Page 24 of Sick of You

My super-stuffed stomach swirled. Why did everything have to revolve around my research career?

But more than that, this text felt... different. Dr. Donaldson calling me by my first name. Asking a personal favor. Creating this opportunity in the first place.

No. No, no,no. Davis Freaking Hardcastle was wrong about how life worked—at least for those of us not born into money. He was wrong about this task force. He was wrong about Dr. Donaldson.

And above all, he was wrong for me.

I left Dr. Donaldson’s text on read without replying and rolled over in bed.

Two hours after the break room incident, I was still trying to clear my head. Pacing around my apartment, spacious as it was, was not helping.

I pulled on workout gear and headed down to my building’s gym. No one else was exercising at the moment, but through the glass walls’ reflective coating, I could watch the foot traffic go by. Hopefully that would be enough of a distraction.

Fifteen minutes on the treadmill to warmup gave me too much time to remember.

How nice it was to sit and speak with her like people.

How fun it was attempting to alliterate for her amusement.

How easy it had been to talk to her. Almost to open up to her, a virtual stranger.

How her fingers felt on my arm, against my chest.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

Why had I told her about the measles? She wasn’t going to agree to work with me just because I’d had a typical childhood illness, or because I’d been left alone and miserable my entire hospital stay. At least I hadn’t admitted the rest of that sob story. No, my brother couldn’t be bothered to cross town to see me as I was supposed to be dying, and no, my parents hadn’t wanted me an inch closer after a life-threatening illness. I’d probably been better off staying in Europe anyway.

Of course she’d had to go bring up Harper and Everett. It wasn’t the first time someone had detected my soft underbelly and had to go in for the kill. I could scarcely defend myself fast enough. It would be best for all of us if we never, ever discussed my brother. Or anyone else who apparently hated me that much.

Including Dr. Cassidy Croft, who had obviously come aboard with the cadre of people who wished I’d never been born. It was a veryinclusive club, I’d found—I was the only person permanently barred from joining.

Which was too bad, because I could’ve campaigned for president of the Davis Hardcastle Sucks Club at the moment. On second thought, a few diehard Tynies had written very detailed death threats against me. Maybe I only qualified for the C-suite.

The timer on the treadmill dinged at me, and I shoved aside the memory of the argument, slowing to a walk. I headed over to the weight rack next.

With each rep, one moment on permanent replay continued to loop: Cassie’s hand on my chest, my hand on hers, locked in place together, unwilling to break the connection, the heat of anger lingering but the argument long forgotten.

And then Cassie understanding what was happening and pulling back. That look on her face—utter revulsion—that was exactly what I’d moved here to get away from.

The only solution I could come up with was maybe it would be better if Dr. Croftwasn’ton the task force.

I’d have to see what I could do about that tomorrow.

After my second morning of job training, I took the first few minutes of my lunch break to drop by the Division of Infectious Disease.

To someone else, my level caution as I approached the doors, peering around corners, peeking through windows in doors, might have been almost comical. It was a little funny—after all that, Dr. Croft was nowhere in sight.

I wasnotdisappointed. Not for any reason I understood, anyway.

I found the person I was looking for right away: Dr. Donaldson was in his office, bent over his desk, fixed intensely at the computer screen. “Pardon me?” I tried my most polite tone. Shockingly, I’d managed to figure out how humans relate to one another when not in a employer-servant role.

Dr. Donaldson took almost a full minute to look up, disengage his mind from whatever he’d been working on, and register who I was. He glanced toward another doorway, which I assumed led to the negative pressured area that would hold the more dangerous samples and their testing equipment.

And, let’s be honest, probably Dr. Croft, too.

“Mr. Hardcastle,” Dr. Donaldson said at last. “Finding your way around okay?”

“Yes, thank you. And you can call me Davis.”

---