The truck jerks to the right and I skid halfway across the bench, bringing the seatbelt with me. Shouldn’t that thing lock or something? I guess not when fate wants me grabbing this guy’s junk. Of course, it takes a solid ten-seconds to realize where my hand ended up. “I think this might be grounds for a sexual harassment complaint.” I whip my arm around, grabbing my hand as if I accidentally touched something scorching hot. Then again, the analogy works here.
He doesn’t laugh after his statement, and a moment of fear pours through me. “It was an accident,” I assure him.
“It’s a good thing. If it wasn’t, it would definitely be sexual harassment.”
By the time Logan parks the truck in a spot outside the cafe, I feel like I have sweat dripping down the back of my neck, yet I feel like I’m standing inside of a freezer at the same moment. This has been the craziest ride I’ve ever experienced.
“Logan, is this a joke to you?” It’s rude, but I’m honestly concerned about my job. Sexual harassment isn’t something to joke about. It could ruin my career.
“A joke? No, I think I might be missing the whole job security fear tactic thing though, and I apologize if I’m making you nervous.”
At least he’s honest. “Is this what you do?”
“Take sharp turns into parking lots, so a chick grabs my dick? Not usually, though I can’t say I’m upset at the way it turned out.” Holy crap. How did we get here? He was as sweet as pie yesterday when helping with Cora, and now he’s this … this … devil in a baseball player’s hot body.
“No, I mean job hop and hit on women until you get fired.”
“I can’t say that’s the case. Before this job, I was surrounded by a lot of dudes every day.”
“So, it’s just me? And you just pretended like you don’t know where to get a sandwich when you live five minutes away from the office, didn’t you?” I remembered that little tidbit of information as we were flying into the lot. He was pulling a fast one on me.
He holds his hands up in defense. “Okay, okay, I wanted to have lunch with you. Sue me. I’ll quit being nice, okay?”
“That isn’t what I asked,” I tell him.
“Do I find you attractive and think it’s kind of sexy that you’re my boss? Yeah, Am I a little worried you’re going right to Human Resources when we get back so you can report me? Only a little. It would get out into the news, and I’d have reporters at my door. Then it would get messy, but I’m a player. I play to win, and I know how to deal with striking out. What can I say?” He’s cracking himself up, and I’m stifling the same feeling.
“A player?” I question.
“A game player,” he corrects me.
“A game player where women are your bases?”
He raises a brow and quirks his lip a touch. “No, where bases are safe, and the only balls getting hit are the ones flying out of a park.”
“Jesus, what kind of women have you dated?”
“I’m hungry. I say stupid things when I’m hungry.” He hops out of the truck and rushes around to my side. I hadn’t opened the door yet because I’ve been caught up in my thoughts, trying to figure out what the hell he’s all about. I catch my reflection in the side mirror briefly before the door opens, and I honestly don’t get it.
He offers me his hand this time, and I not-so-gracefully jump down. If he weren’t there, I probably would have gone head first, but he saved that play too. “Thank you,” I tell him.
“Sure, so, while we’re eating lunch, can I ask you a favor?”
I glance over and up at him, along with the serious expression masking his face. “Okay?”
“Forget about work.” If I do that, my thoughts go directly to Cora, wondering if she’s feeling any better. Rather than calling her like a good mother would be doing, I’m having lunch with a man I’d be drooling over if I wouldn’t be fired for it. I suppose I can drool with my imagination. I can do other things with my imagination too. Oh yeah, my imagination is good. It has always been good to me.
I look over at Logan as we’re walking into the café, and he’s naked. His ass has those side muscles that you could fit a fist into (not that I’ve tried). I’ve never felt an ass like that before. I wonder if it’s all firm or if any part of it is soft. Also, it’s hairless so is that because he waxes, shaves, or maybe he’s just lucky? Because Rick’s ass is hairier than his head, and it was nothing I fondly touched or looked at. When I did accidentally touch it, it felt like running my fingers through an old man’s balding head with stringy hair.
