show a little more thigh than I had seen back at the office building. “All you’ve done is remind me of what an asshole you are.”

  I stood up and chased after her, closing the gap of a half-dozen feet that she had spread between us as the sand squeezed into my shoes and socks somehow. “Hey,” I said, keeping my voice soft and empathetic. “I didn’t mean to piss you off.” I didn’t dare reach out to touch her, to slow her down. I knew to keep my hands to myself and not distract her from her little march. “Maybe I don’t know you anymore. But when I did? When I knew you like nobody else did? Hope, listen to me.”

  She kept walking. But I never expected easy from Hope. Ever.

  “You talk about moments between Oliver and Olivia in that story?” I asked, although it was more of a statement, and I had to pick up the pace to keep up with her. “Well, those days when you opened yourself up to me, they were the most beautiful moments of my life.” I swallowed hard. That anger in her face made for one hell of a barrier to this deep-down honesty spewing from my lips. “Sorry. Maybe I was confusing the memory of those moments with who I thought you were.” I glanced over at her and saw that she had softened a bit, her perfect eyebrows more relaxed than two sentences ago.

  We walked in silence for what felt like an eternity, my words hanging over us like molasses clouds.

  “Hope, what are we doing here?” I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake the answers out of her, get to that emotional paradise she had walked out on three years ago, the place I had fought so hard for.

  Silence, as she kept walking. To my eyes and senses, she seemed to consider letting me in, allowing me back on the other side of those gates she had shut and locked.

  “I’m sorry, Cameron. I need to get home.”

  } i {

  Present Day

  Chapter 9

  7:38 AM

  Midway through my second lap in some scene out of Gran Turismo 6 for the Xbox One, my phone vibrates. I don’t have time to pause the race with its better-than-reality graphics, so I quickly snap up the phone and stare at the jAppe chat.

  My heart pounds underneath my chest at the response on the screen.

  Hope: Sorry. I can’t. Too much to get done before the big move next week.

  Fuck.

  And then:

  Hope: I’m really sorry :-(

  Double-fuck. I type a quick response.

  Me: I’ll meet you at the Ogilvie.

  Less than three seconds pass before I have her rebuttal.

  Hope: Don’t make me embarrass you, Cameron!

  Done.

  I check the time and determine that 1) she has already boarded the 316 Metra train to Chicago and 2) I don’t have much time left to firm up the details of our day—possibly our last day—together before she moves away.

  The next thing I do is dial Gordon’s number. Of course he picks up before the first ring has ended; those kids are killing him.

  “You need a job,” I tell him, watching the time because I have less than half an hour to get to the train station.

  “Funny you should—”

  “I need your Tesla, Gordo,” I interrupt, stepping out the of Bat Cave and walking to the front closet. I slide the doors open and stare at my small wardrobe of jackets, shoes, and other fine apparel on one half. The other side is vacant.

  “What? No fucking way!”

  “I’ll pay your electricity bill for a fucking month. I just need the car.”

  “What’s wrong with your BMW?” he asks, his voice pitched high like it always does when he gets anxious.

  “It’s not a Bentley.” I file through a couple of jackets and remember the weather forecast for this afternoon—89F. Screw the jacket. I squat to get a closer look at the shoes. Hope will notice the shoes, and the nicer they are, the more relaxed she’ll be. Which means she’ll be more inclined to play sick day with me.

  “This isn’t a good idea,” Gordon tells me. “I know what you’re up to, and it’s a f
ucking horrible idea, Cam.”

  “I know.” I grab a pair of Skechers. Not the Chucks, not the Mephistos, or the Hush Puppies, but the brown Skechers. They’re clean and unpretentious. They look good with these jeans, the Tommy’s that make my legs look both lean and solid. “But I’m doing it anyway, Gordo, and I need your car.”

  Time check—7:43.

  “Can you meet me at the Art Institute at noon?” I ask him.

  The huffing and puffing on the other end of the line is an embarrassment. For Gordon. “I can’t give you my car!”

  “Is the battery dead? Because if it’s not, I really don’t understand your hesitation. It’s a car, not your firstborn.”

  “Not only will Miranda castrate me if she finds out I’m lending it to you, of all fucking people, but this is just bad news!”

  “Art Institute. Noon. Or you’re flying on your own the next time you have a crazy boy weekend with Josh and Landon.”

  I hear some groaning, then Gordon tells Jeffrey it’s not pancake Tuesday, not even close, so eat the damn Rice Krispies, because he’s on the phone. To me, he offers a heavy sigh and asks, “What’s in it for me?”

  “I just told you,” I say, keeping my patience in check. “My companionship on the next boys’ trip.”

  “Okay, right, yes you said that.” Gordon in panic mode is a time-waster even when he’s coming down off that hyperactive high. “Then tell me what you’re after with Hope. What’s the point of this? I dealt with your bullshit the last time. Remember three years ago? I don’t want Riley hurt again, and I can’t be your accomplice in this.”

  I pause at the front door, checking my pockets and making sure I have the keys. My hands feel clammy all of a sudden, and my stomach growls. “I need her to say four words. That’s it. That’s the point.”