Sick Day

by Morgan Parker

  On the 45th floor, I walked straight to my cube, sat down, and fired up the computer. As was his routine, Newman made the rounds at a quarter to nine. When he stopped at my cube, he asked me who had fucking died. Nice guy, but then again I never would mistake him for a grief counselor.

  “Rough night, that’s all,” I answered, lacing my hands behind my head and showing off my incredibly wrinkled shirt because I knew it would drive him nuts, almost as much as it would grate on my OCD. “How are the boys upstairs? Keeping you busy, Newman?”

  He grunted, his face turning red as he hitched up his pants. “How many sick days do you have left, huh, Cam?” He knew the answer. He was just being the same fucktart he normally was. And it was only worse now because he sensed my weakness. “Would’ve been nice to call in ‘tired’ and get caught up on some sleep, huh, Cam?”

  “I’ll have those single-purchase buying trends to you by noon,” I said, ignoring his remarks. But he had already wandered off to wish someone else a venomously good morning.

  I turned back to my computer and tried to lose myself in my profession, which involved analyzing client purchasing behaviors in order to customize their relationship with Second City Financial. For instance, if a client uses one of our company-branded American Express cards at a florist’s, followed or preceded by a charge at a tuxedo rental shop, and then booking a limo, we could deduce that there is a wedding in this client’s future.

  We could then align this client with some of our affiliates to tailor recommendations, advice, and other relevant solutions specifically catered to their life stage. For the newlywed in this illustration, we could align him or her with a real-estate broker who happened to be one of our more profitable clients, who would sell them a house and ensure that the client finances their purchase through our mortgage unit. Through that mortgage, we could also offer high-margin insurance products and tremendously increase the profitability of a client that was previously just an American Express user.

  Although this was similar to my role at Harris, I had been far more highly regarded there. But after multiplying my severance on derivatives and using the winnings to purchase the condo, I had been desperate, and Raj had insisted on creating this position here at SCF. While it kept me busy and allowed for a regular paycheck, it also meant accepting that I had become a little less than a peon. They had me reporting to Newman, the Nazi manager who suffered from textbook SMS (Short-Man Syndrome). Newman ran our product management group. He was a dickhead and saw no value in my work because he felt it undermined his.

  At Harris, I built a client profitability model that turned the average retail customer into one of the bank’s most profitable segments. All boring stuff, I can admit that. However, with Hope on my mind, I needed to distract myself with exactly that flavor of boring. The functional processes involved with my job mostly helped.

  Until the phone rang. When I looked at the call display, I debated whether it was worth speaking to Gordon at all.

  At last, I picked up. “Gordo—”

  He didn’t let me finish, but I blamed that on his kids. “You are a fucking moron.” He took care to enunciate each word individually. Gordon had time for these little games. At the moment, I needed boring.

  I sat straighter in my chair. “She called you, didn’t she? I knew she would.”

  He chuckled on the other end of the line, and I swear I heard him shaking his head at me. “Hope?”

  This was a good sign. The grin that crept onto my face felt good, like the sun coming out after an extended period of hiding between the raindrops. “What did she tell you?”

  A long, tired sigh. I had heard it from him before. “It wasn’t Hope, Cam. Riley called me. But this? This I needed to hear for myself.”

  “Oh.” I slumped forward, grabbed a pen and started twirling it between my fingers.

  “Are you sure you’re normal? What you’re doing, it’s…” Another sigh, and I shifted in my chair from the sudden discomfort. “…it’s damaging. This isn’t the kind of stuff that heals. It’s not a scar that you can make her feel pretty about.”

  “Listen, I have to run, Gordo.”

  “What would you have done if Hope wanted to see the condo? I know you; I fucking know what you did. I even think I know what you’re up to with this.”

  “I need to get back to work,” I told him, sighing without caring if he heard my impatience.

  “No, what you need is to have lunch with me.”