“You look like you’re not feeling so hot. Are you okay?” Logan asks as he opens the door
“Oh, I—I was just thinking about my ex-husband’s hairy a—wow, okay, um, yeah, I’m fine.”
The look on Logan’s face is one of sheer discomfort. “I’m sorry, were you just about to say you were thinking about your husband’s hairy ass?”
He releases the door to the cafe, closing us outside of the warmth. “Um.”
“It’s either a yes or no?”
“Why does it matter to you?” I come back with. Smooth, Hannah. Real smooth.
“Well, we were walking into the restaurant, I asked you if you felt okay and you shouted something about your ex-husband’s hairy ass. Obviously, you can’t blame me for wondering what the correlation is?”
There are many days, and moments within those days, where I just say screw it and release what my big trap was holding in. “Well, since I’m already at risk for sexual harassment, I might as well be honest with you and just say I was wondering what your ass looked like, and it made me realize I’ve never actually seen a nice-looking, naked ass because I was with my ex-husband since high school.”
“I’m flattered that you think I have a nice ass, even though you’ve never seen it, hopefully, but if you knew your ex since high school, there had to be a point in time where he had a nice ass?” Logan crosses his arms over his chest as if he were honestly intrigued by my statements.
“Never,” I tell him honestly. “It was his worst feature … before he cheated on me.”
“Inferiority complex,” he says.
“What?” I wrap my arms around my body because I’m beginning to shiver from the cold. Logan notices and reopens the door to the cafe. “I meant he was probably feeling down about himself since you probably have a pretty nice ass, so he needed to see if someone else would take him with his funky ass, or if it was just you.”
“Wow,” I say, walking into the warmth. I’m flattered he thinks I have a nice ass. That’s sweet. Let’s hope he never finds out that it’s a little saggy, with a touch of cellulite mixed in.
“What do you eat here?”
“The roast beef sandwich is pretty good,” I tell him.
“Good, go sit down. I’ll grab us a couple of sandwiches. I’m sure you want to call to see how Cora’s feeling.”
I love you. That almost just came out of my mouth. It’s a good thing I still have some sort of a filter left.
I take the booth in the back corner and call the house phone first to see if they’re still there. No answer, though. I love calling Rick’s phone. It’s like the highlight of my life.
Yo? Rick speaking. Asshole.
“Yo, Rick speaking.”
“Why do you need to announce yourself when you have caller ID?”
“Habit,” he says.
“Kind of like infidelity?” Why can’t I help acting like a five-year-old every time I talk to him? “How is Cora?”
“The fever broke. I had her in the tub for a bit this morning since she was freezing, but after some Motrin, she seemed to get a little energy. She’s napping now, though.”
“I feel awful that I’m not there,” I tell him. It was an inside thought that should have stayed inside.
“She’s in good hands, Hannah. I am her father. I can take care of her.” He can’t see me squinting my eyes at his words. How come he never took care of her while we were married? He was always too busy doing something else, to stop and give me
a hand with her. Now he’s father of the year because he’s working from home like he does plenty of days a year, and she’s napping.
“Okay.”
“I’ll give you a call if anything changes.”
“Okay.”
“Hannahbannana, cheer up. It’s just the flu.” His singsong voice drives through me like nails on a chalkboard, forcing me to hang up on him.
Logan is placing a tray down on our table as the conversation abruptly ends. “He’s one of those guys huh?”
“What type is that you’re referring to?” I’m curious as to what he took from whatever he heard.
“The schmoozer, smooth operator, who thinks he can win anyone over with a smile and a few nice words.”
“Impressive,” I tell him. “You hit the nail right on the head.”
“How is Miss Cora?” he asks.
“Still pretty sick.”
He juts out his bottom lip, releasing a soft sigh. “Poor kid.” I want to ask about the child he mentioned in the truck, but it doesn’t feel right bringing it up without him initiating it.
