Page 16 of Burning for You

There will be changes, starting with those towels. We need energy-efficient hand dryers. Inside out, that’s what I believe changes should be. Before tackling NYC, Brilliance will have to tackle Brilliance.

However, shamefully, right now I need one of those towels—warm and wet, and on my face.

I absorb the lavender smell from the handkerchief-sized plush fabric.

Can I marry a liar?

Is there anything else Josh is hiding from me?

He said he was with me all the way with our New York vision, but his attention on Bozeman is worrying me. Every other day, the way he talks about Montana reminds me of Rupert Teller, who once said to me the gold rush in that state would last for at least another two centuries. My former right-hand man was eyeing properties in Western Yellowstone (and at one stage trying to lure Sass’s investors to join him), but he hadn’t had much success.

For a moment I pause my train of thought. I swear, I can smell a man in here.

One of the two closed cubicles opens. I recognize her—she’s Brilliance’s new financial controller.

“Miss Meyer,” she says just before turning on the tap to wash her hands.

“Libby, right?” I say.

“Yes.”

“Please, call me Caro. How’s your son doing?”

She holds her breath, mouth between gaping and smiling. “I should’ve known it was from you. I mean, I like Josh, but I don’t think he’s capable of sending a fruit basket to the mother of a sick child.”

“It’s from the both of us.” I sense she’s in a hurry.

“Nice to meet you, Caro,” she says, drying her hands quickly and then shaking my hand. “We’ll chat next time. I’ve gotta find Liz. It’s unlike her to abandon her station.”

With Libby leaving, I glance at the last occupied cubicle. The person behind that door is either dead or silently constipated.

As if karma has just hit me, my stomach churns. I hurry into a cubicle at the other end of the room.

It’s definitely karma. I’m the one constipated now. Beside my pee, I don’t think there’s anything else coming out apart from gas. But I can’t fill this room with my sphincter emissions, especially since I still have a neighbor. And imagine the sonorous sound!

Finally, that person is walking out.

Brogues clicking over the floor. They’re men’s steps. I’ve heard hundreds of men walking—average men in offices, models on audition or catwalks. Whoever it is out there, he’s trying to be stealthy, but the weight is evident.

As I’m tempted to bow down and look through the gap, the pain in my stomach suddenly travels to my back and up through my spine. The ball of agony reaches my neck and head in no time. All I see around me is haze.

Half of my body is stooping over the toilet bowl. I moan, partly calling for whoever is leaving the bathroom to get help.

Eventually I tilt to my left, and my shoulder hits a partition.

“Miss? Are you okay?”

I might be floating between hell and earth, but that is unmistakably a man’s voice.

---