Page 256 of Mario
Not that there’s much there to begin with—just a few bites of toast and some tea I forced on myself yesterday. But that kind of makes it worse and more painful.
My body does not care.
It rejects all of it.
When I’m done, I sit back.
What the hell do I do now? I just vomited in my trash can like an overwhelmed intern on her first day.
If I was worried about being unprofessional before, that concern has officially been escorted from the building.
There is no saving this morning now.
There is no returning calmly to my chair, smoothing my blouse, and reviewing internal reports.
I grasp for the tissue box on top of my desk and swipe at my mouth, then I grab my briefcase, thankfully on the floor close to me, and rummage for my emergency mouthwash. I swish someof it in my mouth and spit it in the trash can. Not like I can salvage it at this point.
“Get up,” I whisper.
My voice sounds thin.
I reach for the edge of the desk and pull myself to my feet, legs shaky, stomach still clenched.
I need water.
I need to get out of this building before anyone knocks on my door.
I shove everything into my briefcase because it would be suspicious if I walked out without it, then my phone.
There is still no message from him this morning.
Of course there isn’t. Why would there be? I ignored the one he sent yesterday like a coward, and Mario Conti does not strike me as a man who sends a second message when the first one goes unanswered.
I open my calendar with shaking fingers and stare at the blocks of time that require me to be present.
Only an operations follow-up at 10:30.
10:30. Operations follow-up.
I can move it.
I am allowed to be sick. Because I am sick. Possibly in several different ways, but sick enough.
I send Benjamin a message before I can talk myself out of it.
Not feeling well. Please cover the 10:30. I’ll explain later.
Then Ainsley.
Need to work from home today. If anything urgent comes in, text me.
I stare at the words.
They look normal.
Professional.
I hit send.
