Page 2 of Guarded from Treachery

“Um. You don’t have to do that.” I try to pitch my voice lower in hopes she’ll do the same. “But it’s a pretty shirt. And if you like it, that’s what’s important.”

“Thanks, Isla.” She pauses to glance at her watch. “Oh! I have a meeting in fifteen minutes. But I’m heading to the coffee shop first. Do you want anything?”

My stomach makes another unhappy sound.

“No, that’s okay.” Couching the rejection with a smile, I add, “I already had coffee. So I’m good.”

“I can pick up something else for you. They have all sorts of baked goods. Muffins, croissants, fritters…”

Bile burns at the back of my throat. “I think I’m okay. But thanks. I really?—”

“Oh!” Amy’s voice jumps up an octave, and I can barely hide my wince as the sound shoots straight through my head. “They have breakfast sandwiches, too. I had one last week. It was so good. The bacon is extra crispy, and they use three kinds of cheeses, plus this special garlic aioli. You should try one. Really.”

Saliva pools in my mouth.

My stomach lurches.

Oh, no. Not now.

I can’t get sick here.

As I jump up from my chair, dizziness hits me. My head feels all light and floaty. Clutching the edge of the desk, I say, “Sorry. I have to… I’ll pass on breakfast today. Maybe…”

A cold sweat breaks out along my back.

Amy’s expression creases with concern. “Isla, are you okay? You’re really pale.”

“I’m fine.”No. I’m not.“I’m just… not feeling that well. I think I need some fresh air or something.”

“Do you want me to get anything? Or I can walk outside with you?”

“No, no, that’s okay.” Without thinking about it, I clutch my stomach, as if that’s somehow going to make everything better. “I’m just going to freshen up. I’ll be?—”

Oh, no.

Not here. Not at work. Not at my new job.

“Isla? Do you need a doctor? Now you look kind of green.”

I can’t answer her. Can’t risk speaking.

Clamping my mouth shut, I bolt for the bathroom.

And as I stumble into the closest stall and collapse to my knees on the cool tile, my stomach lurches again. Angrily. Defiantly. Unconcerned that this is theworstpossible time.

Whynow?

That was spectacularly awful.

As I look into the bathroom mirror, I grimace at my reflection. My skin is the shade of skim milk, my eyes are all bloodshot, and my hair looks like a bird nested in it. The shirt that was neatly ironed when I left the apartment this morning is all wrinkled. And when I look down at my pants, I’m horrified to see a smudge of something—I don’t want to know what it is—on one knee.

Ugh.

I don’t feel nauseous anymore, but my head is pounding and my throat is all raw. The fatigue has turned into full-fledged exhaustion, and all I want to do is go home and sleep. I want to hide under the covers in my coziest clothes and pretend this didn’t happen. Pretend that at least ten people didn’t see me sprint into the bathroom, my intent pretty much as clear as it could get.

And I really wish I could pretend well-meaning Amy wasn’t present for most of it. She kept popping into the bathroom, asking if I was okay, if I needed anything, if she should call a doctor, and all I really wanted was to beg her to leave.

She finally left to go to her meeting, but I just know she’s telling everyone in the office I’m sick. Which means when I leave the bathroom, everyone will stare at me. They’ll be wondering what’s wrong with me, and if I have something contagious. Some might be overly concerned, while others will try to avoid me.

---