  “Can’t.” I checked the data on my computer screen. “Too much to get done.”

  “Nah, you’re having lunch with me today. I’m going to be downtown anyway. Melinda wants to redo the wills. She gets like this after my expensive trips with the boys.”

  “She should,” I said, noticing that I had just received a new email.

  “What the fuck does that mean? You’re on my team, don’t forget that.”

  “And you’re supposed to be on mine,” I reminded him, equaling his irritation. “But I can’t have lunch today, no matter whose team you’re on.”

  “Bullshit. And I am on your team. You’re just too fucking stupid to see it.”

  “We’ll chat later, Gordo.” I clicked on my inbox icon and found the message that had caught my attention. It was sent by hmcmanus@probstllc.com.

  “Yes, we will,” Gordo said. “Call me once you get home.”

  “Uh huh.” I absently dropped the phone back into the base and clicked on her email.

  Hey. Sorry about last night. I’d like to see you at lunch today and talk. I have so much to tell you, and I can’t have another night of sleeplessness. Please say you’re free…

  Hope

  I hammered a quick response: See you at 1pm in the lobby.

  Within seconds, she replied with an even shorter: OK.

  It was officially our second date in as many days.

  } i {

  Present Day

  Chapter 14

  8:20 AM

  Having been faced with the prospect of losing her forever several times already, I know a thing or two about showing up for the moment. This moment. So when I spot Hope among the crowd of commuters pouring out of the train station, I take that deep breath you take before jumping off a rocky cliff into the uncertain waters below.

  “I told you, I’m too busy,” she greets me as I fall into stride next to her. The pulsing vein on her neck tells me that there is definitely room for negotiation here. Some, anyway. “I’m sorry, Cameron.”

  “Let’s walk together.” All part of the plan, I remind myself to stick to the plan.

  “You and I both know that your boss isn’t your biggest fan right now. Maybe you should turn around and go home before you get too close to the office and your boss sees you.”

  I reach for her hand, but she snaps it out of my reach. Nice. Real mature.

  “You need to go home,” she continues. Her inability to keep quiet for more than a few seconds tells me everything I need to know.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t let you leave this time,” I say with a tone of empathy, like I’m the teacher who can’t let my favorite student get away with cheating. “It’s not going to happen.”

  She drops her head back and laughs so loudly that the people ahead of us actually turn around to see what someone could find so funny before eight-thirty in the morning on the last Friday before Labor Day weekend.

  “I’m serious, Hope. Real serious.”

  “And you’re seriously going to be unemployed in three more blocks. Don’t put that on my shoulders, goob.”

  “You talk like an M & M, you know that, right?” I hide my grin by scratching my jawline.

  “You talk like an imbecile.”

  “Hard candy shell on the outside—”

  She rolls her eyes. “Sweet chocolate on the inside, I get it—”

  “Followed by nuts,” I add, “because we’re talking about peanut M & M’s.”

  She hits me hard, but her lips finally curl into the first sign of defeat. “
You’re a certifiable goob.”

  We walk half a block. It kills me because this silence feels like sand slipping through my fingers.

  “Listen,” I continue. “You talk about that story like it’s us.”

  “It is us, Cameron,” she insists, her face tightening. “And like Oliver and Olivia, our timing is wrong. Your being here is wrong.” She shakes her head. “Like Oliver, you had your chance with me, but you blew it.”

  “You blew it, too,” I blurt out, then hate myself for walking into this trap, yet again. “But I’m here now, and I’m not letting you go without a fight. I’m going to fight fucking hard, even if that means hauling you off over my shoulder.”

  “I’d like to see you try that.”

  “Sounds like a dare.”

  “More like a threat.” Deep sigh. “And I’m serious. I can’t miss work today.”

  “You can miss work today,” I promise, walking ahead of her and turning around to get into her face a little. “Not only can you miss work, but you can miss your flight next week when you’re supposed to move out West.”

