Sick Day

by Morgan Parker

  She froze, her back to me. “You need to leave now, Cameron.” And then she seemed to remember what she was doing and used her special access fob to get inside the office where she worked. And when she disappeared inside, I thought of the other time she had left without a glance back.

  Cold, yes.

  But this time, I stood there for a beat before realizing the truth behind her message. All of this bullshit with wanting to see me, wanting to tell me to fuck off to my face…it could mean only one thing.

  She still loved me.

  After getting back to my desk, I sent Hope the following email:

  Hey, no worries about the miscommunication today at lunch. I know you’re tired and didn’t mean anything by what you said. How about we reschedule lunch for tomorrow? And we can actually eat something this time?

  - Cam

  I waited all day for a response that never came. I even stayed at work a little later than normal. By 5:30, I felt Newman’s dickhead presence behind me. I rotated in my chair and stared at him, curious about the sneer on his face.

  “You’re not getting in-lieu time, Cam,” he said.

  I gave an understanding nod. “It’s not what I’m after.”

  The edges of his lips began to curl upward, the double chin somehow enhanced in his moment of personal victory. “This doesn’t provide you any job security, either.”

  I made a show of checking the watch on my wrist. “It’s half an hour, Newman. I’m only doing what I always do.”

  He gave a fake chuckle. “What would that be?”

  “An exceptional job.”

  The insincere camaraderie melted off his face. If he could’ve grown demonic horns out the top of his head, this would’ve been their birthing moment.

  “I don’t expect that you’ve gone through the single-purchase report,” I said. “So I’m writing my recommendations right now. In plain, third-grade English,” I added. “With pretty pie charts and colorful profitability projections, and—”

  “Go home, Cam,” Newman growled, having burned through what little patience he had left. “White-gloved princesses like you don’t survive in the trenches. It’s the hard-working, back-breaking, middle-management types like me who make sure you and your big-boy friends upstairs don’t bring the rest of our company down.” He turned and walked away, sneering down the length of his nose like he owned the world.

  “Maybe you’re wrong about me, Newman,” I called out after him.

  “Not a chance,” he said, his back to me. “I’m never wrong.”

  “There’s always a first,” I said.

  “Not this time,” he huffed as he left the 45th floor work area and entered the elevator lobby.

  Shaking my head at his ridiculousness, I returned to the computer. I checked my inbox first. When I saw that Hope still hadn’t responded, I refocused on the report and absent-mindedly completed my write up. By 6:15, I was all finished, fired it off to Newman, then packed up and left for the night.

  } i {

  Chapter 16

  I decided on the twenty-minute walk home. It was a slightly longer commute than taking the subway, but it afforded me some time to clear my head for what I imagined awaited me at the condo.

  I cut across West Wacker and walked North on Michigan Avenue, always amazed by the clusters of tourists. It never really mattered what time of year it was, they came here like it was Times Square, spending more money at these high-end shops than they would if they travelled just a little farther off this beaten path.

  But mostly, I watched the couples. I watched them holding hands, smiling at each other, talking, kissing, and that sight begged the question: were Riley and I like them? Did we hold hands, smile, talk, and kiss like these people did? Of course we put on the show of a happy couple, but there was something more when I saw these complete strangers doing those things. But these people lacked something. They lacked the therapeutic, clinical affection that Riley and I shared.

  To say I felt a little lonely in my young marriage would be an understatement. All the affection and sap-inspired togetherness on Michigan Avenue was making me think of just one other person, and she hadn’t responded to my email. I wasn’t delusional enough to ignore just how pathetic I was to cling to this idea that Hope and I would be together someday. It was the most insane belief in the world, and I fully accepted that.

  I made my left on Huron and noticed how quickly all of that love and togetherness dissipated after a block, and how completely gone it was by the time I reached my building, where the doorman gave me a salaried smile and opened the lobby door.

  I rode the elevator to the 30th floor, keeping my head down as I walked the quiet hallway to my door at the end. As I slid the key into the lock and eased the door open, I sensed her behind me. I caught myself stopping and wanting to look back, but recovered quickly and simply entered the unit like I hadn’t noticed her at all.

  “Hey, Riley, I’m home,” I called out to the emptiness, easing the door shut. The moment the door latched, I pressed my face to the peephole to see if I had been correct.

  In the fish-eye view, I saw her approaching me, my unit. Her strut was as confident as it had been earlier today at lunch. I waited. And it hurt. I felt sick and happy and sad and angry and pained and triumphant, and everything else she ever made me feel.

  Once she was close enough to raise her fist to knock, I yanked the door open and pulled her inside, throwing her back up against the wall.

  “Look at me,” I begged against her thrashing. “Look at me!”

  “Cameron!” she yelled, hammering me with her balled fists, but that rage didn’t last long as I reached up and took her face with my hands. “Stop! Don’t!”

  I tilted my head and erased the distance between our faces. “Look—”

  “Stop it! Don’t!” She kept pounding my chest, angry and hurt. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you fucking—”

  But when I pressed my lips to hers, all she did was melt into me, wrapping her legs around my waist and locking her arms around my neck.