I dig into my sandwich, starved from the stress I’ve caused myself today, but for some reason, I’m unable to get through even half of the sandwich before my stomach churns in a way that tells me to get up and run to the bathroom as quickly as I can. “I’ll be—”
Yup, I’m not making it to the bathroom.
Oh no.
I gag and expel the rest of my sentence out in chunks of roast beef.
Chapter Seven
And this just became the worst, mondayist Wednesday ever …
PLEASE TELL ME I made it to the restroom. I’m not on the laminate wooden floor with dozens of people staring at me, including Logan, a man I’ve probably made up in my head, which would just add to my insanity.
With another round of impending bile rising through my esophagus, I grapple the leg of a nearby chair as the sounds of a dog with a hairball buck through my throat. My hair is pulled away from my face, which is pointless since it already has chunks dangling from the ends. Then, a hand touches my back—a warm hand. “Let me help you up.”
“I don’t think I can move,” I try to say, though it comes out sounding as if I swallowed a porcupine.
Logan squats down beside me and hands me a wad of napkins. My hands are soaked in a puddle of coffee-laced puke, but I reach up to take the napkins, unsure where to clean first. Everything feels like it’s in slow motion as I clean my face.
“Ma’am, we’re going to need to ask you to move so we can mop. It’s a health code violation.”
“Hey man, give her a minute. She’s clearly having a rough time getting up,” Logan says.
“I’m losing customers,” the man continues.
As the wave of nausea passes, anger fills the empty pit in my stomach. Who the hell says stuff like that while someone is obviously sick to her stomach?
A man.
I push myself up off the ground, saturating my hands in my vomit as I come to my knees, and Logan loops a hand around my elbow to help me up the rest of the way. I try to carry myself respectably to the restroom, attempting to maintain a sense of acting like a lady after that display.
After retreating from the restroom, Logan guides me outside. The fresh air feels good on my skin, but I can still smell the horrid scent of bile, and I’m afraid to look down at my clothes.
“I think you caught whatever Cora has,” Logan says.
“Yeah, I think that’s a good assumption.” The words feel like rusty nails in my throat, and my head just became a twenty-pound weight I don’t want to hold up for much longer.
“I’ll get you home,” he says.
“No, I have to get back to work. I have to plan for the event.”
Logan snickers and runs his fingers through his short, dark hair. “No offense, but you’re covered in vomit.”
“I’ll shower and change, but I have to be at work today.”
“Okay, then.” He looks at me like I have two heads but doesn’t argue, which is nice. Most of the men I associate with are insistent and on the controlling side of the spectrum. “Let me take you to your house, at least, so you don’t have to drive.”
“It’s just down the road a few miles.” I try to offer a faint smile, but the tingling in my throat pauses all facial expressions and bodily movements. Please, no. Just pass. I don’t know who told me this old wives’ tale, but I’m staring up into the clouds, pulling in deep breaths as if it will wash the nausea away. Whoever came up with this shit is probably the same person who said to chew ginger gum for morning sickness. Gum causes saliva and saliva goes down and then comes back up. Bastards.
By some luck, the wave of sickness passes by like a putrid breeze, and I continue walking toward Logan’s truck with his escorting assistance. I’m waiting for the lecture on trying not to puke on the luxurious interior of his truck, but it never comes.
“I’ll tell you to pull over if I feel sick.”
“We’ll be okay,” he says, placing his hand softly on my back. With a flick of his wrist, the passenger door opens, and he gently helps me up and inside. I lean my head back and close my eyes, wishing for the unsettling sensation in my gut to go away. The ride will not make it better. That much, I know.
My memories of feeling like death while pregnant with Cora play through my mind like an old movie. I would tell Rick I didn’t feel well, and he’d tell me not to yak in his car because he didn’t want it to smell like vomit for the next month. He had it pretty rough during my pregnancy, working from six in the morning until eight at night. I was asleep when he left and asleep by time he got home, and worked in between all that too.
“Are you hanging in there?” Logan asks.
