“Do you feel like that sandwich place for lunch?” I hear Mom’s middle-aged secretary, Carol, ask from her desk across from me. She’s in a more chipper tone than normal and I don’t know why.

I shake my head instead of saying words. Just the thought of eating makes me nauseous for some reason. And it’s not because of the food. It’s been this way for a week now, or more specifically, since I sent my first text to Knox. It’s strange, that being in contact with him has brought about a physical reaction. But then again, maybe not.

We’re scratching the surface, when I’m used to the deep, authentic friendship that we used to have. Being superficial and shallow just isn’t me. But I brought this on myself. I sent him that text asking if he was okay, and he replied with ‘I will be.’ We may as well not be talking. We may as well be back in that limo, or back on my front steps from ten years ago, sitting in silence until he can bring himself to really share what’s bothering him.

Now, there’s nothing I can do to change what our friendship has transformed into. Not unless I see him in person, which I refuse to do. It’s bound to get physical. Probably because I’ve missed his touch this past couple of weeks.

I’m terrified that all I’ll want to do if I see him in front of me is have him pull me into his arms and guide my lips to his for a demanding kiss. Or run his large, rough hands down my body. Or cover my broad, hard body with his and take what I want to give him. All of me.

See, that’s a recipe for disaster. I don’t want my friend for how we used to be.

I crave him.

I lust after his body.

And that’s why I’ve been hiding. A couple of his texts have been questions like, ‘Can I see you?’ or ‘Are you free to meet?’ I pretty much do everything I can to ignore those or reply with ‘work is really busy’ or ‘I’ll be out with friends then’. If I wanted to see him the way he’s thinking, in the platonic way we used to be, I’d be at his front door. But that’s not how I want him.

Cutting him off except via text is draining my will, exhausting me one trivial sentence at a time. I’m sure people around me are starting to notice. Carol, for example. I’d come into work thinking about that sandwich place, and long before lunch we’d know what we planned to order. Now, I can’t eat. Same with my sister. I’ve called her in the middle of the night four or five times now, with nothing to say, and just let her babble on about Colorado to fill the time because I can’t sleep. And even right now, I am just sitting in front of my work laptop with these spreadsheets on my screen. Before this all started, I’d whip through these statements and reports like they were nothing. But I can’t think or focus for long enough to make sense of what’s on them.

Soon enough, Mom’s going to notice. She has a big fundraising event coming up for Labor Day, and relies on this donor analysis to come up with where to direct our telephone fundraising campaign in advance of the event. By now, these reports would be sitting on her desk, waiting for her to give her final approval. But not this time. All I can think about is how I’ll act when I see Knox, whether it’s by chance or this weekend in the Hamptons. I’ve already accepted his invitation. And I want to be there. I want him. I can’t pretend I don’t when I know I do. Which is the real crux of the matter. A weekend of bad judgment is in my horizon, yet I’m not willing to do anything to avoid it. Because I want what’s coming.

Carol stares at me from across the room. She’s a patient woman. She has worked for my mother for close to eight years, and she’s observant. Unlike Mom, who’s been caught up in countless outreach meetings and doing the circuit with Dad so they can schmooze with New York’s elite. I’m glad Mom’s got a packed schedule. It means she hasn’t noticed how I’ve been. But Carol has.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asks after a while. “I can get you the chicken salad, or something a little less savory like focaccia on cheddar, if you don’t have an appetite. You need to eat something.”

I notice her sweet, soothing tone and my eyes start to fill with tears for no reason. “I’m fine,” I tell her when I know I’m not, swallowing the lump in my throat. I pull a tissue from the box on my desk and dab the side of my eye. “Maybe it’s allergies,” I lie.

“So late in the season?” she asks, then gets out of her chair. Quickly coming to my side, she rests the back of her hand on my forehead. “You’re so pale, and you feel a little warm. Maybe you’re coming down with something.”

“I don’t think so,” I tell her.

“You know what? I’ll get you some chicken noodle soup for lunch. It’s hot out, but I’m sure it’ll help. You need to have something in your stomach. You’ve not been eating at all this past couple of weeks. It’s not healthy. And trust me, I’m starting to feel guilty, stuffing my face every day by myself.” she jokes.

“Sure, I’ll have the soup.” I smile up at her. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

“Don’t mention it. Everything will be fine.”

I don’t know why she says that last part. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, or it could just be the nurturing tone in her soothing voice. My eyes start to well up again and this time, I grab a bunch of tissue from the box and hurry out of our shared office. But in the hallway, I run into Mom on her way back from a meeting.

Shit.

“Hi!” I greet her, swallowing down the wave of raw emotion. “You’re back. How did it go?”

“Not bad,” she answers, studying my face. “Actually, do you have a moment?”

I point down the hallway as though the gesture is enough of an explanation. Then I add, “One sec. Ladies room.”

“Sure. I’ll be in my office.”

“Great!” I tell her and hurry to make my getaway before she noticed the redness in my eyes.

In the restroom, I splash some water on my face, thankful that I rarely wear makeup to work so there’s nothing to reapply. I take a moment to settle my nerves, then head to Mom’s office. As it’s so close to our lunch hour, I decide that if she probes too intensely, I’ll make something up and leave the office so she can’t have too much time to press any further. It’s the last thing I need today.

“What’s up,” I ask from her office door.

Mom gives me a concerned look. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course. I’m great. Can I help you with something?”

She glances at the computer monitor on her desk, then returns her gaze to me. “Well, aside from the reports I thought I’d have by now, no. It’s not work-related.”

I’m not in the state of mind to listen to what’s on her mind, so I focus on the job. “Oh those. I’m working on the analysis reports now. I’ll have them in your inbox by tomorrow morning.”

“All right. So… about this weekend…”

And there it is. I start to feel a little sick as I stand there. I’m not prepared for a lecture or personal discussion. My brain and stomach can’t handle it.

“You don’t have to go over that, Mom. If you’re talking about the Hamptons, don’t worry at all. I already told Knox that I’ll be there.”

“It’s not about that. Well it is, but there’s more.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look, we don’t have all the details, but Morris may be ill. I think he plans to talk to us about it on the weekend.”

“Ill? How do you mean?”

“I don’t know. But you know how small this town can be. Louise Denali swears that she saw him leaving the oncology unit at Mount Sinai.”

I brace my hand against the doorway. Rumor mill in their circle can turn out to be nothing, but my belly does a flip. Maybe this is what Knox was trying to tell me about that night in the limo.

“I think we need to hold off on diagnosing Mr. Steele until he says something,” I tell her, even though deep down, I believe the rumor might be true. “Anyway, duty calls, Mom.” I push off the doorway and begin to turn. “We’ll have all weekend to speculate.”

It takes all my energy to get back to my desk without looking like my knees are about to buckle. As I take a seat, my cellphone lights up on my desk with a text from Knox.

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My heart tightens in my chest as I unlock the screen to reply.

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I drop the phone on the desk and take the entire box of tissues with me as I leave for the restroom again. Dread overcomes me. It’s going to be a long long weekend.