  She loved me. Just like I had loved her all of this time, like I would always love her. She loved me back without saying the words.

  } i {

  Present Day

  Chapter 17

  8:56 AM

  Terzo Piano is the well-known and popular dining room located within the Art Institute of Chicago. The chef lives in the same building as I do, and some of Gordon’s executive friends are or were big donors to the AIC (along with the Clinton family). So last week, when I first started planning this sick day, I made two phone calls in one day and cornered the Chef in my lobby the next. Technically, the restaurant only served lunch during the week, but those phone calls had worked wonders.

  “Where are we going?” Hope asks as we stroll across the pedestrian bridge. Halfway to the other side, I stop her and point straight down Monroe into the belly of downtown Chicago.

  “It doesn’t matter, because we’re not there.”

  “Cameron, are you kidding me? You brought me up here to tell me that?” She slaps at my wrist. “I hope your boss is looking here right this instant.”

  I snuggle closer to her and breathe in her coconut scent, but she shoves me away. “I hope so, too,” I admit. “Then I’ll have an excuse to chase you out west if you still get on that plane.”

  “I am getting on that plane, goob! And you promised to leave me alone once I do.”

  Saying nothing else, I place my hand on the lower part of her back and nudge her forward, continuing across the bridge toward the AIC’s Modern Wing.

  “What are we doing? The museum? Really?” She frowns at me.

  I try to put a finger on her lips to shush her, but she slaps my hand away. So much for foreplay. “You’ll see.”

  As we reach the glass doors, a waitress in a white shirt and a black skirt puts on a smile and opens the door for us. “Nice to see you, Cam.”

  She gives me a polite nod as I escort Hope into the restaurant. I glance over
at her to see how impressed she is. On a scale of one to ten—ten being absolutely dumbfounded—I place her at a one, absolutely unimpressed.

  “Right this way,” the waitress says, steering us past the reception counter to a wide-open, white room. Normally, this space would have a variety of tables positioned throughout the vast floor. Then again, Terzo Piano normally doesn’t open until eleven during the week. Instead of its regular scattering of dining tables, there is only one table here today.

  A white one, with two white chairs and white table settings.

  Squarely in the middle.

  I glance at Hope a second time to see if the needle has budged from that one to something higher, like a twenty.

  “So?” I ask, because it doesn’t look like she’s really all that absolutely dumbfounded.

  “Am I supposed to be taking pictures?” she responds.

  Okay. I start laughing because what she just said was a little funny, but I’m also disappointed she doesn’t get the message just yet. “Let’s sit down.” Maybe it will sink in for her then.

  The waitress holds Hope’s chair out for her, then presents us with orange juice and offers coffee or tea. I decline, but Hope motions for the tea. When the waitress disappears, she leans over the table to get closer to me, and if her crimped forehead is any indication, she’s a little confused.

  “What is all of this supposed to mean, Cameron?”

  I lean forward, toying with the napkin. Here goes. “Two months ago—”

  She presses her back into her seat, shaking her head and cutting me off. “No, no, no. This is not about what happened two months ago.”

  I think about it for a minute. “Okay, you’re right. It’s not just two months ago. It’s three years ago, it’s ten years ago, it’s since the beginning of time for us. That’s what this is, isn’t it?”

  She gives an elaborate wave to the nearly empty white space. “If you’re trying to impress me—”

  “I knew it!”

  “Knew what?” she asks, sincerely unimpressed.

  “I knew that you were impressed.”

  She laughs at me. “That’s the point. Because I’m not impressed. Taking me out of work to buy me breakfast at some restaurant you paid off with your big-shot connections and big-shot severance package—”

  “What are you suggesting, Hope?” I can hear my voice getting tighter and the high-pitched words echoing off the walls and tall ceiling like a ping-pong ball in a concert hall.

  She rolls her eyes, and, just like that, we’ve fallen back into that push-and-pull existence that we know all too well.

  “Matt never bought me,” she confides. “You think it’s about his money, but I’m not something he picked off some shelf and bought.”

  “You’re right, he hasn’t bought you. If anything, he’s renting you,” I mumble.

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “And you’re in denial, Hope.” I point back over my shoulder, the tension rising into my shoulders. “Two months ago wasn’t goodbye. You showed up at my place after you told me to fuck off at lunch, remember?”

  “Stop it.” She crosses her legs and pulls her attention away.

  “You kissed me, and it was fucking perfect and everything that followed was—”

  She throws her napkin on the table and pushes her chair out. “Stop it, or I’m walking away. And this time I won’t show up to apologize.”

  I hold my hands up in defeat, letting out a long breath. “Please don’t. This isn’t supposed to be like this, Hope.”

  “Then what’s it supposed to be, Cameron?”

  I stare at the table for what feels like an eternity. Where’s the fucking tea already? When I look up to Hope’s hardened face, I see that maybe it—this—really is over. That seems to be the trend for me these days.

  “What’s it supposed to be?” she asks again, tapping her foot on the floor.

