Page 3 of Guarded from Treachery

Turning on the faucet, I splash cool water on my face and rinse out my mouth. Then I pinch my cheeks, hoping to bring some color back into them. As I’m smoothing my hair down, a horrifying thought strikes me.

What if my boss hears about this and thinks I’m hungover?

I’m not. The last time I had a hangover was last New Year’s Day, when I went to visit my best friend, Rory, and we stayed up until two A.M. drinking champagne and watching the ball drop in every time zone. But aside from that, the most I drink is an occasional glass of wine, and I haven’t even had that in over a week.

But my boss doesn’t know that. He might think I’m unreliable. Irresponsible.

Oh, God.

I’m going to lose my job. Then I won’t be able to pay my rent and I’ll be forced into moving back to New Hampshire to live with my parents.

Panic swells inside me.

I can’t go back to New Hampshire. I’d rather live in my car than do that.

No.That’s not going to happen. I’m going to clean myself up and get back out there, find some tea and more ibuprofen, and I’ll work through this. I’ll hunker down at my desk and get so much work done, there’s no way anyone can think I’m hungoverortoo sick to work. And if I still feel this crummy by the end of the day, I’ll stop into an urgent care clinic and beg them for something to make whatever this stupid bug is go away.

Squaring my shoulders, I lift my chin and take a deep breath. Then I grab a paper towel from the dispenser and blot my damp face. Pinch my cheeks again. Bare my teeth at the mirror to make sure they’re clean—note to self, bring a toothbrush and toothpaste to work from now on—and make a futile attempt at smoothing the wrinkles from my shirt.

Steeling myself for the unavoidable stares, I leave the bathroom and head down the short hallway into the main office space. The open concept office space the human resources director bragged about during my interview, claiming, “We just love the collaborative feel of it. People working together, brainstorming, supporting each other…”

Or, as I walk out into it, blatantly staring at me.

Great.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Phyllis, the sixty-something receptionist, wrestling with a bottle of vitamin C. Roger, one of the accountants, gives me a suspicious look, like he thinks I’m going to intentionally give my germs directly to him. And Dana, another executive assistant, holds up a packet of tea and waves it at me.

I avoid looking at Phyllis and Roger and give Dana a littlethanks but no thankswave as I head back to my seat, and I’m about to drop into it when I hear, “Isla? What are you doing?”

Ack. My boss.

Halfway into my seat, I freeze.

As he strides towards me, I straighten and plaster a smile on my face. “Mr. Edwards. Can I get something for you? I was just about to finish going through your emails and your itinerary for the day. But if you’d prefer I?—”

“What are you talking about?” He arrives at my desk and crosses his arms above his not-insignificant belly. A beat later, he obviously rethinks his proximity to me and takes a large step back. His forehead creases as he adds, “I didn’t mean what work you’re doing. I meant why are you getting back to work at all?”

My heart beats faster. My stupid stomach gurgles. “I’m perfectly fine, Mr. Edwards. Just a little… Well. I’m fine. Ready to work. I?—”

“No, no, no.” He shakes his head in emphasis. “If you’re sick, you should be home.”

“Oh, but I’m?—”

“Amy told me you were ill,” he interrupts. “We don’t force people to work when they’re sick. That’s what your PTO is for.”

Smile wavering, I say, “But I know this is still my probationary period. I don’t think my PTO even kicks in yet. And I’m really okay. I’m feeling better already.”

“Isla.” His expression softens. “It’s really okay. Go home. Get some rest. I’ll work it out with HR.”

His unexpected kindness makes my eyes burn. “Okay. But I’ll be in early tomorrow. And I’ll be checking my email from home if you need anything.”

“I’m fine,” he replies with a kind smile. Then he plucks my purse off the floor and hands it to me. “Go home, Isla. Feel better soon.”

His tone is pleasant, even gently concerned, but it brooks no argument.

I guess I’m going home.

As I leave the office, I can actually hear Phyllis let out a sigh of relief. And when I pass by Roger’s desk, he hunches away from me, even though I’m at least ten feet away from him.

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