“Mmm,” I groan, scared to open my mouth. Then it dawns on me, though. He has no clue where I live, so we’re driving aimlessly but in the right direction at least. Rather than popping the cork, I point in the directions he needs to turn, which works out fine up until we hit my street. The deep breaths, the tight jaw, the clenched eyes—none of it’s working. Just a few more seconds until we make it to the driveway. I point a second too late, and he pulls into the wrong driveway. He pulls into Rick’s driveway, but I don’t care now as I push open the door, falling on the way. The moment my knees touch the pavement, an explosion of bile pours from my throat in old-fashioned, exorcist style. What the hell? I’m starting to wonder if I have food poisoning, but one would have to eat something for that to happen, and coffee doesn’t count. I don’t think.
The retching sound I make is basically a call for the neighbors to poke their heads out of their doors, looking for the source of the horrendous noises. Tiana is one of those neighbors, except I’m on her driveway, so she has more of an excuse to look.
“Rick!” she yells. “There’s a truck in our driveway, and some woman is puking her guts out. Can you please get rid of them?”
It truly amazes me—even as I sit here with vomit dripping from my lips—what Rick saw in this woman beside her double D’s, perky ass, and Botox-infused lips. Oh, she probably gives him head more than once a week. That must be where I went wrong all those years. Silly, Hannah.
“What the hell?” Rick says, stepping outside of his house, all manly and stuff. I also find this funny because Rick couldn’t figure out how to fix a leaky faucet or plunge shit out of a toilet. He couldn’t jump a car because he might get shocked, and changing the batteries in our smoke alarms was traumatizing to his ears, so I did all of that. Real manly, he was. Now he’s coming out here like a tough guy, ready to kick some puking chick off his driveway.
A little rain, and it will be like this never happened. Relax, macho man.
“Sorry, man, I thought this was her house,” Logan says to Rick. What a nice introduction.
“Hannah?” Rick questions while leaning down to confirm it’s me, his ex-wife, the woman he was unfortunately married to for ten years.
“I take it you’re neighbors,” Logan says. “If you just point me
to her house, I’ll help her over there.”
Rick laughs. Of course, he laughs. Why wouldn’t he laugh right now? All the while, I’m wondering where Cora is if Rick is out here. If Cora ever hears one of us outside, she’s through the door in a matter of seconds, which tells me she’s no better than she was this morning.
“Yeah, we’re neighbors all right,” Rick continues. “Her house, my old house, whichever you want to call it, is right over there.”
I’m using every bit of strength I have to look up at Logan and Rick, assuming the confusion Logan must be experiencing at the moment, though he did hear my outburst on the conference call yesterday, and I believe I blurted out something about living next door to my ex.
“Whatever the case, I just want to get her home,” Logan continues, without missing a beat. Either he doesn’t care to figure out the drama, he’s already figured it out, or he wants to dump me at my house and get the hell away from me as fast as he can. I’d go with option three if I were him.
Rick steps in front of Logan to help me up. “Hannah, babe, come on. Let’s get you home.”
Babe? Home? No. No. No. No. He’s helping me up, and I pull my arms out of his grip. “Don’t call me babe, and don’t refer to that house as home,” I manage to grumble. “Logan, this is my dumbass ex-husband who had an affair and then moved in next door to continue destroying my life for as long as humanly possible.” Now that I got that out, I would like to collapse back down to the ground and be left here on this soothingly cool driveway to die. It’s all that’s nice about this property.
Rick steps away, but Logan takes his turn trying to peel me up. Preferring his arms over Rick’s, I comply like a limp rag, then cross the small patch of lawn in between our driveways.
“Hannah, are the keys in your purse?” Logan asks.
I nod once, hoping it’s noticeable enough that he saw. In any case, he’s back across the lawns, fishing my purse out of his truck. I hope there’s nothing mortifying in there. He digs around for a minute before retrieving the keys. Since I have at least ten on my keychain, eight of which belong to doors I wouldn’t be able to decipher, I point to the house key.
Man Flu Page 8