  I take a big gulp of air, building up courage. Fast. “Three years ago, I fucked up. I fucked up when I didn’t come after you.”

  “We’re not talking about three years ago, Cameron. We’re talking about now. About what now is supposed to be like at this fancy little dining space you’ve rented for me.”

  “For us,” I correct her.

  “Semantics.” She softens a little. “So what’s it supposed to be like now?”

  Hope’s tea arrives, affording me a bit of time to refocus my energy, to think of something brilliant to say because she’s truly not seeing the importance of our breakfast here. I watch her pour a packet of fake sugar and 2% milk into her tea, stirring it with a hand that trembles just enough for me to notice.

  When she brings her attention back to me before lifting the steaming cup to her lips, I tell her what now is supposed to be like. “It’s supposed to be like we promised it would. Before we even left for college.”

  “But those days are gone and dead, Cameron,” she sighs. “Just like three years ago, just like two months ago. It can never be like that, like we promised. So now what are you left with?”

  Easy. I tap the table once to hammer my point home. “This moment. And if you think I’m going to let go of this moment ever again, you’re wrong. I’m never letting go. I’m never letting go of you, Hope.”

  With that promise, her eyes turn into the magic of shooting stars, but it doesn’t last long because the waitress returns, this time with our breakfast.

  The promise of never letting go isn’t wasted, though. It lingers between us, and I know she’ll think about it for the rest of our day together. Maybe even the rest of her life if she doesn’t tell Matt she’s leaving him.

  } i {

  Three Years Ago

  Chapter 18

  While I set the dinner table, I came face-to-face with an interesting paradox. I had made two promises—one to the woman who was singing in the shower upstairs, after a long week of being underpaid and abused by arrogant white-collar mind-rapists; the other to the woman who stood outside my townhouse in the rain, watching me from the shadows of the neighbor’s minivan. But keeping one of them meant breaking the other.

  How bizarre, I thought, noticing her pale face in the darkness. I stepped away from the table-setting to see if I had hallucinated the sight of Hope McManus after all of these years. How bizarre that keeping one promise meant breaking another, and here was one of those promises standing outside the home I owned with my fiancée.

  “Holy shit,” I breathed, staring out the large window and straight into Hope’s eyes. I raised a hand to her, almost like a wave, but she only stared back at me. Because of the rain, I couldn’t tell if she was crying or angry or a freaking ghost, really.

  “Cam!” Riley called from upstairs.

  “What?” I yelled back, but I refused to pull my eyes from the sight of Hope, my Hope.

  “Do we have time for a quickie? What’s left on the timer?”

  Shit. A quickie with Hope standing outside?

  “No!” I said.

  “Okay, I’ll be right down,” Riley promised. “It smells amazing!”

  Fuck, even worse.

  “Wait, wait!” I shouted back. “I’ll be right up.”

  I didn’t know if there was twenty minutes or twenty seconds left on the timer for whatever it was I had placed in the oven. All I knew was that if Riley came downstairs, I would have to pull my stare away from Hope. And I also knew that once I broke this stare between us, she would disappear.

  Again.

  “Hurry up!” Riley shouted. “I’m already wet, and I’m gonna get started without you! Damn, I’m fucking horny tonight!”

  “Uh huh,” I mumbled, raising my hand to Hope again. Except this time I gave her the “one minute” sign, which probably looked like the “this is my pointer finger” sign as well.

  Backing away from the front window, I hurried to the front door, taking my eyes off her for less than five seconds as I searched for my shoes, then decided to bypass any footwear because it would take too long to tie the laces. Then I
ran outside to find exactly what I had expected.

  She was gone.

  Our exclusive, executive community had our row of townhomes facing another row, with a common laneway between us. It led to a mound of pretty landscaping and a gazebo that apparently justified the $500 per month in common fees. I searched that laneway, looked up and down. On the down search, I caught sight of Hope running away. Not toward the gazebo, which would’ve been the easiest thing.

  “Hope!” I yelled, then launched into a sprint after her. I pumped my legs harder than I had in the past few weeks because I had been too busy at Harris to even see the gym, let alone start any kind of workout. But I was quick, and I was gaining on her as she steered off the grounds and onto the busy four-lane street.

  “Hope!” I begged

  “No!” she yelled, glancing back to see how close I was getting.

  “Stop for a minute! Please! I’m gonna fucking die here!”

  “Then fuck off and die, Cameron!” she screamed.

  Once I was close enough, I lunged at her and tackled her to the drenched grass next to the community center. The lights from the indoor pool where old people did water-cise activities flooded onto us. I glanced inside the pool area, but nobody seemed to notice the shoeless young man who had just taken down the soaking wet young woman outside their group exercise class.

  “Hope, stop!” I begged her.

  But she didn’t stop; she kept squirming and fighting in my arms, even as I held her in this tight spooning position.

  “Shit, will you just stop already?” I screamed, then kissed the side of her face because I missed her. Oh, fuck, did I ever miss her, the taste of her face on my lips, but I also didn’t know what else to do.

  That kiss did it. The ferocity of her squirming and fighting lightened.