  “Cameron…”

  “Hope, that senior citizen you’re engaged to doesn’t deserve you. You know that just as well as I do. And not because you’re way better than him, but because your heart doesn’t belong there.”

  She groans. “You’re a cardiologist all of a sudden?”

  I start reaching for her hand again, but stop myself. It’s too soon. “Look at me, Hope.”

  “No way, Cameron!” she squawks. “You’re pushing it!”

  “Oliver and Olivia and that story you just can’t let go of, it’s all about seizing the moments while you have them. Those two people exist, right?”

  She shakes her head, but I can see that the gears are turning in her mind. “It’s all made up. Emma and some accountant started this thing…”

  “And how did things turn out for Emma? Did she and this other guy end up together?” I wait a few seconds for a response that never comes. We both know the answer to my question, so it doesn’t surprise me when Hope stays quiet. Which is great because now isn’t the time for the two of us to get involved in a long, drawn out dissertation regarding some story about two people who couldn’t get their shit together. Now is the time for me to reach for her hand and pull her aside so she’ll look at me, once and for all.

  In one ninja-swift motion out of a Fred Astaire routine, I grab her wrist and wheel her out of the flow of pedestrian traffic, twirling her into the doorway that belongs to an emergency exit for one of the older buildings.

  She tries not to laugh at the sudden spontaneity of my motion, frowning and giving me that faux pissed-off glare of hers instead. “Cameron!”

  “Hope, shut up for a minute. Just look at me.” She stays quiet, so while I catch my breath, I nudge her chin upward with my hand. “Please. Just look into my eyes.” She complies, and I smile softly. “There, how’s that? Better?”

  She hesitates before her shoulders slouch. “I can’t do this.”

  “You can do this,” I insist. This is my last fucking card, and I have to play it. It’s now or never. “We need this day. Just the two of us. I’ve made all of these arrangements for today, and I swear, if it’s the last thing I do for you, for the woman I love more than any human should be allowed to love, that’s fine.” I reach out and nudge her chin again, forcing her to stare straight into my eyes. “Hope, please.” I motion at the space between us. “This is the worst kind of love out there.”

  I can practically feel her heart pounding, and all I’m holding is her hand. I know this because my chest wants to burst, too.

  “Cameron,” she whispers, but I can tell she’s given up. She will call in sick today.

  “This love,” I tell her, “is the kind that destroys people. Give me this one day, Hope. This final day. If you give me this, and you still get on that plane next week…”

  “I am getting on that plane,” she says, her voice about as convincing as a two-year-old telling you he didn’t shit himself despite the sagging diaper around his waist.

  “…then I will give you the freedom you’ve asked for.” I release her hand and place mine over my left breast. “I will stop fighting for you. I will let go. Forever.”

  Her pretty hazel eyes dance across my face as she calculates her risks like any good accountant would.

  I make one last plea. “Hope, this is our story. Let’s write it together.”

  At last, she gives a long sigh and shakes her head at me. “Damn you, Cameron.”

  I hand her my phone. “I’ve programmed your boss’s number. Just press SEND and you’re set.”

  She slaps my hand away. “You better pull through and give me that freedom once today is over.”

  “I promise.” And the promise I make to my heart is that I won’t let go again.

  Shaking her head again, she reaches into her bag and retrieves her phone. I watch her scroll through her contact list and find the right number before pressing the phone to the side of her face. “Cameron…” she sighs.

  “Should’ve just used my phone. We’ve already wasted a minute, at least.” A minute to those in the crowd could mean a crazy market fluctuation, a late slip, a lost paycheck. A minute waiting for Hope meant more wasted moments, memories that would never happen.

  “Shh!” she scolds me. And then, “Hiya, Ian? Sorry to do this on a Friday before the long weekend, but I’m really not feeling well.”

