Sick Day (2 page)

5:28 AM

N
ot a cloud in the sky as the sun rises over the Gold Coast’s impressive skyline.

“…couple of minutes before five-thirty on this Friday morning as we ease into the summer’s last long weekend,” Big C announces as the radio alarm fires off. “So who wants to call in sick and get a head start on what will arguably be one of the finest weekends we’ve had all year?”

I step away from the floor-to-ceiling windows, noticing Riley’s picture on the wall, and smack the alarm’s
OFF
button as I pass the bed on my way to the bathroom. Despite my condo being thirty floors above street level, the hot water arrives almost instantly once I turn on the faucet. It’s a nice bathroom—so nice that I feel guilty whenever I use it to, uh, relieve myself. Even standing under the steaming spray from the rainfall showerhead, I feel a little bad about the LeLabo soap pooling on the travertine at my feet. Yes, it’s
that
pretty of a bathroom.

So I hurry up, squeegeeing the tile and glass clean before drying my hair and getting dressed.

I love my condo, which explains the OCD cleanliness and near-institutional feel to it. I like it this way, and I probably
should
be institutionalized for what I’m about to do. Grabbing the cordless phone in the kitchen, I drop a Chai Tea Latte K-cup into the Keurig and wait for it to finish brewing before dialing the phone number I know all too well.

It rings five times before the voicemail picks up. If not for the spicy aroma from my girly coffee, I would normally feel slightly ill at the sound of my boss’s voice. But the coffee gives me strength; it reminds me of the adventure awaiting me. At the beep, I leave my message, keeping my voice purposely coarse and pained.

“Newman,” I groan. “I’m dying. For real this time. I think it’s…” I haven’t really thought this part through because I’ve recently become something of an expert at calling in sick, so I blurt the first thing that comes to mind, fully aware that last week’s “sickness” was food poisoning: “E-coli poisoning.”
Fuck. Tart.
Face-palm fucktart, actually. “Sorry to be doing this to you and the team on a Friday before Labor Day, but…” I cough, then wonder,
Do people cough with e-coli poisoning?
Or do they just puke a lot? Or at all?
Whatevs, no point splitting hairs over the details now. “I have to run, Newman. You know where to—”
cough
“—where to find me.”

I hang up and laugh because Newman has me against the ropes right now, and that screw-up with the e-coli probably just cost me my job.
Great.

Grabbing the steaming cup from the
Keurig, I head to the Bat Cave—my special name for the den, a tight room with two bean bag chairs and a sixty-inch flat screen that doubles as my gaming and computer screen. All kinds of great ideas are born here. I drop onto red Tipsy (the other chair is called brown Topsy) and hit the remote for the screen.

Once I see that the Japanese Yen has weakened against the US dollar by more than one percent overnight, I turn the television off. And I laugh. Again.

It’s not even six o’clock and this beautiful day is already slipping out of my control. I shake my head, take a sip of the Chai Tea Latte, and allow myself to be enveloped by courage. It’s exactly what I need if I really plan on writing this text message that kept me up all night.

Grabbing my iPhone, I activate my
jAppe messaging service and find the thumbnail of Hope’s picture. I tap on her face, a pic that I took just two months ago against her protests. It amazes me that such a small thumbnail can encapsulate the full definition of perfection, but it does. Hope is my perfect.

I type the quick message, and press send. It looks like this:

Me: Let’s play sick day together.

Then I watch the iPhone’s screen and wait for her to read my message, wondering the entire time if her fiancé will find it first and come for me like he did the last time I crossed that line into his happy home.

} i {

Two
Months Ago

W
hile standing in the early morning line at the Panera Bread downtown, I heard a voice that brought my world to a standstill. I couldn’t help it, but I swung around and stared past the line of traders and suits behind me until my eyes located her. Hope McManus.

To me, she looked exactly like she had the last time I saw her three years, four months, and two days ago. (I was probably a little inaccurate with the months and days, but definitely right about it being three years). Except
this
sight of her was a happy one, as evidenced by that smile she displayed while speaking to another man, a guy in a suit who seemed to be our age—early thirties at the most and flirting with the notion of gray hair.

“You’re up,” the trader in the orange vest (not one of
Landon’s guys) told me, staring sternly past me at the girl behind the counter. I could read his impatience the same way he read market trends at the Merc all day.

I refocused, or tried pretty damn hard to at least reorient myself in reality, and stumbled through my regular order. Since hearing Hope’s voice, I had lost both my focus and my appetite. I really didn’t care if they used a regular egg instead of the egg whites I would have normally asked for, and keep the change. Yes, I know I gave you a twenty, just keep it, keep it, for real, I’m late, let’s hurry up.

Get it together.

After paying for and collecting my food, I kept my head down and made my way toward the doors when she called me.

“Cameron!” It was an order, not a question. It was Hope.

I froze as she hurried over and planted herself right in front of me, taking my elbows so I couldn’t run off and, well, die. That smile of hers killed me, those bright white teeth killed me, her hazel eyes killed me, her dark, wavy hair killed me. Everything about her was murderously perfect.

I smiled back at her (easy enough to do) and squeezed out in one long, run-on breath, “Hope, you look great what are you doing back in Chicago it’s been so long since I’ve heard from you wow it’s so nice to see you again are you living here or just visiting what have you been up to and how long will you be here?”

Hope laughed. Deep down, I figured she would do that—kill me some more with her essence before giving the knife a final turn in my chest for good measure.

I forced a laugh of my own; I didn’t want to feel left out in our private chat in the middle of this busy Panera Bread. When I stopped acting like a donkey, she handed me a business card.

The first thing I noticed was that her last name hadn’t changed. The second thing I noticed was the address. My face stiffened as I met her stare again. “That’s the same building where I work,” I said.

The smile melted off her lips. “I haven’t seen you there. Are you new?”

I consulted the business card again. She was on the 14
th
floor at a company called Probst Financial Consultants LLC. I was on the 45
th
. Different elevators, but still a mystery that we hadn’t crossed paths before.

I shrugged. “Been with SCF for three years this October. But anyway, we should—”

“Grab lunch,” she finished for me, and that smile returned.

“Yes,” I agreed, frowning like the professional banker I was supposed to be.

“And soon.”

The man she had arrived with brought her coffee and nodded at me. His hands were full from carrying her order, as well as his own.

“Yes,” I said with a nod that almost convinced me that I was back to normal. “Soon.”

When we left Panera, Hope and her colleague steered left, and I turned right, even though we were all headed to the same building. I was sure my behavior would be interpreted as bizarre, but one surprise miracle in a single day was just about enough for me.

} i {

T
hat day, running into Hope at Panera sucked. A lot. Had I not already used the last of my annual sick day allowance this month—blame that one on a hard weekend of partying with Gordon and some of his poshy executive friends aboard a company jet to New York—I would’ve used it to get my head straight that day. Combine that with Newman on my ass about some of my past due, cross-selling reports, taking time off was definitely out of the question.

Speaking of Gordon, I called him after spending an hour Google-stalking Hope McManus, who didn’t exist according to the fine folks in Mountain View, California. But she did exist; I had just seen her and stared into her eyes.

“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.”

}
i {

G
ordon was right, and I knew it. After hanging up, I stepped away from my cubicle and started toward the stairs to the 46
th
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 46
th
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 January. 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.”

} i {