Chapter 9 Sickness
Davey
“Daph, do you—”
I stopped, looking around. My sister wasn’t here. Most of the office was at lunch, but Daphne never took her lunch or ate at her desk. Her husband never got a break, so she preferred to work on through it and leave right at five to hit the gym and see him. She was nothing if not predictable.
At the small table in the corner was her laptop—still open—and two massive cartons I recognized from the basement cafe. I heard her retching in the bathroom and grew concerned. I knew she had an appointment this afternoon—an important one. Was she not okay?
“Daphne?” I asked.
The sink turned on, then stopped, and a person emerged—it was not Daphne.
“Oh, fuck!” Eva startled, then settled.
“What are you doing in there?” I asked, sounding much angrier than concerned. I projected the wrong emotions already.
I put two and two together. She was vomiting. She’d just consumed two massive pastries.
“Are you… did you just… you don’t have to do that to yourself, Eva. You really deserve better than living in a world where—”
“I wasn’t purging! Jesus Christ!” Eva said. “I like my body, thanks. I just… it didn’t sit well.”
She looked down, then muttered, “Bloody hell!” Disappearing again, she slammed the door behind her.
“Go away, okay?” She called through the door.
“What? Why?”
“I have sick on my jumper!”
“Eva, did you lose your mind?” I chuckled. “You sound like my mother.”
My mother was a Scot raised in posh boarding schools in the South of England.
“I’m sorry. I’m overwhelmed. I don’t want to come out. I’ve got puke on me and—”
She started sobbing irrationally.
“Can I help in any way?” I asked.
“I don’t think so.”
I waited her out. She emerged once more in a work-inappropriate ensemble. Her cute little tennis skirt and low-cut tank top would have been fine at the gym. It violated every bit of our dress code—and probably that of many stodgy pros at the tennis club.
“I am sorry,” Eva cried. “I am out of clothes.”
“What is going on?” I repeated. “And where is my sister?”
“She’s getting tests run. I borrowed her office.”
“And you’re ill. So, what, you’re spreading norovirus?”
I was a germaphobe. Any of my staff knew even a sniffle necessitated a mask or work from home. Childhood asthma left me phobic of germy confines. For all I knew, Eva was a very sexy Typhoid Mary.
“It’s not catching.” Eva grabbed a tissue and blew her nose.
I needed to get her something to wear over her top. The way her breasts spilled out of her tank top was about to send me over the edge. How were her tits better now than weeks ago? Or was I just wistful?
“We have polos from our golf tournament still,” I said. “Some people forgot to pick them up, so they’re fair game. Would that help?”
She nodded, still sniffling.
I rushed out to find an intern near the supply closet. He stared at me in terror.
“Hey, can you grab a size small polo out of the golf tourney box?”
“Where is it?”
I rolled my eyes. “Let me do it.”
I knew I was a sight to see as I crawled through boxes to grab one labeled “golf shiz”.
Who the hell oversaw organizing this place?
I tossed the box down, found a shirt, and raced back to Eva.
She was bent over at the waist at her computer typing an email.
I tried to look away from her cleavage for fear she’d turn me to stone.
“Here you are,” I looked down. “A unisex small?”
Eva pulled back. “I will make it work.”
She pulled the shirt over her head and settled into it. “I look very… festive. Thanks.”
She looked great wearing our logo. Damn.
“I’m sorry for the confusion,” I apologized. “Really.”
“No… it’s okay,” she said. “I… I need to run out to get my medication. Can I leave my stuff in Daphne’s office or—”
“You sure you’re not contagious?”
Eva grabbed her wallet and glared, saying nothing.
She marched past, out the door, and ignored me.
Once again, I must have said the absolute wrong thing.
I noticed her hoodie balled up in the trashcan.
Despite my fear of puke, I picked it up, bagged it, and took it to the small laundry unit off the executive suite that we used for linens from board meetings and other VIP events.
I figured Eva didn’t want to get rid of her hoodie but was mortified.
So, I tossed the hoodie into the washer before scrubbing my hands with soap for the next five minutes.