  } i {

  Two Months Ago…

  Chapter 15

  Seeing Hope in the lobby at 1:03 that afternoon, I felt my world quake. She strode with absolute confidence, unwilling give up the slightest indication of her true thoughts or feelings, while I struggled to keep my shit together. It didn’t help that she was the only image of perfection I had ever known.

  “Sorry about last night,” I said, shrugging once she was close enough to hear me. “How crazy did Matt get once you got home?”

  She waved me to a bench in the lobby, which could mean nothing but bad news. Not a stroll in the park, not an invitation to a nearby restaurant. A shitty bench with all of these people around us. I sat down, but she remained standing. Yup, bad news.

  “You’re not hungry?” I asked.

  “Cameron, please,” she said, the wariness in her tone signaling defeat, surrender. “I just want to apologize. I’m not hungry, I’m tired.”

  “Food will give you energy.”

  At last, a half-smile tickled the edge of her mouth, followed by a sigh, which essentially nullified any sign of her softening shell.

  “My condo is a couple blocks away.” I pointed out the window, remembering the diner I passed yesterday en route to the Bat Cave. “I’ve got some tasty left overs I could reheat…”

  She massaged her temples, closing her eyes for a moment before snapping them back to me. Her resolve returned with a ferocity I knew only as Hope. “Cameron, this needs to stop.”

  “Lunch is an important meal, Hope. Why won’t you let me feed you?”

  “Not the lunch, goob,” she said, but no smirk or other hint of lightheartedness reached the surface like I had expected. “All of this crazy shit. About us. I’m sorry, but I can’t keep doing this.”

  “Doing what?”

  She placed a hand on my shoulder and gave me the sternest stare I had ever known from her. “Matt was right. I need you to understand something. You and I need to stop. You need to move on. I need to move on. It’s not fair to Matt that you and I have reconnected.”

  “You’re moving away soon enough, so what’s the harm?”

  “It’s not fair to anyone. You shouldn’t risk your marriage with Riley. You and I, we had our shot. We missed it. It’s time to let go and move on.” She gave me a curt nod, then turned to walk away, but I seized her wrist and pulled her back.

  “I’ve still got something like fifty minutes before I’m expected back from lunch,” I said. I tried to keep the desperation out of my voice. “Let’s talk about this.�
��

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Cameron. I need to go.” She yanked her wrist free, pulling it so hard that I almost fell off the bench. Her strength surprised me. I had forgotten just how strong she could be. I covered up my fumble by standing and following her to the elevators.

  “Then I’m coming with you,” I said.

  “No, you’re not.” She hit the button for the elevators, then stepped aboard the first one.

  I followed her in.

  “You won’t get past the hallway without a special key fob. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking you’re full of shit, Hope.” I meant it, too. “I’m thinking you’re working really hard at pushing me away, testing me. And nobody works that hard at something that should be easy. Which tells me it’s not something you want. You don’t want me to disappear; you want me to keep fighting, to never let go. Because if we weren’t meant to be together, pushing me away wouldn’t be so hard, would it?”

  The elevator stopped. I followed Hope into a hallway. She walked toward a single doorway at the end of that hall.

  “Hope, give me forty-five minutes,” I begged. “Let’s talk this through.”

  She reached the door and turned around. I saw that her eyes were a little moist. This was not fun for her. How could I have ever questioned that? She kept her voice low, almost a whisper. “This isn’t fair to Matt. He’s a good man. He’s always there for me. And I love him.”

  “He’s wrong for you.”

  She frowned, as if I had just sprinkled cold water on her face. “This is wrong, Cameron. You need to go.”

  I studied her eyes as they bore into mine, scarring my soul. I felt fully vulnerable right then, but it didn’t matter; she had seen all of me already…she owned me.

  “Okay,” I said. “You win.” When she started to turn away, I blurted that I love her. “I won’t stop,” I elaborated. “But if it makes it easier for you to think that our meeting the other day at Panera wasn’t some motion of fate or destiny, then you’re crazy.”